CHAPTER EIGHT
“He called himself Alasdair Baird Douglas and he brought a message from our Holy Father,” the Mother Abbess was speaking in hushed tones in her native Italian language. “He has made his wishes known to us.”
She was addressing three small women bound up tightly in the woolens of their order, older women with non-descript faces set within the confines of their non-descript habits. One woman had a hook nose and small, brown eyes, while the woman next to her was a little rounder, with a round face and strangely dark eyebrows. The third woman was taller, far more slender, and had a nervous tick. She kept scratching her eyes, leading to no eyebrows or eyelashes.
“Did we have a visitor?” the eye-scratcher asked, also in the Italian language. “I did not see anyone. Did anyone else? Did anyone see him?”
It was nervous chatter, but that was normal coming from her. Sister Dymphna portrayed a woman who was frightened of her own shadow, and a constant worrier, always the one to speak out with questions or concerns. It didn’t matter the subject; Sister Dymphna had been known to worry herself into vomiting on more than one occasion, and sometimes she vomited blood, which the Mother Abbess told her followers was a sign that the Holy Spirit was upon her. Sister Dymphna’s nervous stomach worked well to strike fear into the hearts of those at St. Blitha on several occasions.
But she was always the one with questions, now about the appearance of the mysterious Alastair Baird Douglas. The Mother Abbess answered patiently, but as always, her patience was limited.
“Sister Vera saw him,” she said. “She admitted him into the chapel. Then, the du Bose girl was passing through the chapel at that time and he spoke to her, asking her to confirm my identity. She saw him as well.”
Sister Dymphna was still twitching, itching at her eyes, but she didn’t ask any further questions because she knew that tone in the Mother Abbess’ voice. It hinted at silence and obedience. Therefore, she looked to the other two women in the room, waiting for them to voice their own questions, but no one did. They remained silent. Therefore, Sister Dymphna fell silent as well.
It was the usual dynamic between the four of them. The Mother Abbess would speak and the three of them, her most trusted companions, would listen, mostly with unbridled adoration, but sometimes, Sister. Dymphna had questions. Like now. Questions that would die one her lips because asking them, to the Mother Abbess, signaled a lack of faith. And no one wanted to project that.
The four of them had been together for a very long time, since they had been very young and had all been orphans in the Santa Giulia convent in northern Italy where the Mother Abbess had been a nun at the time. She took the three orphans under her wing, teaching them how to survive and thrive under the strict rule of the Church.
But the Mother Abbess lived by her own rules, even back then, as they soon discovered.
The Mother Abbess’ name was, in fact, Giulia. Her parents had been wealthy land owners, the Orsini family, and Giulia and her brother, Celestine, had both been given over to the church at a very young age. Whilst Celestine begged, borrowed, and schemed his way to the top, Giulia did much of the same, only her actions were darker and more sinister than her brother’s behavior.
Guilia had the heart of a killer.
If she had felt threatened, a pillow over the face of her sleeping rival would take care of the issue. She had never been beyond such things. She didn’t view life as most people did; to her, it was disposable. There was no value to it. The three orphans, Dymphna included, had watched Giulia kill and lie and scheme, and once, she’d even surrendered her virginity to a particularly lustful priest who had then, in turn, given her a glowing recommendation when it came to assuming a post at a wealthy convent. A post that had been a stepping stone to becoming the Mother Abbess of her own convent – St. Blitha.
The woman had clawed her way to the top.
Therefore, Dymphna and her two comrades were shadows of the Mother Abbess, Seaxburga as she was now known, and they catered to her every whim, her every need. They were mere shadows themselves now, wraiths of what they’d once been, women who no longer possessed minds or wills of their own. Everything they did, and everything they thought, came from the Mother Abbess, and that included the directive they were now facing.
There was no remorse, no sense of morality.
Just death.
The Mother Abbess knew all of this, of course. She knew how much control she had over these women and it pleased her deeply. Seeing that Dymphna’s questions had been silenced for the moment, her gaze drifted to the other two women in the chamber. The woman with the hook nose was known by her chosen name of Sister Agnes, while the round woman with the dark brows was Sister Petronilla. All names they’d chosen at their consecration, names of Christian martyrs, leaving their birth names behind as one would shed a skin.
The innocence they’d once had, as children, was long since vanished. What was left in its place was nothing short of mindless obedience, women who had convinced themselves that ambition and servitude on behalf of Christ and the Mother Abbess knew no boundaries or no limits. Much as Christ had disciples to do his bidding, she had hers, and in this case, they would understand the significance of this particular undertaking.
It was perhaps the most important they’d ever faced.
“As I was saying, Alasdair Douglas brought a message from our Holy Father,” she said, lowering her voice. Even though they were in her private chamber, and she was speaking in Italian, she did not want her words over heard. “He serves the Holy Father as we do, a great and pious servant of God. It seems that the Holy Father has a task for us, a task of the utmost importance. We have never had such an important calling, sisters. We have been asked to change England’s destiny.”
As Sister Dymphna scratched, Sister Agnes looked at the Mother Abbess most curiously. “But how are we to do such a thing?” she asked. “Surely we cannot change the destiny of an entire country.”
The Mother Abbess lifted a thin eyebrow. “We can,” she insisted quietly. “I shall be plain – we have been asked to remove the king.”
Now, all three of the nuns were looking at her with great confusion, shocked by the words coming out of her mouth.
“Remove the king?” Sister Agnes repeated. “But… how? We have no great weapons, no great armies. The king is surrounded by knights, men we cannot fight. How are we supposed to remove a man who surrounds himself with men who could easily kill us?”
The Mother Abbess shook her head sadly. “Have you learned nothing, Sister?” she asked. “When have we ever used force to accomplish that which has been asked of us?”
That brought Sister Agnes some pause, but she wasn’t sure how to proceed at that point. Sister Petronilla spoke instead.
“We would not know how to use force, Gracious Mother,” she said calmly. “But making way to the king is much different from any of the other tasks we have accomplished. What is expected of us, then? How are we do accomplish that which has been asked of us?”
Sister Petronilla tended to be the more rational one of the three. The Mother Abbess turned to her.
“Remember the Bishop of Leeds?” she said. “And you will recall the priests from Kent who sided with the king against our Holy Father. Do you recall what we did for them? We have used ingredients from our garden. Why do you think we grow this great garden of deadly flowers and herbs? It is because they are our weapons in fighting for the rights of the Church. It will simply be a matter of using those weapons again, this time against our king. He will die a death that looks to be from the heart or from the brain. Nothing sinister will be expected, and it will truly be the Will of God. He has provided us with the necessary tools, as evidenced by our great and beautiful garden. He allows it to grow by giving us the sun and the rain. All we need do is use what God has provided.”
She made it sound so very simple, as if it was merely another task in a long line of tasks the four of them had undertaken under the years. Anything that displeased the Holy Father, or his minions in Essex or Ely. In fact, the nuns had accomplished several tasks for the Bishop of Essex, and both bishops that had been known to give a command to remove a rival or enemy. In any case, no one ever suspected the method of delivery – when they were looking for armed men, they failed to overlook the unarmed women.
And it was their downfall.
Who would suspect a nun?
“It is the Will of God,” Sister Petronilla agreed without reserve. She tended to be the first one to follow Mother Abbess in all things. “When are we to complete this glorious mission?”
There was no reserve with any of them. It was simply another request from the Holy Father in a long line of them. As far as they were concerned, they were doing God’s work; that was how they rationalized it. The Mother Abbess moved to the window of her solar, the one that overlooked her lovely garden. She was looking to at the tall stalks of foxgloves in particular.
“The Feast of St. Blitha is next week,” she said. “The missive from the Holy Father was a great coincidence to this feast because the king has come every year for three years. I have been told that he will be in attendance this year again, eager to pray to the patron saint of hunters. He will take Communion and it will be a simple thing to poison the man’s wine.”
Sister Petronilla stood up, making her way over to the windows where the Mother Abbess was. “But the king surely has tasters,” she said. “They will taste the wine before it goes to the king.”
The Mother Abbess looked at her. “Let them,” she said. Then, she returned her focus to the garden, pointing to the tall, purple foxgloves stalks. “Some of those plants are just preparing to blossom. Cut the leaves from them, dry them, and crush them into fine powder. We shall mix the powder with the king’s wine. Even if he has someone taste it first, there will be no evidence of the poison and the taster will not become ill right away. It will take time, and by then, the king will have ingested enough to kill him.”
It seemed like a logical enough plan, and it was something they’d done once before with the Bishop of Leeds. The man had died in his sleep after a fine meal at the Mother Abbess’ table.
“I shall prepare the wine myself,” Sister Petronilla said quietly. “I will all ensure it is the only wine the king drinks.”
The Mother Abbess nodded but she seemed to be distracted by what she was seeing out the window, beyond the garden. Sister Petronilla looked to see a few nuns milling about, including the nun who managed the kitchen and the pledge who tended to the laundry. It was difficult manual labor, given to the young and the strong. As Sister Petronilla tried to figure out what had the Mother Abbess’ attention, the older woman pointed from the window.
“The du Bose girl was there when Alasdair arrived, as I mentioned,” she said, gesturing to the woman who had just come in from the postern gate and seemed to be engaged in an animated conversation with the kitchen nun. “I have been watching her, you know. She is an orphan and her aunt, the woman who gave her over to us, paid me a mighty sum to keep the girl here for always. She says that the woman is head-strong and rebellious, but I have never seen that in her. She is an excellent worker and she is obedient.”
By this time, Sister Dymphna and Sister Agnes were moving to the window, straining to see what the Mother Abbess was pointing to.
“I have been thinking, sisters,” the Mother Abbess continued. “The truth is that we are not growing any younger. If St. Blitha is to remain loyal to the Holy Father, then we must bring in new blood to serve him, as we do. We must bring in young women who understand the importance of fulfilling his wishes, in any circumstance. Women with no ties to family, no ties to the outside world. Women who could disappear from this earth and no one would mourn them. Women who have nothing else to live for.”
Now, all four nuns were looking from the windows at the laundry yard, where the tall and pale du Bose girl was in what seemed to be an increasingly heated conversation with the kitchen nun, Sister Blanche.
“I know Andressa,” Sister Agnes said, her gaze on the girl in the distance. “She is joyful and she never complains. She does as she is told.”
The Mother Abbess nodded. “She pleases me,” she said. “Her wash commands a fine price and she is quite valuable to me. I have been thinking of rewarding her for her work by asking her to serve as one of us. She would never have to want, and never have to worry. She would know my care and protection. She is young and strong and bright, and she could carry on our work and traditions long after we are gone.”
Sister Dymphna looked at her. “Do you wish her to replace you when the time comes, then?”
“Mayhap.”
“But what if she refuses? What we do is only for the most faithful, Mother. What if her faith is not strong enough?”
The Mother Abbess’ dark eyes flickered, a ripple of evil in the black depths. “Then she shall belong to The Chaos,” she said simply. “No family will miss her when she disappears, and I’ll not have her out in the world where she can tell others of our business. If she does not agree to my offer, she will die. And I am sure she will choose life and dedication to the Holy Father over anything else. As I said, she is a bright woman. She will understand and she will be grateful.”
The woman said it without any remorse or grief whatsoever, as if discussing something as benign as the weather. She’d lived with her evil so long that, to her, it was normal. It was the way of things.
And they needed new blood to continue their way.
Before anyone could speak again, the object of their attention was slapped by a very angry kitchen nun, and as they watched in shock, Andressa struck back and sent the kitchen nun to her arse. Then, she jumped on top of her and they lost sight of the fight behind the vast garden that was between them and the kitchen yard. The Mother Abbess snapped her fingers.
“Go,” she instructed her followers quickly. “See what has happened. Bring Andressa to me and confine Sister Blanche to her room. I will decide what is to be done with her.”
The three nuns scattered, fleeing the fine chamber, rushing out to do the Mother Abbess’ bidding. As they fled, the Mother Abbess returned her attention to the yard where more nuns were now rushing to break up the fight. She saw clearly when two of them pulled Andressa to her feet and began pulling her away while the kitchen nun, Sister Blanche, continued to scream angrily.
It was a chaotic scene, but one thing was for certain – Sister Blanche struck first. The Mother Abbess didn’t know why the woman had lashed out and it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that the woman had struck out at someone the Mother Abbess had her eye on, and that kind of thing could not be tolerated. There was no fighting or violence at a convent, as Sister Blanche was about to find out. No matter the reasons, Andressa was about to discover that the Mother Abbess would protect her from a nun out to do her harm. Perhaps it would make the offer to join their exclusive little group that much sweeter, knowing the Mother Abbess would protect her and keep her in all things.
If not, then she, too, would eventually find herself buried deep in The Chaos along with Sister Blanche, never to see the light of day again.