Arissa had matured as well. Rather delicate and frail upon arrival, she seemed to have increased in vigor and the rosiness gracing her exquisite cheeks was a constant phenomenon. Even now, swathed in the simple gray frock and kerchief worn by all new pledges, there was no beauty on earth that could compare with her. She seemed to gain a certain strength from the chores that she was required to accomplish, churning butter and scrubbing floors. The more she exerted herself in a controlled fashion, the healthier her glow.
Sister Repentia had been told of her frequent bouts with chill and of her breathing attacks, and she had been led to believe that Arissa had led a fairly easy life due to these afflictions. But with the exercise and food and routine of the abbey, she seemed to have flourished into an extremely healthy specimen. Even though Arissa professed her dislike for the abbey, mayhap it had been good for her in a manner to which she was unaware; although her spirit had been dampened by her longing for le Bec, her body had thrived nonetheless.
Sister Repentia was barely aware when Vespers was concluded. She had been consumed with reviewing the days since Arissa had arrived, marveling at the change that had occurred within the confines of Whitby's holy order. As the nuns filtered from the chapel in anticipation of the evening meal, a lamb stew Sister Repentia had been simmering all afternoon, the slight nun hurried from the chapel ahead of the throng to prepare the gallery for the feast.
Behind her, she heard the soft footfalls of clogged feet. Her novice helpers scurried after her like eager pups.
"We could smell the lamb stew up in the loft," Emma said eagerly, licking her lips and tucking stray blond hair back into her kerchief. "It has been over a week since we have had stew."
Sister Repentia marched into the gallery without replying to Emma's enthusiastic statement. "Set out the bowls and the bread, please."
Arissa and Emma immediately moved to do the sister's bidding. Helping her with kitchen chores had been part of their daily routine for the past two weeks and for young women who had grown up relatively pampered and well-removed from mundane chores, they enjoyed the satisfaction of manual labor a good deal.
The young pledges giggled and whispered as they set out the coarse wooden bowls and crude cups. Sister Repentia emerged from the kitchen bearing the pot of stew and the two young ladies rushed to her aid. As Arissa carefully ladled out the thick soup, Emma placed loaves of crusty brown bread on every table.
The coarse crust of the brown bread reminded Emma of the occasion when Bartholomew had used two stale bread crusts to create "horns" for effect during his recitation of a prose involving the ancient Minotaur. Her humorous recollection of the event sent Arissa into gales of laughter and even Sister Repentia struggled against the grin that threatened.
But Arissa's laughter soon faded, a deeper grief taking hold as she realized the recitations, the outrageous skits, the inane manner in which her brother had portrayed Greek tragedies was to be no more. Bartholomew was gone, killed defending her against the Welsh enemy, and her tinkling laughter was suddenly replaced by the swell of tears.
Emma was immediately remorseful as she observed her friend's despondent manner. Bartholomew's death had been a difficult event for Arissa to deal with; naturally, she felt very guilty for having inadvertently caused the incident. "I am sorry, Riss. I did not mean to remind you of Bart."
Arissa sniffled, swallowing her tears bravely. To cry would only bring shame to her brother's brave sacrifice and she loved him too much to dishonor him in such a fashion. "I want you to remind me, always. I do not ever want to forget Bart and his unique personality."
Sister Repentia watched her daughter a moment as she doled out the remainder of the stew. "Who is Bart?"
Arissa sniffled again, squaring her shoulders bravely. "My brother. He was killed defending me when Lambourn was invaded."
Sister Repentia stared at her a moment as the words of selfless sacrifice sank deep; uttering a small prayer of thanks for the brave actions of the earl's son, she returned to her duties silently. Arissa, for her part, was reminded of another amusing incident and opened her mouth to relay a similar image of Bartholomew's foolery when a flustered young nun suddenly rushed into the fragrant hall.
"An army approaches, sister!" she announced breathlessly. "Where is the mother abbess?"
Sister Repentia was startled with the news; before she could respond, Arissa leapt to confront the woman.
"Are they flying a banner?" she demanded. "Can you see the standards?"
The young nun fixed Arissa in the eye; she had been one of the many who had been privy to the young lady's tales of interminable love and in spite of her devotion to God, she found it wonderfully romantic that Richmond le Bec had indeed returned for his fair maiden. "Henry's standard, Arissa. I saw the crimson myself."
Arissa dropped the wooden spoon in her hand; the color drained from her face as she turned her wide green eyes to Emma.
"Richmond has returned," she whispered, her entire expression laced with disbelief and the most unimaginable joy. "He’s come, Emma. He’s come!"
Emma's face was a mirror of Arissa's; startled blue eyes gazed back at her friend. "Gavan," she murmured. "He must have come, too. Oh, Riss, Gavan has come too!"
Sister Repentia tried to stop them, but she knew her shouts of restraint were in vain as the two young women made haste to the front door. The panel was closed, although several nuns were trying to peer from the slender crack between the frame and the slightly-ajar panel.
Shoving the gray-clad women aside, Arissa yanked the door open and dashed across the muddy walk before anyone could stop her. Emma was directly on her heels, the both of them ignoring the cries of Sister Repentia. Clearly, there were matters of far greater import than the anxious shouts of an aging nun.
Richmond and Gavan had come.
Arissa saw the army approaching on the road, riding the crest toward the abbey with Henry's banners streaming in the brisk sea air. The charger in the lead was a dark animal, though distant, and Arissa set her sights on the mighty beast. Richmond's charger, she was sure. Her heart sang with the joy; already, she could taste him upon her lips. Already, she could feel his body on her, in her, never to let her go. She had never been happier in her life.
Until she realized the charger in the lead was a brown animal. Apprehension and confusion filled her as she slowed to an unsteady halt, scrutinizing the additional chargers that made up the front of the knightly column. More browns, grays, even chestnut. She'd never seen them before.
A creeping anxiety swept her as the destriers closed in on her position; frozen to the muddy turf, she could do naught but stare at the mighty warhorses as their riders reined them to an uneasy halt. The column of men flying Henry's banner came to a grinding stop and Arissa could feel Emma behind her, clutching at her in fear.
The man on the brown charger approached her, a big man in well-used armor. It was apparent that he was studying her, for his helmed head focused on her for several moments before he offered a weak, if not somewhat disbelieving, salutation.
"The Lady Arissa, I presume?"
Arissa stared at him, bitter and disappointed to the core. Angry, even, that the knight before her had dashed her hopes. "You are not Richmond."
The man shook his head, slowly. If there was any doubt that the rumors regarding the existing love between the Lady Arissa de Lohr and Richmond le Bec were false, it had been dashed in that instant. From the expression on her face, he could see that she was beyond disappointed. She was crushed.
"Nay, my lady, I am not Richmond," Henry Percy could scarcely believe the beauty before him. "I have come with a message from your father."
Arissa continued to stare at him, her considerable bitterness eased somewhat with the knight's brief explanation. "What message? And who are you?"
The knight dismounted his warhorse. Raising his visor, Arissa caught a glimpse of dark eyes, not entirely unkind. "My name is Henry Percy. Might I speak with the abbess?"
Arissa blin
ked as the sound of his name settled into her memory. After a moment, she tilted her head thoughtfully. "Hotspur?"
His eyes crinkled with a smile. "Then you do remember me?"
She nodded, studying him guardedly. "Northumberland's heir. I met you once many years ago when you came to Lambourn with Richmond. I was twelve or thirteen, I believe."
"You were eleven," he corrected, his eyes still creased with mirth. "You were a lovely child then and I am pleased to see that your beauty has come to rival the magnificence of the angels. Truthfully, you are breathtaking."
She blushed slightly, a bit wary of his presence and still extremely disappointed that he was not Richmond. Before she could reply, soft footfalls met the earth behind her and a gentle hand was suddenly resting on her shoulder.
"I will thank you not to molest my charge, sir knight," Mary Deus' voice was taut, stern. "Arissa, Emma, retreat to the abbey immediately."
The two young ladies turned to comply with the abbess' bidding, but Hotspur halted their progression. "It was not my intention to vex them, Your Grace. I am Sir Henry Percy, sent by order of the king and I would ask that the lady hear my message," snapping his fingers, no easy feat through the thickness of gauntlets, one of his knights produced a rolled length of parchment and handed it to him. He extended it to the small abbess. "As you can see, the missive bears Henry's seal. I would suggest that you read it immediately, as there is little time to waste."
The abbess did not change expression. Tearing her eyes from the somewhat-pushy knight, she gazed at the yellowed vellum and was met with the sight of Henry's garbled seal. "It's muddled," she said, tracing her finger over the red wax. "I can scarcely read it."
Hotspur eyed the seal; it had taken two days to perfect a seal that was similar to Henry's. Still, they had not possessed the time for trial and error to create a perfect likeness and had taken their chances with the first passable forgery. If the woman was swayed by the barely-accomplished signet, he would be pleasantly, and thankfully, surprised.
"I have been riding for several days through all varieties of weather conditions," he said honestly. "If the seal is mussed, then it was purely beyond my control, I assure you. If I may, Your Grace, I suggest you read it now."
The abbess' jaw ticked, a strong indication of her displeasure. After a moment's indecision, she broke the seal and unrolled the vellum. Arissa and Emma, Hotspur and his knights, watched with anticipation as the educated woman read the missive carefully.
After several long, tensely-silent minutes, the abbess seemed to sigh with regret.
"I was unaware of Henry's poor health," she said, raising her gaze to meet Hotspur. "How long has he been suffering?"
"For some time now," Henry replied, wondering how much time he was going to spend in Hell for lying to a woman of the cloth. "Unfortunately, his physicians do not believe he has much time left on this earth and Henry has requested to see Arissa before he dies. I am ordered to bring her to London as soon as possible."
The abbess sighed again, pondering the news and the consequences thereof. Certainly there was no time to send a missive to London confirming the request if King Henry was on his death bed. The man was understandably eager to make amends with the wrongs he had done in this life, Arissa included, and the abbess could not fault him the desire to reconcile with his bastard.
Carefully, thoughtfully, the abbess re-rolled the missive. "Why did Sir Richmond not come for her?"
Hotspur did not falter. "Because he’s busy with the situation on the Welsh border," he replied steadily. "Henry asked that I accomplish the duty since Sir Richmond was else occupied."
"Richmond is on the Welsh border?" Arissa asked before she could stop herself, filled with concern and confusion. He was supposed to be in London, demanding her hand. Why was he in Wales?
Henry's soft eyes found her. "Sir Richmond is a master of negotiation and Henry asked that he assist the crisis on the border to see if a bloodless conclusion cannot be sought against the Welsh," seeing the sorrowful expression on Arissa's face, a measure of guilt swept him; God help him, Richmond was his friend. What he was about to do was not only treacherous, but blatant cruelty. Yet, it was necessary.
Tearing his gaze from the magnificent face, he refocused on the abbess. "Time grows short, Your Grace. Every moment we delay is a moment away from Henry's life. Surely you cannot deny a father the right to see his child before he passes on?"
The abbess drew in another long sigh, staring at the mighty knight before her; she was well aware of Henry Percy, soon to be the second Earl of Northumberland. Hotspur was a fierce fighter, the most powerful knight in England next to Richmond le Bec, and she knew he was a man of honor. Truthfully, she had no firm basis to deny the request and she realized with resignation that she had no choice but to allow Arissa to travel to London to meet her dying father.
"Nay," she said after a long moment, her voice quiet. "I shall not deny his request. But the lady will travel with an escort, a chaperone of my choosing. And she will be returned to me as soon as Henry has finished with her. Is this understood?"
Hotspur felt a bolt of relief run through him, so powerful that he fought the urge to collapse with thanks. But the added element of an escort was something he had not anticipated; still, it would be of no consequence. A harmless nun was insignificant in the overall scheme and he would not fret over the unexpected addition. All that mattered was that Arissa was to be placed in his custody, as Owen had correctly predicted.
"I understand your directive perfectly, Your Grace," he said steadily. "The lady will be in good hands."
The abbess continued to eye him a moment before faintly gesturing to her two young charges, silently demanding them to return to the abbey. As Arissa and Emma dashed away, the abbess maintained her cool gaze on the mighty knight.
"I must tell you that this situation is unnerving," she said quietly. "But based upon your reputation as an honorable man, I will not dispute the poorly written missive nor the blotched seal. All I ask is that you return Lady Arissa to me, unharmed. She is, after all, my charge."
Hotspur nodded faintly, feeling a substantial increase in his own guilt.
"I shall guard the woman with my life." He meant it.
While Hotspur and his army wait on the road, Emma helped Arissa pack a small satchel. Soap, a comb, another clean woolen frock and the surcoat she had arrived in filled the small bag. As Arissa donned a pair of soft woolen hose to protect her against the chill, Emma seemed particularly distracted. Securing the heavy cloak Richmond has given her, Arissa laughed softly at the picture she presented.
"Look at me, Emma. Dressed in a plan gray woolen frock and an exquisite cloak of the finest material," with a smile, she turned to her moody friend. "I look terribly mismatched. I suppose I should.... now, what's the matter with you? Why do you look like that?"
Emma had been fumbling with her hands, a frown on her face as she immersed herself in thought. Hearing Arissa's softly demanded question, she cast her a long gaze.
"What did Hotspur mean when he called you Henry's daughter?"
Arissa's smile faded. After a lengthy, guilty moment, she averted her gaze and planted her bottom on the edge of her cot. "Do not be angry with me for not telling you," she said softly. "I myself discovered my true heritage only a few weeks ago. Apparently, I am a bastard of royal blood, sent to live with the Earl of Berkshire so that I would not shame my father the king."
Emma stared at her, shocked but not completely disbelieving. After all, she'd had time to dwell on the clues Hotspur had raised and was somewhat prepared for the startling truth. After a moment, she exhaled sharply and leaned against the wall. "So you are the king's daughter?"
"Aye."
“Truly?”
“Aye.”
"Does Richmond know?"
"He’s the one who informed me of my true heritage."
Emma's gaze lingered on her dark head. After several long seconds, she simply shook her head. "I.... I simply cannot belie
ve it, Riss. You are not the earl's offspring, but a princess?"
Arissa shrugged vaguely. "Apparently. But I do not feel like one. I feel like a cast-off, a bit of rubbish that no one can decide what to do with."
Emma's brow furrowed. "Why do you say that?"
Arissa toyed with the hem of her cloak, advancing to chewing on her nails, a habit she had yet to break. "Look at the situation; my mother abandons me at birth and I am forced to live with another family, my true identity concealed from the world. When I become of age, I am forced into an abbey to hide for the remainder of my life. Would you not feel like so much extra baggage?"
Emma pondered her question a moment. "I do not know, Riss. Richmond doesn't think you are extra baggage."
Her smile made a weak appearance. "Nay, he does not. Mayhap I shall be lucky enough to see him in London. Certainly, I can hope."
Emma's gaze lingered on her friend a moment longer, still reeling with some shock and amazement. But, truthfully, she did not know why she was so surprised; Arissa had always possessed a special aura, a grace and beauty beyond the limits of mere mortals.
Still, Emma found herself giddy with the knowledge. The longer she gazed at Arissa, the more excited she became.
"You are going to London to see the king," she said, her mood rising. "Aren't you excited?"
Arissa sucked on a fingernail she had nearly chewed raw. "You heard the contents of the message; the king is dying and wishes to see me. I.... I do not think I should be excited about death."
"I did not mean it that way. Yet, it's as if an entirely new life is about to open up for you. The acknowledgement of your royal blood by your ailing father," she suddenly cocked her head in thought. "Mayhap he will tell you that he’s agreed to a marriage between you and Richmond. Would not that be exciting?"
Arissa nodded, attempting to fold her hands lest she chew them all to bloody nubs. "Certainly, I can hope for the best," she glanced at her satchel, sighing with longing. "Sweet St. Jude, Emma. I miss him so."
Timeless Tales of Honor Page 73
