CHAPTER FOUR
London
Inside the city walls, near Bishopsgate
She was starving.
It was just before dawn on the dark, cold, and dangerous streets of London as she kept to the shadows, looking out for any threat, and then stumbling along the gutter in her quest for something to eat. It didn’t even matter what it was; she hadn’t eaten in two days and her insides were starting to gnaw themselves out. Her entire body was quaking, suffering from the lack of sustenance, but unfortunately it was an all-too-common state for her.
She starved on a regular basis.
The woman wasn’t particularly young; perhaps she’d seen twenty-two or even twenty-three years. She wasn’t a child. She was clad in simple woolen garments, undyed, and without shape. They were garments the poor would wear because they could afford nothing else, but in this case, the garments were worn by a pledge of St. Blitha.
The only clothes she had.
The gutters were pools of water mixed with urine and feces, and she slipped into the puddles more than once, soaking her simple leather shoes. They were worn, and had holes in them that had been repeatedly sewn and mended, because much like her woolen clothing, they were all she had. They were usually clean but at this moment, she didn’t care about clean. She only cared about food.
It wasn’t the first time the woman had escaped St. Blitha in search of sustenance. St. Blitha was a poor order, the order of St. Dominica, and they gardened and traded for food to keep them alive, only the food they kept in stores somehow rarely made it to those it was intended for – the nuns. More often than not, the Mother Abbess sold the food and pocketed the money to purchase fine food for her own table, leaving her charges to starve.
It was the nasty truth.
Therefore, ventures like this were the norm and the starving young woman wasn’t the only one who ventured from the walls of St. Blitha in search of food. Others did, too, and the Mother Abbess was aware. She didn’t care. As long as chores were done, and prayers were fulfilled, she turned a blind eye to her starving charges as they wandered the streets looking for something to eat. Some residents and merchants took pity on the charges, but most slammed their doors, ignoring their extreme poverty.
The wandering nuns of St. Blitha.
Two days. This would be her third day of not eating if she didn’t find something soon. Desperate, she began to wander the alleys, looking for any scrap. Cooking smells assaulted her, reminding her of just how weak she really was, and more than once she had to grab on to a door jamb or a wall to keep from falling.
In this part of the city, towards the town walls, the homes were a little more spread out and there were plots of land where gardens could be kept. She knew of just such a garden, with branches of apple trees that hung over the garden wall. It wasn’t even close to harvest time, and the apples would be small and unripe, but it didn’t matter. It would be something in her stomach. Making her way to the corner of an alley and a street they called The Cripple, she could see the branches of the tree hanging over the brick wall, but as she hustled over to it, there were no apples to be found.
Her stomach tightened, cramping with emptiness. In desperation, the woman tried to climb onto the wall, but she was too weak. She stumbled over to the garden gate, assuming it was locked and shocked to discover that it wasn’t. She could hear people in the house next to the garden, awakening as the sun began to rise, so she quickly slipped in and stayed close to the wall, scoping out the garden and spying carrots poking out of the ground. With trembling legs, she rushed to the carrots and yanked three of them out of the earth along with a rather large bunch of radishes. Afraid she’d be caught, whe ran from the garden with her stolen booty as fast as her legs would carry her.
There was rainwater in troughs from the storm they’d had the night before and she quickly washed the dirt from her vegetables, cramming them into her mouth and chewing quickly, so hungry that she couldn’t stop herself. She was in danger of choking as she shoved them into her mouth, chewing and chewing until they all went down into her rumbling belly.
Although there was something in her stomach now, she wasn’t satisfied in the least. She had to find more, something that would fill her until the next time she slipped from St. Blitha and engaged in this horrific dance of the hungry. She could smell bread coming from the street of the bakers, which was to the south, and the breeze blowing off the Thames carried that fragrant scent. Lured by it, she began to head south.
There were more people here in the merchant district, people beginning their business for the day. Merchants were setting out their wares, and that included food vendors. At this time in the morning, the big ovens that the bakers used to bake bread – sometimes several bakers would use the same oven – were burning full-bore. The smell of yeasty bread and pies filled the air, drawing her ever-closer to the source.
Rounding a corner, a large baker’s stall came into view and the man already had bread loaves cooling on stones in front of his stall in a move meant to lure in shoppers. But they were also luring in the starving, and the woman had her eye on a small loaf of bread that was at the end of a line of loaves. She knew she could get to it. But she wasn’t entirely sure she could run fast enough once she took it.
She would have to eat what she could of it before she was caught.
She was taking a terrible chance. Being a postulate, she knew she wouldn’t be severely punished, not like a normal thief would be, but there was always the chance of being apprehended by someone who didn’t believe those associated with the church deserved special consideration. She would offer to work it off; aye, that is what she would do. She could work off the bread and still return to St. Blitha in time to finish her chores.
It’s not as if she had a choice.
With her hands shaking and her stomach now upset by the raw vegetables she’d consumed, the woman moved closer to the cooling loaves, keeping an eye out for the baker. He was back in his stall, tending to his product, so she waited until he turned his back completely before snatching the loaf. She broke it in two, taking a massive bite, when the baker’s wife suddenly screeched.
After that, the chase was on.
What a night.
It was dawn as Maxton emerged from one of the bathhouses that dotted the north end of London. This particular bathhouse backed up to the street of the bakers and used their massive ovens to heat the water. It was a smaller bathhouse, one that catered to noblemen, and it also had the dual distinction of serving food as well.
Maxton had just spent a couple of glorious hours sitting in a hot tub and eating bread and cheese, boiled eggs and boiled beef, as a burly male attendant with a missing eye scrubbed him down, shaved him, and cut his hair. Years of dirt and filth and incivility had been cleaned off of him in the early hours of the morning, and he’d dressed in clean clothes that William and Gart had provided for him – fine leather breeches, a soft woolen tunic, boots that Gart had loaned him until he could get some made, and a heavy leather coat that went all the way to the ground. Lined with fur, it was an exquisite piece of clothing, something that had been hanging in the wardrobe of Farringdon House until Maxton had confiscated it. He didn’t know who it belonged to, but now, it belonged to him.
In fact, as Maxton exited the bathhouse on at dawn after a night of rain, he felt whole again. Human, even. Bathed, shaved, dressed, and fed, he felt better than he had in years, even if this moment had followed a night of no sleep after too much drinking. Now that he was back in civilization as a free man for the most part, he intended to do some living when he wasn’t seeking out papal assassins.
Perhaps that’s why he hadn’t slept very much. There was a great deal on his mind. After the meeting with William Marshal the day before, Maxton realized that the mission assigned to him and his colleagues was perhaps greater than any mission he’d ever undertaken. And there had been many – slitting the throat of a rival Muslim commander, hunting down a rogue Christian knight who had defected to Saladin, and on and on. There was an entire list of assignments that he and Kress and Achilles had undertaken on behalf of Richard and the righteous way of Christiandom, and all of them successful for the most part. The Executioner Knights had a hard-earned reputation that wasn’t built on failure. But this latest task was the most important they’d ever taken on.
And perhaps the least bit intimidating.
But he was up to it.
The sun was beginning to rise in the east and the city was coming alive with people going about their business. Maxton looked around, thinking that perhaps he should head back to Farringdon House since he was fed and bathed and relaxed, and still even slightly drunk, to sleep a little. In fact, that’s where Kress and Achilles were; they had elected not to go to the bathhouse after their drinking binge, but rather sleep it off. It had been Maxton who had prowled the night. But at this moment, a soft bed was sounding good to him. Turning west along the avenue, he was thinking thoughts of a warm bed and very well minding his own business when a figure shot around the corner of an alley and straight into him
He was hit full-force in the groin.
It was a painful, heavy, and shocking blow right into his privates and he doubled-over, but not before he grabbed the person who had hit him with both hands. As Maxton was sinking to one knee in pain, he had visions of a woman in his grasp, shoving bread into her mouth in between shrieks of fear. He was going down, she was cramming bread into her face, and the whole thing seemed surreal and slightly ludicrous.
More yelling now. Someone was grabbing at the woman in his grip, trying to pull her away from him, but he roared, loudly enough to send everyone scattering. He had captured the offender and he wasn’t about to let anyone take her away from him. His groin throbbing, he lurched to his feet, trying to shake off the stabbing pain in his family jewels.
“Enough!” he bellowed, blinking his eyes to clear his vision. The first thing he saw was a heavy-set man and a woman with a club in her hands, standing a few feet away and looking at him with a mixture of fury and fear. “What in the hell are you two doing? What goes on here?”
The woman with the club inched towards him. “That girl,” she huffed, poised with the club. “She stole from us!”
Maxton blinked again, the pain in his crotch fading to a dull throb, as he finally looked to the woman in his grip. As his vision cleared, he found himself looking into terrified green eyes. But they were very pretty eyes. He found himself looking closer; she was very pale, with ashen lips and a sweet shape to her face. The woman was blonde, but it was a darker blonde with a hint of copper to it, and her hair was all over the place, hanging in dirty waves down to her knees.
When their eyes met and the woman gasped with terror and tried to pull away, Maxton could see that she had a long, swan-like neck, something that was so inherently elegant. Beautiful, even. She was tall, too. In fact, everything about her reeked of elegance and breeding were it not for the fact that she was as filthy and smelly as a pig. The woman looked as if she’d been rolling in the gutter. He frowned.
“Did you steal bread?” he asked, sounding unhappy. “Answer me truthfully and I may show mercy. It seems that I am all that stands between you and a sound thrashing. Well?”
The woman hesitated a moment and he saw her swallow, perhaps the last of the bread that she’d been trying so desperately to eat. Then he saw her swallow again, this time to perhaps show her courage.
“I… I was hungry,” she said, her voice quivering. “I’ve not eaten in two days. I would offer to work off the bread, but they tried to beat me before I could speak. I swear that I will work it off. I have no money, my lord.”
He eyed her; she was well-spoken, something he did not expect from one so slovenly. “I can see that,” he said. “Where do you come from, woman?”
“St. Blitha.”
His eyebrows lifted. “St. Blitha?” he repeated. “Are you a nun?”
“A pledge, my lord.”
Now, he was becoming confused. “And they do not feed their pledges?”
“It is a poor order, my lord.”
“You did not answer me. Do they not feed you?”
She shook her head, once, and tears filled her eyes, tears that she quickly blinked away. She turned to the baker and his wife, standing a few feet away.
“I swear I will work for the bread,” she said, her voice trembling with shame. “Please show mercy. I’ve not eaten in two days, but you did not let me explain.”
The baker’s expression was dark; he’d heard what she’d told the very big knight. “St. Blitha,” he muttered. “I should have known. I won’t punish ye this time, but stay away from my stall, girl. If I see ye again, I’ll take a switch to ye.”
With that, he pulled his wife away, who wasn’t so happy about not being able to club the girl. She was so unhappy, in fact, that she took a swing at her husband with the club, who yanked it our of her hands and slapped her. Now, they were fighting amongst themselves and the sounds of slaps and scolding faded as they headed back to their stall, leaving Maxton standing with the quivering girl still in his grip.
Once the pair was gone, it was oddly and uncomfortably silent between them. Maxton’s gaze drifted over the long-limbed, slender creature in his grasp. His initial shock at their painful and chaotic introduction was turning into curiosity.
“What did he mean by that?” he asked her. “When he mentioned St. Blitha, it seemed as if he knew something about it.”
The girl’s quivering was growing worse. “It is of little matter, my lord,” she muttered. “As I said, St. Blitha is a poor order and…”
He cut her off because he was starting to understand the situation. “So the merchants around here are used to the starving nuns that wander about, stealing food. Is that it?”
It wasn’t as if she could deny it. All signs pointed to it and, clearly, she’d silently admitted it not a few moments earlier. But she didn’t want the man’s pity.
“The Mother Abbess sets a fine table,” she said, trying not sound as ashamed as she felt. “The senior nuns eat well, but the unfortunate truth is that the rest of us must fend for ourselves most of the time. You are correct; clearly, you could see by the baker’s reaction that this is not the first time someone from St. Blitha has been discovered taking his food. Ask any merchant in London and they will tell you the same thing – it happens all the time. My lord, if I could work for my food, I would, but there are those who feel it would be improper to employ a pledge or postulate, or even a nun. They would rather give charity, but unfortunately, very few do, and when the do, it is not enough for all of us.”
Maxton could hardly believe what he was hearing. “And your bishop allows this?” he asked, aghast. “Who is your bishop?”
“Essex, my lord.”
That stopped Maxton’s building rage. He rolled his eyes and looked away. “That makes sense now,” he mumbled. “I may have been away from England for a few years, but some things never change. Essex is a man who is only concerned for his own coffers and leaves the rest of his parishes to govern on their own.
“It seems so, my lord.”
His eyes narrowed at her. “Seems so? Of course it is true. It has always been truth with Essex. You are a living example of that.”
She opened her mouth to reply but abruptly seemed to catch sight of something behind Maxton and he turned to see what had her attention. It was another woman in the same shapeless woolen clothing stumbling along the street, but when she saw that she had been sighted, she suddenly disappeared into a side alley.
Jaw ticking, Maxton returned his focus to the woman in his hands.
“How many of your fellow pledges are out looking for food?” he asked, though not unkindly.
“At least twelve, my lord.”
Maxton shook his head in disgust. There were things he could stomach, and things he couldn’t. A woman, in poverty by dire circumstances, had his pity. Maxton was many things – brutal, deadly, and at times, cruel – but he wasn’t heartless. That was a little fact he kept deeply buried, but in this case, that compassion he kept so tightly guarded was coming forth. He couldn’t help it. He finally released one of her arms but held tight to the other.
“Come with me,” he rumbled.
She looked at him, fear in her eyes as she dug in her heels. “Where?”
“You wish to eat, don’t you?”
She hesitated a split second before nodding, and Maxton pulled the woman along, heading back into the merchant district.
He had a nun to feed, but he realized as they walked through the streets that it wasn’t completely altruistic. Aye, he felt sorry for her, but there was more to it than that. Perhaps when he stood before St. Peter to recount the deeds of his life, feeding a starving pledge might off-set some of the horrible things he’d done. A holy man he’d spoken to on his trip home from Les Baux de Provence told him that God weighed a man’s good deeds against his bad deeds. Some were weighed more heavily than others, and Lord only knew, Maxton had very little good deeds to outweigh the bad.
He didn’t want to pass up this opportunity to give himself a few good marks. He could have just left her on the street, and probably should have, but instead, he wanted to do something good for a change.
Altruistic, indeed.