CHAPTER SEVEN
She was washing laundry for other people.
Andressa’s main duty at St. Blitha was the laundry – she washed clothes for the nuns as well as religious cloths and other things that belonged to the abbey. Anything that was washable, she took charge of. But three years ago, the Mother Abbess began to take in laundry and charged a hefty price for it, telling the rich of London that the clothing was washed in holy water and, therefore, cost more to wash. It was Godliness on a whole new level, and being that there were many pious people in London and the surrounding areas near the Bishopsgate area, there was often a good deal of laundry to wash.
Of course, the clothes were only washed in ordinary water from the small creek that ran alongside the abbey and the Mother Abbess pocketed the money that was paid for the privilege of having a starving, over-worked woman pound out the dirt on the clothing. Sometimes, Andressa even delivered the laundry back to the rich clients, taxing her already-strained body. But at St. Blitha, hard work and laundry were all Andressa had ever known, because when she had first come to the abbey, she’d been put where she was needed, and that was in the laundry helping an old nun who was clearly dying.
The woman could hardly breathe, and hard labor was difficult, but she gamely did her best. She had been kind to Andressa and had taught her what she needed to know about doing the laundry and pleasing the Mother Abbess. She taught her how to boil the water for washing and use the wood ash from the fire to make the tallow soap for the laundry.
Andressa had become quite adept at making the soap from wood ash and tallow that was gathered from any fat source – beef was preferable, but she had also used mutton. Goose fat was frowned upon because it smelled so badly, and Andressa made new soap about once a month. Lumpy, slimy bars of yellowish soap, but it was a good product because it cleaned well.
Sometimes, she even added lavender to it from the wild bunches of lavender that grew in the herb garden of the abbey, and the nuns throughout St. Blitha used her soap on hands and dishes and even bodies from time to time. Her soap, along with the starch she made from flour and water, made her quite a skilled laundress thanks to the old nun who had taught her.
But the old nun had soon passed away after teaching Andressa what she knew, so for the past four years, Andressa had been the laundress of St. Blitha. The skin on her once-soft, pale hands had long turned red and chapped. Sometimes it even bled. She would rub oil on it, oil from the lamps inside the abbey when no one was looking, and that provided her with some relief, but even now, she’d been scrubbing most of the morning and her knuckles were already raw and chaffed. She was down to her last few items to wash for the day and thankful for it. Most of it was hanging to dry, kept off of the ground by hemp rope strung up in the yard. The Mother Abbess didn’t give care to many things around the abbey, but she cared about the laundry, so Andressa had everything she needed for quality work.
St. Blitha was located outside of the city walls of London, but built with sturdy walls of its own. It had a neighbor in St. Mary’s Hospital to the south, but for the most part, the order kept to itself. The chapel and dormitories were clustered together on one end of the rectangular-shaped compound, while the kitchens, stable yard, and vegetable garden were on the other.
Because the Mother Abbess didn’t like the smell of the barnyard, a large and strangely out of place flower garden was between the stables and the chapel and dorms, including the Mother Abbess’ fine quarters. It was out of place because it looked so luxurious in the midst of a poor order, and no one was allowed in the flower garden but the Mother Abbess and Sister Petronilla. Carefully tended rose bushes filled the area, as well as foxglove, nightshade, hemlock, a variety of lavender, and other things.
The laundry was lodged by the kitchens, as they shared many of the same big fires for water boiling, but Andressa had an area all to her own. There were several large willow trees on the other side of the wall, hanging partially over her area and creating pleasant shade on warm days. The postern gate was here, a heavy iron gate with an enormous lock on it, through which a small stream was accessed.
Andressa passed through the gate several times a day, hauling water from the stream to boil, so much so that the gate was only locked at night. They didn’t worry about anyone invading their sanctuary; no one ever had, so they moved rather freely even outside the massive walls.
On this particular day, Andressa had moved better and faster than she had in some time because of the meal she’d had that morning. Her belly had been full for the most part, and she’d returned to St. Blitha feeling satisfied, which was a rare occurrence in her world. She began her chores immediately, hauling water from the stream and putting it on to boil. It was so much easier to work with food in her belly, but all the while she kept thinking of the enormous knight with the deep blue eyes who had made the food possible.
A man who had been as handsome as he had been generous.
It was strange, really… Andressa had spent the last four years living with women, essentially isolated from men, which had been a drastic change from her days at Okehampton Castle. Not that Lady de Courtney allowed her charges to interact with the men at the castle without restraint, but she had been around them constantly. There had even been one man she’d been fond of but she didn’t think of him any longer, a young warrior who had lied his way into her heart and the had ripped every last shred of dignity she had from her.
A relationship that had been as tragic as it had been disappointing.
As Andressa went to the stream for more water for the last of her afternoon washing, she found herself entertaining thoughts of Rhyne de Leybourne. After that fateful June day when he’d seduced her, she’d fought to put him out of her mind. Her humiliation ran bone-deep, humiliation in her own foolishness for having believed him in the first place. She’d known him the entire time she’d been at Okehampton Castle, a vain but handsome knight, someone she’s been very attracted to, and he towards her.
For the first year at St. Blitha, she’d thought of him quite often, wondering where he was and if he was well. Secretly, she hoped he’d come for her at St. Blitha, but the truth was that he probably had no idea where she was and she was sure her aunt would never tell him. He’d been away when her aunt had summoned her from Okehampton, and then she’d been sent straight on to St. Blitha.
But Rhyne had been clever. She saw that in hindsight now. In Andressa, he saw the opportunity to marry well and inherit a substantial fortune, and he wouldn’t let her get away so easily. She remembered when he finally came to St. Blitha and had laid in wait for her to tend to her washing, as she did every day. It had been in this very spot by the stream when he’d found her and coerced her into the barn of a neighboring farm, where he’d told her how much he loved her before stealing her innocence away.
Oh, he’d promised to return for her, but that promise wasn’t as important as a marriage to a French heiress. In truth, Andressa didn’t even really know why he’d come to St. Blitha that day; it was clear she had nothing to give him. Her aunt had seen to that. Perhaps Rhyne thought he could fight for her inheritance and steal it back from the aunt, but it must have been too hard for him to work for it. The French heiress he married must have been an easier catch. Or, at least he probably hadn’t had to fight for her. It had been wealth for the taking, leaving Andressa at St. Blitha with nothing but a memory she had all but pushed from her mind.
She wouldn’t think of him.
She couldn’t.
Kneeling down beside the stream for the twentieth time that day, she fought off thoughts of Rhyne. Any fondness she’d ever felt for him had turned into bitter hatred those months ago. Lost in thoughts of the brash young liar, she was startled from her thoughts when a deep voice came from behind.
“I’ve never been to St. Blitha before. And when I do, I see that you are drawing water? Have you no well?”
Stumbling forward and nearly falling into the stream, Andressa was able to catch her balance in time, looking over to see Maxton approaching beneath the willow branches.
For a moment, her breath caught in her throat; it was a surreal experience to watch the powerful knight as he moved beneath the trees with the gait of a hunter stalking prey. There was something so magical about the way he walked, powerful strides from a powerful man. He was clad in the same clothing she’d seen him in earlier in the day, leather breeches and a tunic and heavy, fur-lined coat, but as he came closer, she noticed that there was something in his eyes that hadn’t been there before. There was… warmth.
Was that even possible?
Her stomach began to twist in knots.
“Considering this is a female order, I am not surprised that you have not visited before, my lord,” she said, standing up with the bucket in her hand. “And, aye, I am drawing water because I am the laundress. We do have a well, but the water has a tint to it, making it no good for the laundry.”
“The laundress, eh? An honorable duty.”
“What are you doing here?”
Maxton didn’t quite smile at her, but his lips twitched as if he was entertaining the thought.
What was he doing here?
It was a question with more than one answer. The first answer was, of course, a fact-finding mission. After his conversation with Alexander at Farringdon House, he had to come to the focus of their discussion – this mysterious, treacherous place called St. Blitha. An order of poor nuns, and a Mother Abbess who apparently had no trouble committing murder. It was a distorted and complex place, indeed, if all of that was true, and if Douglas had indeed been here, it only added to that chaotic concept. Maxton wanted to scout the place out, because Reconnaissance was the smart thing to do.
Perhaps St. Blitha was not all it seemed.
But the second answer, of course, was a certain a certain young woman who lived here. That was perhaps the more prevalent answer, especially now that Maxton had lain eyes on her. Pale, graceful, with the face of an angel, Maxton had never been smitten with anyone in his life, but oddly enough, he suspected he might quickly be approaching that state with Andressa. He couldn’t explain his curiosity towards her, and his interest, any other way.
“I had business outside of town and happened to be passing by,” he lied. “I could see you from the road.”
That part was true; the angle of the road made it so the area beneath the trees and the stream was visible from it, but only briefly. Briefly enough that Maxton had seen the movement and spied her, making his story believable.
But Andressa didn’t question him, even if she did look past his shoulder, to the distant road beyond, just to make sure she could really see the road. “I see,” she said, fixing him in the eye. “Then I am glad to see you again to apologize for my behavior this morning. I ran from you rudely when I should not have. You were simply being kind and trying to help me from my… well, my predicament here.”
He shook his head, cutting her off, though it was gently done. “I should not have been so bold as to suggest finding a place for you away from St. Blitha,” he said. “It is your home, right or wrong, and it was improper of me to suggest you leave. Forgive me.”
Her face brightened as she realized he wasn’t upset with her. “There is nothing to forgive, my lord. Please allow me to thank you once more for the meal this morning. It was most generous of you, my lord. You must be a very kind and generous man to all those in need.”
He lifted his eyebrows, averting his gaze as he looked for a place to sit down. Now that he’d finally found her, he had no intention of leaving. “There are many, many people who would dispute that.”
Andressa watched him meander around until he found a stump from a long-dead willow tree worth sitting on. “But I cannot believe that,” she said. “Clearly, you are a pious man who gives greatly of himself. I am sure God will reward you.”
Maxton snorted as he planted his buttocks on the stump. “Lady, I cannot permit you to entertain the thought that I am anything other than what I am,” he said, looking up at her. “I am a knight of the highest order. I have just returned from The Levant after many years away. You cannot possibly imagine how un-kind and un-generous I am.”
Her brow furrowed curiously. “The Levant,” she repeated. “You went on Richard’s Crusade?”
“I did.”
She gasped softly, suddenly quite interested in his presence whereas only moments before, she’d been seemingly wary of it.
“I have never met anyone who went on his Crusade,” she said. “Will you tell me of it? If you have the time, of course. I can only imagine how glorious it must have been, wielding the word of God against the savages. What a great and fearsome sight that must have been.”
It was a dreamy and misguided opinion; he could see it in her face. The woman was naïve, living sequestered as she did. “Do you truly wish to know what kind of a sight it was?” he asked. “I do not think you will like the answer.”
She nodded eagerly, sinking to her knees in the grass with her bucket still in her hand. “I very much want to know,” she said. “Will you please tell me?”
Maxton looked at her; he wasn’t a man with tact, nor did he couch harsh realities. In fact, his blunt honesty was one of his traits. But in this case, he was considering softening that particular talent because, somehow, Andressa seemed like a delicate flower, idealistic and innocent, and he didn’t want to crush that spirit in her. He found it intriguing because in his line of work, he didn’t often meet people with such an ingenuous view of the world.
He cleared his throat softly.
“The Levant is a land with golden sand as far as the eye can see,” he said. “Everything is golden for the most part. And it is very hot.”
She was already hanging on his description. “Hot? It is never cold?”
“Hardly ever. And they have amazing creatures there called camels. They look like a very large horse with big lips, big eyes, and big feet. They also have a hump on their back that stores their water for times when they cannot drink.”
Her eyes widened. “Camels,” she repeated in awe. “They sound like monsters.”
He grinned, lop-sided. “They are most assuredly not, though they are ugly enough,” he said. “Many of the Muslims travel with them instead of horses. They have more endurance than a horse.”
She was fascinated with the idea of a camel. “It seems incredible to imagine such a beast, truly. Are there any in England?”
He shrugged. “I have not seen any,” he said. “I think they prefer the hotter climate. They would not do well in our cold and wet seasons.”
He suddenly stood up from the stump, making his way over to where she was sitting. Andressa watched him curiously, perhaps a bit fearfully, preparing to leap to her feet if he came too close. When she saw him pick up a stick, she was very close to scrambling away from him, but he came to a pause by a strip of mud near the stream, something that didn’t have any growth or grass on it. He began to draw in the mud with the stick.
“This is what they look like,” he said as he sketched out a shape. “Very tall, very big. They have also been known to spit when displeased.”
Very interested, Andressa moved so that she could see what he was drawing. It looked like a horse with a big, flat head and a hump on its back.
“Fascinating,” she said, grinning. Then, she sat back, looking up at him. “What else did you see? Were the savages truly dressed in skin and speaking the language of Satan?”
He shook his head. “Nay, they were not dressed in skins,” he said. He thought carefully on his answer because his reply was something that was not conventional thought amongst the Christian armies. “If you want to know the truth, many were men of intelligence and education. Their families are thousands of years old. They have strange customs, that is true, but there were some I came to know and I found them inoffensive.”
Andressa listened seriously. “But they worship their own god.”
“They worship one god, as we do, and it is the same god. They simply call him a different name.”
It was clear she had never heard such a thing. “What do they call him?”
“Allah.”
She thought on that. “What a strange name,” she said. “Why do they not simply call him God, as we do?”
“Allah means God in their language.”
“Mother Abbess has said it is Satan’s language.”
He finished with the camel drawing, standing back to take a look at his handiwork. “It is not Satan’s language,” he said. “It is an ancient language, and quite beautiful if you listen closely. Ladayk jamal alshams almushriqa.”
Her eyes widened. “Is that their language?” she gasped. “What did you say?”
A smile played on his lips. “I said that you have the beauty of the rising sun,” he said. “The Muslim poets are great flatterers. That is part of a song I heard once. I was riding down an alley in the city of Caesarea, north of Jerusalem, and I heard a young man singing as he played a harp he had made himself. The words went something like this – In a world of darkness, you are my only light, with the beauty of the rising sun. It was a lovely song.”
Andressa was enchanted with the entire conversation, swept up by his deep, rumbling voice and stories of the great and mysterious Levant. But it also brought her back to the days of Okehampton Castle, when she was exposed to the beauty and excitement of life. Minstrels, plays, book reading… they had been everyday occurrences and as Maxton spoke of far away lands, she began to realize just how much she was missing tucked away in St. Blitha.
The loneliness and isolation were something she’d long struggled with, even as memories of her former world were shoved aside. She was so very lonely in this cold, terrible place, and she missed the beauty of the world outside the walls of St. Blitha. Hearing Maxton’s words were like a stab to her tender heart because she could see just how isolated she had become from things that used to bring her joy.
“It is very lovely,” she said, feeling sad. “Thank you for telling me of it. But I am sure I have kept you long enough; surely you must be on your way now.”
She stood up, taking her bucket with her, and Maxton tossed the stick in his hand aside. “I have men waiting for me near the docks, but they can continue to wait,” he said. “I thought to spend some time speaking to a former charge of Okehampton. It is not often I come across someone who is from Devon, from places that I know.”
She smiled weakly, glancing over to the old walls of the abbey and the open postern gate as if looking for those who would see her speaking with a man, which would be greatly frowned upon. There weren’t many nuns in the kitchen area or stables, but there were a few. She truly didn’t want to be seen because such information would undoubtedly make its way back to the Mother Abbess.
She didn’t want to enrage the woman.
“I would like to speak of such things, truly, but I have work to do,” she said, moving away from him. “I… I will thank you once more for your generosity today, not just with your money, but with your time. I cannot remember when I have spent such a pleasant time.”
“It does not have to end.”
Andressa wasn’t sure what to say to that. It made her want to run away from him, but it also made her want to stay. In fact, his words made her feel very strange inside; her stomach was quivering and every time she looked at the man, she seemed to forget how to breathe. It occurred to her that the last time she trusted a man, it hadn’t gone well in her favor. She wasn’t sure she was ready to trust again, but Maxton made it so easy to believe that she could. Perhaps she really was a fool, because she wanted to trust him.
She wanted nothing more.
“I must go,” she said, feeling uncomfortable and the least bit afraid. “Good day to you, my lord.”
“Do I frighten you, Lady Andressa?”
She hadn’t taken three steps when she came to a stop and turned around, eyeing him. “Nay,” she said, though it was a lie. “You have been very kind.”
He smiled, a rather lazy gesture. “Then do not leave,” he said. “Let us speak more on The Levant and Okehampton. At the very least, I can help you draw water as we speak.”
She frowned. “Are you mad?” she said. “That is woman’s work. Moreover, you cannot help me. I must complete my chores alone.”
“But…”
“Remember what I told you about the Mother Abbess. I do not wish to be punished by her.”
That brought an instant change in Maxton’s over-eager demeanor. In fact, he did remember what she’d said. No one returns from The Chaos, she had said. He couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of that threat before, but it honestly hadn’t occurred to him. He’d been so pleased to see her, and so selfishly eager to talk to her, that he hadn’t really thought of anything else, including her safety. His gaze darted to the wall, the postern gate, to see if anyone was watching them.
“Bloody Christ,” he muttered. “I did not even think about that. Will she punish you if she knows you have been speaking with me?”
Andressa lifted her shoulders, turning to the gate and the wall as well to see if anyone was spying on her. The longer she stood there, the greater chance there was. She thought she saw the nun who ran the kitchens through the gate, but she couldn’t be sure.
“I do not know,” she said honestly. “I have never spoken to anyone like this before, so it is best if you leave now and I return to my duties.”
Maxton wasn’t going to try to coerce her into remaining. It was a selfish want and something that could very well get her into a good deal of trouble. He wanted to speak with her more, perhaps even ask her in a roundabout way about Douglas’ appearance at the abbey, but he wouldn’t, at least not now. But he hoped there would be time for that later. He took a few steps towards her, now within arm’s length of her.
“One more question and I will go,” he said quietly. “Will you be searching for food again tomorrow?”
Her cheeks flushed with embarrassment and she lowered her gaze. “I… I do not think so.”
“Then when?”
She sighed heavily. “It is difficult to say,” she said. “I would like to say that I shall never venture out again, but that is not the truth.”
Maxton could see that she was ashamed over what she had to do in order to put food in her belly and he felt like a cad for pushing her, for wanting to know when she would be starving again so that he could see her and speak with her. It was rude of him and he knew it. Therefore, he tried another tactic.
“If you come out tomorrow, I will be waiting for you at the same tavern where you ate today,” he said, his deep voice coming out as something of a purr. “I shall buy you another meal and we can continue our conversation.”
Oh, but it was tempting. And that voice! Like the caress of angels! Andressa couldn’t decide if the lure of eating another full meal was more than the lure of conversation with the man, who had so far proven to be a window back into the world she’d forgotten about. She knew that she should retreat into the abbey yard this very moment, but she couldn’t seem to do it. His presence was starting to confuse her – why should the man want to speak with her again? Why should he want anything to do with her? He knew her story. She had nothing to offer by way of charm or even intelligence, and as a pledge to a poor order, she had nothing to offer, period. She was dressed in rags and the lovely, long hair she’d been so proud of all her life was surely a dirty sight to see.
She was ashamed.
There was nothing she could offer this handsome knight and she surely wasn’t going to allow herself to be lured into anything clandestine. If he was looking for a companion, or more, then he would have to look elsewhere.
His intentions were most confusing.
“I cannot, my lord,” she said, turning for the postern gate again. “Although I am grateful for your generosity, I will not accept your offer. Good day to you.”
She was nearly at the gate, moving swiftly, with her water bucket sloshing. Maxton was a step or two behind her, following her when he knew very well he should not be.
“I did not mean to offend you,” he said quickly. “I simply meant… if you ever need me, my lady, leave word at The King’s Gout Tavern. Leave it there and I shall answer. Meanwhile, I will tell the tavernkeep that you are to be fed anything you wish, at any time, and I will pay for it. You do not even have to see me or speak with me; simply go to the tavern and they will feed you. It is the least I can do for someone from Okehampton who listened to my stories of camels without laughing at me.”
Andressa’s hand was on the postern gate as she turned to look at him, the expression on her face of surprise and distress and gratitude all rolled into one. God, how she wanted to believe this man and his kindness, but she simply didn’t understand why he should pay her such attention.
Why he should be so kind to her.
Impulsively, she sought to make her position clear.
“Again, your generosity knows no limit,” she said, “but I cannot accept or expect such charity. Surely you can understand that.”
“Then stealing is better?”
Her cheeks flushed again. “Nay,” she said after a moment. “I am more than willing to work off the price of a meal. I cannot simply accept food from you without providing you with some manner of payment or reciprocation.”
He shrugged. “Then look at the food as a loan,” he said. “Someday, I will expect you to pay me in return, in money or in trade. Would that make you feel better if we had that understanding?”
Did it? She wasn’t sure. But the prospect of a regular meal was almost more than she could bear. To know that she would be fed regularly, as much as she wanted, was the greatest blessing she could think of. But she still didn’t understand his motivation.
“Why?” she finally hissed. “Why should you do this for me? I am no one to you.”
He smiled, dimples carving into his cheeks. “I told you,” he said. “It is not often I have a chance to speak to someone who knows Devon as I do, and as I also told you, I have just returned from The Levant. It has been a very long time since I have spoken to an Englishwoman who was worth knowing. Is that not reason enough?”
“And I am worth knowing?”
He dared to reach out, drifting his fingers over hers. It was a reckless and inappropriate action, but one that sent Andressa’s heart racing with shock and excitement. She very nearly dropped the bucket. As her mind reeled, she could only thing of one thing to think, of only one thing to say -
Do it again!
But the words, thankfully, didn’t come. Before she could reply in any manner, she caught movement out of the corner of her eye. It was the nun who tended the kitchens and she was peering from across the yard, an expression of condemnation on her face. It was enough to cause Andressa to forget Maxton’s touch and bolt through the postern gate, pulling it shut and bolting it from the inside.
But she could still see Maxton standing outside the gate through the big iron slats. He hadn’t moved. Terrified that the kitchen nun might say something to the Mother Abbess about the laundress and the strange man, she hissed at him.
“Please leave,” she said. “Every moment you remain brings me one step closer to trouble.”
Maxton knew she was correct, so he backed away from the gate. He, too, had seen the nun near the kitchen, so he quickly moved away from the gate, losing himself in the trees that were next to the enormous wall and hoping he would not be seen by anyone else. But he was prevented from running off completely by the fact that he knew Andressa was on the other side of the wall. He just couldn’t seem to leave her, even if he couldn’t see her, and he couldn’t help the smile that played on his lips as thoughts of the pale young woman lingered.
That lovely, graceful lass…
Still, it wouldn’t do any good to hang around, so he began to move towards his horse, the old charger that Gart had purchased for him in France so that he would have something to ride home from Baux. But he hadn’t taken two steps when he began to hear voices – raised voices. One voice was clearly Andressa’s; he could tell because she had a rather deep speaking voice for a woman. It was sultry and smooth.
There was an argument going on.
Curious, he made his way back towards the wall, listening to what was being said. He couldn’t really hear the words, but he could hear the tone. It was strained. Whoever Andressa was talking to had a shrill voice that was saying something about sin. You are wicked, the woman said. Andressa replied steadily, but try as he might, Maxton couldn’t really hear what she was saying because she was keeping her voice quiet. Yet, there was nothing quiet about the loud slapping sound he heard next.
After that, it was grunts and shrieks and more slapping noises.
Maxton did what he shouldn’t have done; he bolted for the postern gate. It didn’t even occur to him to stay out of sight because he was more than likely the very reason for the fight, so he rushed up to the gate, pressing his face between the iron slats only to see Andressa sitting on top of the kitchen nun, pinning the woman’s arms.
The woman on the ground was screaming and trying to kick, but Andressa held the woman down firmly. It was rather impressive, in truth. Maxton watched with great concern, his natural instincts wanting to help Andressa, but those thoughts were curbed as shouts began to come from the dormitories. Women in woolens and veils over their heads began to pour from the building and he let go of the postern gate, moving away from it and sinking back against the wall to watch where he could not be seen.
Unfortunately, it wasn’t a good vantage point because there were vines in the way and even a tree trunk inside the compound, preventing him from seeing very much. He could see several nuns rushing out to break up the fight and he could hear stern words being passed around, tones that seemed to him like scolding. He strained a little, trying to see what he could see and increasingly concerned for Andressa when, abruptly, he saw her being led away by two nuns, back in the direction of the dormitory and chapel.
The nuns had her by both arms, one on each side, holding on to her to make sure she wouldn’t try to escape them. Maxton realized that his heart was pounding against his ribs as he remembered once more what Andressa had said about the Mother Abbess and what happened to charges that displeased her. God, that horrible thought came pouring over him as he watched the nuns leading her away.
Leading her away because he had been stupid enough to seek her out and have a conversation with her like a giddy squire. This was all his fault.
He’d gotten the woman into trouble.
At a loss as to what to do about it, his first instinct was to make his way inside the abbey and save her. He could move with stealth; that was part of his skill set. He knew he could make it into the abbey and find her, and kill anyone and everyone who got in his way, but then he would be violating the sanctity of a holy order. Not that it really mattered to him; after his bout with the Holy Father and all that entailed, he had no respect for the church at all. Not one bit. But there was the real fear that he would only make things worse for Andressa with his actions. It wasn’t as if she’d ever given him an indication that she, in fact, wanted to be saved.
He couldn’t save a woman who didn’t want his help – and had clearly refused it.
There were voices near the wall now, catching him off guard, so he bolted away, moving swiftly through the trees and across the streaming, circling around to come to his horse, who was tied off in a copse of trees a fair distance away from the abbey. He didn’t want to be caught lingering around the abbey. Perhaps the best thing for him was to simply leave.
It wasn’t as if he had a choice.
Even as he mounted his steed and charged off southward along the road, paralleling the abbey and her old walls, all he could think of was Andressa and how to help her. Kress and Achilles and Alexander were waiting for him at the docks along the Thames, but here he was, thinking of a pledge. In fact, after leaving St. Blitha, he spent an hour lingering by Bishopgate, a massive opening in the London wall, thinking on what to do, but he kept coming up with the same answer – stay away.
Wait.
Perhaps that was all he could really do.
But he did know one thing – he was going to be at The King’s Gout tavern tomorrow morning before dawn, waiting to see if Andressa showed up. If she did, all well and good. But if she didn’t…
Then he would add breaching an abbey to his list of sins.
One way or the other, he wasn’t going to let her fall victim to The Chaos.