Mary Deus turned her attention southward, listening. “I do not hear the sounds of battle. I suspect Sir Richmond’s men have triumphed,” waving a hand at the gaggle of nuns, she focused on the two knights and two ladies in the near distance. “Inside, sisters. Go about your chores.”
No one dared to argue with the woman who had managed Whitby for nearly twenty years. Only Sister Repentia remained, her pale green eyes continuing to observe the tender display. Remembering a love gone by, eighteen years past, she felt a fresh stab of anguish to an old wound as she pondered vague memories of a young man with fair hair, secretly devoted to her.
Not entirely unaware of the tender memories lurking in Sister Repentia’s heart, and knowing the woman’s history as she did, the abbess decided to call a halt to the compassionate spectacle before her. The sooner the lady and her protector were separated, the better for them all. The task, she suspected, would be difficult enough as it was.
“Sir Richmond,” the mother abbess addressed him calmly, interrupting their huddle. “I am Mother Abbess Mary Deus. I thank you for escorting the lady from Lambourn and defending her from those who sought to do her great harm,” she passed a lingering glance at the still form of Tad de Rydal, resisting the urge to shudder with horror. “When he came to us yesterday, he was weak with his wound and requested assistance. We had no choice but to offer him refuge.”
Richmond raised his head from where it had been buried against Arissa, his face pallid. “I understand, Your Grace. Certainly you are not to blame for the man’s twisted sense of vengeance against the lady and me,” his gaze lingered on the silky black head, resting against his shoulder. “And as for your mention of my accompanying the lady north, you will know that I am her protector. It was not only my pleasure, but my duty. You are undoubtedly aware that she’s been delivered sooner than expected.”
The old nun nodded. “I take it that circumstances dictated such actions and I will not question your reasoning. Suffice it to say that she’s welcome.”
Arissa raised her head from the safe haven of Richmond’s neck, swollen-eyed and puffy-lipped as she met his ashen expression. With a feeble smile purely for her benefit, Richmond set her gently to the ground.
“She’s cut her lip,” he murmured. “I would tend her wound, if I may, before going on my way.”
The abbess gazed at Arissa a moment before extending her hand to the young lady. Dazed and uncertain, though not lacking in proper manners, Arissa obeyed the request and reluctantly moved from Richmond’s company. As the abbess’ warm hand closed over Arissa’s arm, the woman discreetly motioned Sister Repentia forward to take charge of the girl.
Richmond realized what was happening without benefit of an explanation; from the moment they set foot on Whitby’s lands, Arissa was considered their property and even now, she was considered the abbess’ charge. Without fanfare or ceremony, Arissa ceased to become his sworn duty and assumed her role as a holy pledge. He was no longer her protector.
“Sister Repentia is quite capable of tending her lip, my lord,” the abbess said, not unkindly. “You have completed your duty admirably and are to be commended. But she’s our responsibility from this day forward.”
Richmond opened his mouth to politely argue the point, desperate to see to Arissa’s needs himself. But his gaze fell on the slight nun approaching Arissa and his protest died in his throat. Although Sister Repentia was properly covered in layers of gray wool, all flesh obscured but her delicate face, the familiarity of the woman’s features pummeled him like a hammer blow and he heard his breath catch in his throat.
Greetings, Sir Richmond. There was no mistaking the pale green eyes that silently acknowledged him and Richmond felt as if he had been slapped in the face. But in the same instant, a great deal suddenly became clear to him; Henry had delegated Arissa to Whitby because it was the same abbey to which her mother had been pledged.
He continued to gaze at the woman, dumbfounded, but the nun quickly averted her eyes and he was not so dazed that he did not receive the silent message of her guarded countenance; Arissa had no knowledge of the woman’s true identity and he would not betray the fact, no matter how surprised he was. But, God help him, he simply couldn’t believe what he was seeing. Arissa’s mother was at Whitby.
Arissa was unaware of Richmond’s struggle to recover his senses and more concerned with the fact that they were separating her from Richmond. With panic in her eyes, she looked to Richmond for help, realizing that Sister Repentia was putting more and more distance between them. She wasn’t ready to leave him, not in the least.
“But…. but I have not yet said my farewell!” she said, digging her heels in. “Can…. can he not stay for sup?”
Richmond realized that he was the only person who possessed a remote chance of calming her before she built into a substantial fit. Turning to the abbess, he struggled to maintain an even tone.
“Might I have a word with her, alone, to explain the situation?” he asked.
“I do not believe that to be necessary,” the abbess replied steadily. “The lady realizes that she’s now our responsibility and you are free to go along your way. She’s in safe hands now.”
Arissa could scarcely believe what she was hearing. They were not going to allow her to say good-bye to Richmond! Knowing that she should obey the abbess’ directive by showing proper submission to the will of the church, she simply couldn’t help the panic and disbelief that surged through her heart.
When Richmond turned his helpless gaze upon her, something deep within her snapped. Pulling roughly from Sister Repentia’s gentle grasp, she threw herself forward with the intention of propelling herself into Richmond’s arms. However, the mother abbess reached out to stop her momentum, grasping hold of the emotional young girl in an attempt to contain her. With a shriek, Arissa tore herself from the old woman’s hands and stumbled aimlessly in the direction of the wagon.
She could hear Richmond’s soft pleas intermingled with the sultry voice of the mother abbess. Arissa continued to stagger toward the wagon, having no idea where she was going or what she was intending to accomplish, only that she couldn’t let him go without a word, a touch, a final gesture. She had to feel him, to taste him, one last time.
The events of the day were weighing heavily on her fragile mind, creating a wild spin from which there seemed to be no escape. She bumped into the wagon and her forward movement came to a halt; turning toward the bed of the rig, her eyes came to rest on her oaken trunk.
As she stared at the box, she began to calm. Inside, she had packed several possessions of a personal and sentimental nature, items Emma had managed to leave intact when she stowed away in the case.
Taking a deep breath to ease her tumultuous emotions, Arissa realized that the likelihood of being able to physically display her affection for Richmond in front of the mother abbess an impossibility at best. In lieu of a kiss to remember or a touch to linger upon, she realized that a tangible token of her adoration might work a similar effect.
Arissa leapt into the bed of the wagon, struggling to unlatch the heavy oak lid of the case. Releasing the locks, she propped the lid open and began to rummage through her belongings, new and old, searching. Several feet away, Richmond and the mother abbess had come to an uneasy agreement and Richmond approached the rig, eyeing Arissa with a good deal of concern and curiosity.
“What are you looking for, kitten?” he asked softly. “You know that you cannot bring any of your possessions with you.”
She continued to rummage about, finally coming upon the object of her search. Richmond watched as she drew forth the rosary he had given her. She smiled weakly at him, stringing it over her neck for safe keeping. He returned her smile and extended his hand to assist her from the wagon, but she ignored him and delved into the trunk once more.
His smile faded. “What are you looking for now?”
“I know I put it in here….” she mumbled, tossing her expensive new garments onto the bags and crate
s of provisions in Richmond’s wagon. “I put it….ah! I found it!”
He watched curiously as she drew forth a small, elegant box of ivory. Exquisite carvings graced the sides of the rectangular case and he continued to observe as she raised the lid, peering inside. A bit of color reappeared in her cheeks as she cautiously fumbled with the contents of the box until she came to the item she apparently sought. Drawing forth a small envelope of green silk, she replaced the ivory box in her trunk.
“What is that?” Richmond asked softly, noting the care with which she held the tiny parcel.
On her knees, Arissa moved to the edge of the wagon to where Richmond stood. His bright blue eyes were filled with a thousand emotions, all of them piercing her heart until she could scarcely breath. She struggled against the natural instinct to collapse into his powerful, comforting arms. To have him so close yet forbidden the luxury of a simple touch was torture. The hands that clutched the package began to quiver as she began to unwrap it.
“I do not press all of the flowers I collect into pomades,” she said softly, her voice quaking. “Sometimes I simply press them flat between pieces of wood. Once dried, they are preserved in a lovely state to enjoy forever.”
Richmond watched as she unfolded the green fabric, revealing a flattened, perfectly preserved collection of tiny blue flowers. He stared at the dehydrated bouquet a long moment, the name of the delicate blooms suddenly coming to mind and he raised his eyes, his gaze softer and more emotional that Arissa had ever seen it.
“Forget-me-nots,” he whispered.
She nodded, her eyes bright with unshed tears. “I want you to keep them. So you will forget me not.”
He swallowed hard, blinking away the sting of his own tears. Without hesitation, he carefully accepted the small parcel from her outstretched palm, groaning softly when their flesh inadvertently touched. Under the guise of presenting him with a gift, Arissa greedily caressed his fingers as he slowly, lingeringly, claimed her tribute.
He was loathed to pull his hand away from her gentle fingers, but he could not allow their covert contact to continue lest the abbess become suspicious. Already, she was uncomfortable with the proximity of their conversation, as it had been a struggle to persuade the woman that he would do naught but calm Arissa with a few brief words.
He had been forbidden to touch her in any manner and although Richmond had been prepared for the fact that Arissa would officially cease to become his charge the moment he delivered her to the abbey, it was still difficult for him to accept the fact that he was no longer able to do with her as he pleased.
You are forbidden to touch her, sir knight. She’s no longer your concern.
Technically, the abbess was correct. But his heart still ached with the reality of it.
Taking a deep breath, he forced a smile and refolded the green silk about the flowers. He was well aware that it would be far less painful for them both if he were to put on a brave front, showing her that he was confident in his ability to return for her as quickly as possible. He had to show courage, for Arissa’s sake.
“I shall keep your gift next to my heart, always,” he said evenly. Noting the faint smile on her lips, he gave her a saucy wink to reinforce his light tone. “I shall return as soon as I can, kitten. Until then, you must decide what you would name our fortress. I am depending on you.”
She nodded eagerly, swallowing the torrents of miserable tears that threatened. He was determined to be brave; so was she. “I shall make my decision, have no fear. And I shall watch the road for your return, every day.”
He chuckled softly, struggling to maintain the positive atmosphere. “I shall hurry, then. I would hate for you to become bored waiting for my reappearance.”
Her smile faded, looking at him with such longing that he was forced to step away from her or risk breaking down completely. “I will not become bored. But I will miss you more dreadfully with each passing moment. Already my heart aches for you, Richmond.”
His own smile died, feeling her pain as it mingled with his own consuming anguish. “As does mine for you, kitten,” he whispered. “Be brave, my love. We shall be together soon, I vow.”
She was making a valiant attempt to maintain her courage but he could see that her strength would not hold out indefinitely. The sooner he made a quick break, the stronger they would both be.
With a final, weak smile as if to prove to her that he believed his own words, he turned away and motioned for Gavan to release Emma to the custody of the nuns. Before he could move away completely, however, Arissa’s delicate voice came wafting to him upon the damp sea breeze.
“I love you, Richmond. For all time, I will love you.”
He turned to her, slowly, his eyes screaming with emotion. “And I love you, Lady Arissa,” his voice was hoarse. “In this life and beyond.”
Without another word, he mounted his charcoal gray charger. Arissa watched as he and Gavan galloped down the rocky road, toward the column of men that had collected since the disbanded skirmish. A company of soldiers that would have virtually no time to recover before their liege was marching them to London.
Arissa continued to watch the two armored figures until they disappeared from sight. Even then, she could scarcely believe he had gone. Trying desperately to bite back the tears, she was simply not strong enough to stop the heart-wrenching sobs.
Richmond’s wagon driver attempted to help her from the wagon so that he might join the rest of the column, but she refused to leave. Sobbing and gasping, she ignored his requests, his offers of aid, simply for the fact that she irrationally hoped he would give up his efforts and drive away with her lying amongst the wheat sacks and take her back to Richmond.
She was vaguely aware of Emma’s comforting voice, of the mother abbess’ throaty tone, but little else. The only matter of import was the fact that Richmond had left her. Even when gentle hands forcibly removed her from the flat bed, she was barely aware of their efforts.
Richmond was gone, and he had taken her soul with him.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Henry Percy was becoming quite familiar with Owen Glendower’s hospitality. Even though it was the dead of winter and there was scarce food to be found, Owen always provided the very best that he had which, at the moment, included dried autumn fruits and wedges of tart cheese.
But Hotspur was not interested in the Welsh menu. Having ridden over miles of snow and ice, he was interested in the topic of the proposed meeting. Owen had indicated that he had the key to Henry’s control; being a naturally curious man with a dwindling loyalty for the English king, Hotspur was interested in Owen’s information. Through the year of fighting that had occurred between them in the battle for Wales, Owen had always shown his penchant for honesty. A characteristic, at the moment, Henry trusted more than his own king’s.
Even now, Owen and his cousin David sat across from Hotspur, making a weak attempt at small talk and meaningless chatter. On his second goblet of smuggled French wine, Henry moved to the heart of the summons.
“You have not brought me here to speak of the intricacies of Byzantium glass,” he said quietly. “What is it you would say, Owen?”
Owen’s pleasant expression held firm as he studied the mighty warrior before him; tall and dark, he was Northumberland’s heir. As King of the North, Owen knew he would have a powerful ally in the son of the Earl of Northumberland if he were able to convince the man to side with him in his resistance against Henry.
By Hotspur’s body language, Owen was able to deduce that the man’s patience was thinly held. Setting his emptied pewter chalice to the table before him, he drew in a deep breath as he collected his thoughts.
“I will move to the point, then,” he said, fixing Hotspur with a piercing stare. “You are bordering on mutiny, my lord. Even though you have not indicated as much, rumors to the effect have been rampant for months now and the fact that the war on the border has all but stagnated is a good indication of your indecision.”
H
otspur’s gaze held even. Without waiting for the reply that he knew would not be forthcoming, Owen continued. “I have received reliable information that Henry’s bastard daughter, a young lady he’s shown particular interest in, has recently been sequestered at Whitby Abbey in Yorkshire. If we can obtain the girl, I believe Henry can be controlled.”
Henry stared at him a moment before raising a droll eyebrow. “Is that why you called me here? To inform me that we can control Henry if we are to hold his bastard daughter hostage? Honestly, Owen, I forbid you to waste my time with such nonsense.”
Owen shook his head. “I have simplified the matter a great deal, but it is far more complex than that,” he suddenly paused, a dull gleam coming to the black eyes. After a moment, he lazily reached for the half-empty bottle of wine. “What if I tell you we can undeniably defeat Henry if we hold the girl?”
“I would say you were mad.”
Owen smiled faintly, watching the garnet liquid as it spilled into his chalice. “Tell me, my lord; if you rebel against Henry, who will lead his armies against you and against me?”
Hotspur drew in a long, vague breath. “Richmond le Bec, I suppose. He’s second only to me in the chain of command; but you know that already, do you not?”
“Would you fight Richmond?”
Henry’s irritation with the conversation faded. After a long moment, he looked to his hands. “The man is like a brother to me.”
“But would you fight him?”
Hotspur pondered his gloved hands a moment longer. “’Twould not be a pleasant task, but one that I would engage in if necessary.”
Owen studied the man’s expression, seeing the pain at the thought of waging battle against le Bec. He quaffed deeply from his chalice. “Tell me this, if you will; if Richmond le Bec were not leading Henry’s armies, what chance would the monarch have against your forces and mine?”
Hotspur snorted softly. “Very little, I should think,” sighing sharply, he met Owen’s gaze again in a return of weak annoyance. “What is this about, Glendower?”