Arissa and Emma were hovering at the edge of the rig, watching the rapidly approaching army with a good deal of fright. Gavan drove his steed to the edge of the bed, holding out an arm.
“Riss, Emma!” he shouted. “Come to me! Hurry!”
Arissa did not hesitate. She leapt into his arms in a great bundle of burgundy and gray wool, barely seated in front of him before he was extending his arm to Emma. Wedged behind the mighty knight, Emma wrapped her arms about his armored waist and closed her eyes tightly as he spurred his destrier toward the abbey. She had never been so terrified in her entire life.
Richmond glanced at Gavan and the women as they charged past him, too caught up in planning a defense to give them more than a look. Ordering the wagon to follow Gavan, he commanded his men forward to meet the onslaught; in truth, there was no place for them to run, nowhere to hide. With the sheer cliffs of Yorkshire to their backside and surrounded by miles of bleak moors, there was nothing to do but face the attack with their customary courage.
Even as his men moved to greet the assault, he was wildly curious to know who would be launching an attack against him this far north. Surely the Welsh would not stray so far from their borders in a group of this considerable size, and he knew with great certainty that William would not have sent an army to trail him only to launch an attack at the very moment Arissa reached her destination.
Bearing that in mind, he met the wave of incoming soldiers with his habitual boldness, slicing through flesh and bone easily. Dispatching two soldiers immediately, he raised his sword to a third when his gaze fell on the brilliant colors of the man’s tunic.
Green and gold. De Rydal bore colors of green and gold. In that horrified slice of an instant, realization dawned. He knew the identity of the attacking army and panic surged through his veins like nothing he had ever experienced before. God help him, there was little question as to who had planned the attack. His bright blue eyes sought out the face he knew to be looming somewhere within the midst of the battling soldiers.
Aye, he knew who it was. And he had to find him.
He had to kill him.
*
Gavan reached the abbey with the thundering wagon on his heels. The sounds of battle wafted from the moor in the distance and he was desperate to move Arissa and Emma to safety. Pulling the ladies off his snorting charger, he hastened to the massive oak door that protected the abbey from the outside world.
He had barely lifted his fist to knock when the door flew open. Several nuns, wide-eyed with fright, gazed between the massive knight and the fields beyond.
“Sir Knight,” the nun who had opened the door spoke softly, her voice quaking. “What hell has been brought about us?”
Gavan thrust Arissa and Emma forward, ignoring the pleading question. “Take them,” he commanded. “I shall return.”
As Arissa stumbled into the nuns’ protective custody, Emma turned her big blue eyes to the man who had been determined to ignore her for the better part of three weeks. With a bloody battle waging in the near distance, she was in a panic over his safety. She put a hand on his arm.
“Gavan,” she said. “Please…. please be careful. If something hap….”
He cut her off sharply, yet with the distinct gentleness she had seen on occasion where it usually pertained to Arissa. All Emma had ever seen in his eyes when he gazed into her face was annoyance.
“Child’s play, my lady,” he assured her softly. “Trust me that all will be well.”
Swallowing hard at the gallant, confident expression, it was almost as if he was pleased for her concern. As if he welcomed it. She’d grown so accustomed to his rejection that open kindness was a baffling concept to behold.
“But…,” she stammered. “But….”
He shook his head, squeezing her hand reassuringly as he removed it from his arm. “Please excuse me while I banish these ruffians from Whitby’s lands. Have no doubt that the battle shall be brief.”
He turned on his heel and mounted his charger, ordering the wagon out of sight. Unsheathing his brilliant broadsword, he turned his destrier in the direction of the battle and spurred the beast into a gallop.
Arissa, Emma, and a host of nuns watched Gavan make haste toward the skirmish. After several long, dazed moments, gentle hands reached out to grasp the young ladies and pull them into the dimly-lit interior of the abbey. As the ancient door closed, Arissa and Emma found a host of curious faces upon them.
Arissa swallowed hard, dazed and shaken with the turn of events. “I…. I am the Lady Arissa de Lohr. I believe you are expecting me.”
The nuns stared at her a moment before looking to each other in confusion. Arissa and Emma passed uncertain glances and Arissa cleared her throat daintily, preparing to explain.
“I was due to arrive after the first of the year, yet because of unforeseen circumstances I find myself having arrived early,” when the nuns continued to look baffled, Arissa hastened to clarify the still-puzzling situation. “My….my father is the Earl of Berkshire. Surely your mother abbess is aware of my impending arrival?”
“I am.”
A sultry, low voice came from behind the group of nuns. Startled, the women clad in gray parted to reveal an older woman, swathed in a heavy woolen habit from her head to her toes. Shielded in the dank shadows, she moved forward with the grace of a cat and Arissa found herself gazing into piercing, all-knowing eyes. They appraised her openly and Arissa struggled against the urge to shy from the intense stare.
After several moments of scrutiny, the woman drew in a deep breath as if satisfied with her observation. “You do not look like your father. He’s rather fair.”
Swallowing again to regain of measure of composure, Arissa nodded weakly; there was something in the woman’s eyes that suggested she was not speaking of William de Lohr.
“I…. I am told I favor my mother,” she said softly.
The woman did not respond and Arissa could again feel the heat of her gaze. Averting her eyes, she pondered the well-scrubbed stone floor, the bare walls, acutely aware of the smells of soot and must around her; it was an atmosphere she discovered to be most cloying. She found her thoughts drifting to Richmond when a soft, wrinkled hand suddenly reached out to clasp her chin.
The abbess’ eyes were far gentler than they had been moments before. “Look at me, child, do not hide your beauty,” she said quietly. “What is it you have brought to my doorstep? A battle for your very soul, mayhap?”
“I…. I do not know who has attacked us, Your Grace,” Arissa stammered. “We were caught by surprise.”
The abbess gazed at her a moment longer, scrutinizing features so fine she would have sworn that God himself had intended to have her. A young lady she had been expecting for eighteen years, whose heritage and bloodlines were as powerful as England herself. She recognized the features, as they were very similar to another woman she knew.
A woman she had met for the first time eighteen years ago, devastated and crushed by circumstances beyond her control. A woman she had nurtured to a fragile emotional health that, to this day, was still not particularly robust. Gazing into the familiar features of the young woman before her, she hoped the sight of pale green eyes and raven-black hair would be enough to fortify the aching spirit housed within these old walls for the past eighteen years. The ache of a mother’s love.
“I am Mother Abbess Mary Deus,” she said after an eternal pause, dropping her hand from the lovely face. “You are indeed early, as we were not expecting you until the week after Christmas. But your company is welcomed all the same and we will not question God’s wisdom in bringing you to us sooner than intended,” her intense gaze moved from Arissa to Emma, and she fixed her heady stare on the young blond girl. “I am afraid servants are not allowed at Whitby, my lady. She must return to Lambourn.”
“She’s not my servant,” Arissa grabbed hold of Emma, pulling her forward for the abbess’ inspection. “This is the Lady Emma Trevor. She wishes to pledge servitude
to God.”
The abbess cocked an eyebrow, indicating either disbelief or pleasure. “I see,” she replied non-committally. After a moment, the woman turned to the other nuns. “Where is Sister Repentia?”
“In the kitchens, Mother,” came a soft reply.
Mary Deus nodded briefly and Arissa swore she saw the woman’s jaw tick. “Seek her. Inform her that our new pledge has arrived.”
A nun broke off from the crowd, shuffling away on silent feet. When the woman disappeared into the depths of the sanctuary, the abbess refocused her attention on the two frightened young women before her. A weak smile creased her lips.
“You are undoubtedly tired. Follow me and you shall be refreshed.”
Still clutching one another as if permanently joined, Arissa and Emma did as they were told. As they moved down the ancient corridor, each lady found herself torn between great curiosity for her new surroundings and a deep concern for the raging skirmish in the moor.
Beckoned into the bowels of the musty abbey, they found themselves in a soaring gallery, rather small in size, but the ceilings overhead were of magnificent height. There were a few tables, scrubbed and worn, and little else. The entire place reeked of dampness, of age, and of a humble existence.
The mother abbess bade the ladies to sit. “Sister Repentia will be with you shortly,” she said, watching as the young women silently took their seats. “This is where we eat and pray, and sometimes it is used to house weary travelers who seek refuge for the night,” she indicated a slumped bundle against the far wall, hidden in the depths of the shadows. “Alas, that man came to us recovering from a great injury. As we commonly do not accept men into our sanctuary, he was quite weak and we could not refuse him aid.”
Arissa and Emma turned to stare at the swathed figure. “Do you tend a lot of sickness?” Arissa asked softly. “I am aware that some abbeys dedicate themselves to healing, but I did not believe Whitby to be such an establishment.”
“It is not,” Mary Deus replied. “We prefer the isolated life, paying reverence to God and doing penitence for man’s evil nature. In fact, I harbor five recluse nuns within my abbey, women intent on maintaining the purest life possible.”
Arissa nodded in understanding, folding her hands and trying not to appear overly unnerved. Although her body was safely guarded within the confines of the gallery, her mind wandered outside the walls of the abbey, seeking Richmond as he waged battle in the moors beyond. She was horribly worried.
Tears sprang to her eyes and she lowered her head, desperately attempting to fend off the tide of emotions. The mother abbess excused herself without a word, leaving Arissa and Emma alone in the midst of their fear and disorientation.
Alone in a mysterious realm of holy penitence and literal scripture; alone without those they loved for the first time in their young lives.
Alone at Whitby.
*
Mary Deus moved into the lightless depths of the abbey’s kitchen, a large room filled with the sharp smells of smoke. Her intense eyes searched for the familiar figure that inhabited this chamber most of the time, a woman who took delight in preparing God’s bountiful harvest. But the room was vacant and the mother abbess sighed slowly, wondering if the nun who had been sent to inform Sister Repentia of the newly arrived pledge had only succeeded in chasing the woman into hiding.
Her gaze lingered on the room a moment longer, attempting to ascertain where Sister Repentia might have disappeared to. Just as she turned to quit the chamber, a slight figure dressed in yards of gray wool entered the room from the cellar, one arm laden with a basket of autumn fruits and the other holding her skirts so that she would not trip over their length.
“Sister,” the abbess hissed. “You are expected.”
Sister Repentia looked up from her basket as she came into the light. Pale green eyes gazed back at the mother abbess.
“I have been made aware, Mother,” she said softly. “I was preparing refreshments.”
The abbess stared at her a moment. It was obvious by her calm expression that she had not been informed of the arrival’s identity and the older woman sighed again, her manner softening. Unaware of the impending news, Sister Repentia moved to the stone counter and began to prepare the food.
Behind her, the older nun’s hesitant gaze lingered on the woolen-swathed head. There was simply no easy way to soften the blow.
“She’s here.”
Sister Repentia placed an apple into a wooden bowl before turning her confused expression to the mother abbess. “I…. I do not understand. Who is here?”
The abbess moved toward her, slowly. Her manner gentled dramatically. “Arissa, my child. She’s come early.”
Sister Repentia stared at the woman a moment, emotionlessly. After an eternal span of time in which she allowed the abbess’ words to settle, her only reaction was to lick the lips that had suddenly begun to quiver.
“My…. Arissa has arrived from Lambourn?”
The abbess nodded, unwilling to be party to the emotions Sister Repentia was feeling. She would council, assist, and pray with her charges, but she was disinclined to experience the depths of the emotions that so often plagued them. For a woman whose natural sympathies were endless and deep, she had found it painful and exhausting.
Even though she had allowed herself to become far more involved with Sister Repentia than was her usual practice due to the woman’s unusual circumstances, she realized she had to halt the progression at some point in time. With the addition of the dark-haired woman in the gallery, she was aware that the time for separation had come. Truthfully, there was nothing more she could do. Sister Repentia would have to face her daughter alone.
“She’s waiting for her refreshments,” the abbess said quietly, turning for the door and away from the emotional turmoil that threatened to snare her. “You will greet her immediately, sister. Do you understand?”
Sister Repentia stared at the bowl of food before her, nodding after a moment. Even as she repeated the abbess’ words in her mind, over and over as if somehow afraid she had dreamt them, their meaning was still difficult to believe.
With shaking hands and a heart that screamed with joy, she fumbled with the apples before her. Although she had known this moment would eventually be upon her, still, she found herself emotionally unprepared for the reality of it.
Her baby had arrived.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Arissa was glad when the mother abbess left them alone; she had no desire to explain her tears to the old woman, for it would only serve to open the gateway for more explanations that would hardly be pleasant to a woman of the cloth. While Emma sat in brooding, perplexed silence over Gavan’s unexpected display of chivalry, Arissa struggled with a complete unwant to have come to Whitby at all. She hated the place already.
But she was distracted from her ponderings by softly approaching footfalls. A small wooden bowl of apples and bread was placed upon the table and Arissa quickly wiped at her eyes, preparing to thank the provider of the sustenance; even if she did not want to be at the old abbey, she would not be rude.
Lifting her gaze, she found herself staring into eyes of the most amazing nature and the words of gratitude died in her throat.
Pale green eyes stared back.
“My name is Sister Repentia,” the nun’s voice was strangely tight, as faint as baby’s breath. Arissa didn’t even notice the tremble to the woman’s hands. “Welcome to Whitby.”
Arissa forgot all about her tears as she continued to stare at the woman, feeling an odd curiosity. The longer she gazed at the woman, the stronger the feeling became.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
The nun’s response was a forced smile. But Arissa did not particularly notice; she was still staring into the woman’s strangely familiar eyes.
“I hope your journey was uneventful, my lady,” Sister Repentia sounded as if she were breathless. “’Tis a long trip from Lambourn.”
Arissa listened to the w
oman’s soft, beautiful voice. It occurred to her that the nun was vaguely familiar, as if an acquaintance of long past. But try as she might, Arissa could not remember where she had ever met the woman.
“Have…. have we met, sister?” Arissa asked, studying the woman closely as if to recollect what refused to come to mind. “You seem very familiar to me.”
Look in the mirror, my darling Arissa, and see me within your lovely features. The former Lady Ellyn Glendower de Worth gazed into an exact likeness of herself in days past, joy and sorrow such as she had never known threatening to destroy her composure.
Her mind wandered back to those dark days when she had first been separated from her only child. Only the knowledge that someday her beloved daughter would join her at Whitby had provided Sister Repentia the strength to go on during those desolate years. Before she had been smuggled north to the abbey, Henry had made a promise; since it had been necessary to separate mother and child at birth, he had vowed that the two of them would spend the rest of their lives together when Arissa became of age, sequestered in an abbey far from the realities of England’s politics. Even if Sister Repentia had missed the first eighteen years of Arissa’s life, she would spend the rest of her years coming to know the young woman she had birthed. It had been Henry’s vow.
“Sister?” Arissa’s voice was faint, inquisitive. Torn from her thoughts, Sister Repentia struggled to focus on her daughter’s question.
“I apologize, my lady,” she labored to recover a measure of her composure, hoping her voice did not reflect her emotions. “You put forth a question to me?”
Arissa nodded, noting the woman’s cheeks had pinkened slightly in the past few moments. “I asked if we have met before. You appear most familiar.”
Sister Repentia shook her head, slowly. “Nay, my lady, you do not know me.”
Arissa frowned, attempting to sort her memories. The odd, warm emotions that had swarmed her the moment Sister Repentia had introduced herself seemed to be fading and she shrugged. “Then I apologize if I am staring at you,” she said. “I thought we might have been introduced once before and that I knew you.”