Chapter One
London
Convent dedicated to St. Blitha of the Order of St. Dominica
North of the city walls, near Bishopsgate
Almost Three Months later
The walls of the old convent were ancient, hundreds of years old at the very least, and emitted an odor that smelled much like time itself, something like dirt and mold and stagnant water. It was an odd scent, one that inevitably created a mood of both religious piety and the inherent doom.
This must be what sin smells like.
That was what the man thought as he stood just inside the door of the old convent, his eyes adjusting to the weak light. There was no furniture, a dirt floor, and the ceiling was low to accommodate the short nuns who inhabited the place.
For a man of normal height, the ceilings weren’t so obliging – he’d already hit his head, twice, the last time being on a beam that smacked him straight on the forehead.
The least bit frustrated, he simply stood in one place and waited.
He’d come with a purpose and, low ceilings notwithstanding, he would accomplish what he’d been ordered to do.
But the wait became excessive and he was exhausted.
Months of travel had seen to that, and with no place to sit, his legs were beginning to tremble.
He also hadn’t eaten in some time. Dirty, worn, and unkempt, he wiped his nose with the back of his hand as he waited for the Mother Abbess to make an appearance.
It was her he’d come to see.
But it was a woman who was evidently too busy to see him immediately or had no real desire to.
The man with the ragged beard wasn’t beyond charging through the convent looking for the woman; therefore, he hoped, for their sakes, that the nun who had answered the door had genuinely gone in search of the abbess as instructed.
Men like Alasdair Baird Douglas were not men to be trifled with; he’d killed his share of women right along with his share of men.
Even though he was in a holy house, it made little difference to the career killer.
If the Mother Abbess didn’t show herself soon, he’d have to go looking for her and eliminate anyone who stood in his way.
Fortunately, his murder rampage was suspended when the little nun he’d sent to fetch the Mother Abbess returned with three women in tow.
They were all wearing unbleached wool habits, heavy and uncomfortable, and the only thing showing was their faces.
They all looked the same to him; small-featured, brown-eyed, and dull.
One of the women, rounder than the rest, gestured to the cold hearth in the chamber and one of the other sisters scurried over to it and began to prepare a blaze.
Alasdair glanced at the woman kneeling next to the hearth but he didn’t give her further regard.
He was more interested in the women that were standing before him.
He looked at the small nun whose features he recognized.
“Where is your Mother Abbess?” he asked.
The young nun pointed to the round woman who had ordered the hearth lit. “It is she.”
Alasdair turned his full attention to the woman in white, now seeing that she was older than the others, her dark eyes sharp and glittering.
She made her way towards him slowly, with a massive staff in one hand, like a walking stick, but heavy enough to beat a man to death.
She was gazing back at him in an appraising manner.
“Are ye Seaxburga?” Alasdair asked.
The woman nodded, once. “I am the Mother Abbess of St. Blitha,” she replied. “Who are you?”
Alasdair eyed the woman. “Do ye swear this?”
The woman cocked her head as if insulted by his question. “’Tis you who has sought me,” she said in a heavy accent that was not Scottish or even French. Alasdair had heard it before; it was Italian. “If you do not believe I am who I say I am, then I shall bid you a good day. You will leave.”
Alasdair didn’t move; he continued to regard the woman, carefully, as if trying to determine if she was truly Seaxburga, the woman he’d been told to deliver the missive to.
He caught sight of another nun in his periphery, a woman who was simply passing by the room.
She was slender and lovely, with a graceful neck and a pale, pretty face.
She was a beautiful young woman who seemed oddly out of place in such a dark and dismal place, but Alasdair wasn’t looking at her beauty. He was looking for confirmation.
He yelled to her.
“Ye!” he boomed. “Stop! Who is this woman?”
He was pointing at the Mother Abbess. The nun he had interrupted, now frozen fearfully where she had come to a halt, gazed apprehensively between the man who had yelled at her and the round woman in the fine robes. Annoyed at the delay, Alasdair boomed again.
“Who is this woman?” he demanded.
The interrupted nun jumped at the sound of his voice. “Our Gracious Mother!”
She fled. Alasdair turned back to the Mother Abbess, now satisfied that an independent source had confirmed the woman’s identity. His annoyance at the situation in general seemed to ease.
“Ye will forgive me, yer ladyship,” he said. “I bear a very important message. I did not want tae give it tae the wrong person.”
The Mother Abbess wasn’t so forgiving of his rude behavior. Her expression was unfriendly.
“What do you have for me?” she asked. “And who has sent you?”
Alasdair didn’t say a word. He simply presented her with a missive that he pulled out of his saddlebag, extending it to the enrobed woman.
The Mother Abbess inspected the long, rolled parchment a moment before extending a hand, retrieving it.
She held it very close to her eyes, for they were not very good these days, and inspected the dark red seal.
Recognition flickered.
Now, she was very interested in the man’s appearance.
Lifting her eyes from the missive, she hissed at the nuns standing around her, ordering them away.
She even ordered the nun away who was just now starting the fire in the hearth.
Smoke snaked into the room, filling the air with blue haze.
As the infant blaze sparked and the nuns fled, the Mother Abbess took a step closer to Alasdair.
“The seal of the Holy Father is on this parchment,” she said, her voice low.
Alasdair nodded. “I have just come from him,” he replied. “He has sent me a very long way tae bring ye this missive.”
The Mother Abbess’ eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Why would he send you?” she asked. “The Holy Father has many men who serve him. Who are you to him?”
“I am his servant,” Alasdair said, sensing her distrust. “He sent me tae England tae deliver the missive because I know the country. I would know where to find ye.”
“You are not English. You are clearly from Scotland.”
Alasdair gave a weak smile. “I am,” he confirmed, “but my mother is a Sassenach. I have spent my share of time here.”
“Where?”
“In Lincoln.”
The answer seemed to satisfy her for the moment.
The Mother Abbess’ gaze lingered on him before returning to the parchment in her hand.
It was clear that she was curious, as well as concerned.
Such suspicions made for an odd cast to her expression.
After a slight hesitation, she broke the seal and unrolled the parchment, making her way over to the hearth as she did so in order that she might have some light to read by. Alasdair remained by the door.
The woman read quickly. She read it once and then read it again. Then, she simply stood there, seeming to read the missive in pieces. Mostly, her attention seemed to be focused on the latter part of it. She would read it over many times as Alasdair watched. Finally, she looked at him.
“Do you know what this missive contains?” she asked, her voice sounding oddly strained.
Alasdair nodded. “Aye,” he said honestly. “I am aware. The Holy Father and I have had many discussions about it.”
The Mother Abbess smiled thinly, looking back to the parchment she held. “Prove this to me.”
“It speaks of the death of the king.”
The Mother Abbess grunted and lowered the parchment. “You speak the truth,” she said. “Do you know what else it says?”
Alasdair came away from the door, his expression surprisingly pensive. “It speaks of the perfect weapon tae create death.”
“And you know what this perfect weapon is?”
Alasdair’s dark eyes glimmered as he nodded faintly.
“I do, indeed,” he said. “Yer ladyship, William the Lion is my king. He has special favor with Rome. The Church of Scotland and Rome are allies. I was sent by William tae Rome as an envoy and a gift of protection for the Holy Father. The Holy Father and Scotland have the same enemy in John, so we understand each other. Not only do I know the perfect weapon of death but I also know of the boy.”
The Mother Abbess held up the parchment. “The boy spoken of here?”
“Aye.”
“The son of Coeur de Lion?”
“Aye.”
The Mother Abbess deliberated upon that information for a moment although it was difficult to know what she was thinking. The older woman had learned long ago to control her emotions and did so with skill. Reading her thoughts based upon her expression was nearly impossible.
“So he would supplant John with Richard’s spawn,” she finally murmured, turning back towards the fire. “He asks for my assistance in accomplishing this.”
Alasdair nodded, again confirming what he already knew.
“Indeed, Yer Ladyship,” he said. “The Holy Father tried tae hire Sassenach men tae eliminate their king, but they refused. He knows that if he sends trained assassins, assassins from Rome or from France, that it will be difficult for them tae get close tae the king.”
“Why?”
“Because the king is well-protected by English knights. English assassins would have made it much easier. If men of a different creed approach him, they will be immediately suspected for their difference. It will make their task far more difficult.”