She couldn’t seem to shake the uneasy sense of familiarity. As Lady Arissa’s chaperone to the Sodom and Gomorrah that was London, she was supposed to remain focused on the lady. Unfortunately, she seemed to be utterly riveted to the snow-capped hills in the distance.
As the caravan actually crossed into the hilly terrain and the sharp iciness gripped them, Sister Repentia couldn’t help succumb to the growing knowledge that they were nowhere near London. Somehow, they had been directed down another path.
Her increasingly concerned attention moved from the icy landscape to the massive knight riding the lead, wondering if he even realized his error. It was, after all, their ninth day of travel and it was quite possible that the man had been thrown off course somehow, moving into the harsh territory of the borders when he should have been following the path of the Thames.
But even as she sought a reason for their change of direction, she realized her efforts were foolish. Hotspur was acutely aware of the path he had chosen and Sister Repentia’s heart sank as she became cognizant of the fact that, somehow, the plot to remove Arissa from Whitby had nothing to do with Henry. Hotspur was part of something the slender nun was unable to figure out at the moment, but shrewd enough to realize that subtle plots were enveloping them. Plots involving Henry’s daughter.
She would not upset Arissa with her suspicions; at least, not at the moment. Not until she had the opportunity to speak with Henry Percy regarding his reasoning and motives. Motives, she discovered, she was fearful to know. God help her, she had unknowingly escorted her daughter into the gaping jaws of political intrigue and there was absolutely nothing she could do against the fickle tides.
The caravan traveled from harsh, frozen ground to a firm-packed snow, newly placed. Sheer mountains on either side of the road were coated with a fresh white dusting and the wind that screamed off the mountains was harsh and beautiful at the same time. Even as Sister Repentia simmered in a growing horror, Arissa thought the trip to be quite wonderful. Wrapped in her warm woolen cloak, she drew in the magnificence of the scenery with her usual pleasure; she’d never seen anything so brutally lovely.
Arissa was the first one to spy an encampment, eyeing it curiously as the company drew near. Heavy tents of hide, sewn together in a mismatched design, gathered in a large cluster amidst the white packing of snow. The wagon upon which Arissa and Sister Repentia were riding came to a jolting halt and Arissa turned her puzzled expression to the nun.
“This…. this is London?” she asked hesitantly.
Sister Repentia did not reply; her gaze was riveted to Hotspur as he dismounted his charger and made his way back along the column. Arissa continued to stare at the nun, expecting an answer, as the mighty knight drew alongside the wagon.
His dark gaze met with frantic, angry eyes of pale green. “Where have you brought us, my lord?” Sister Repentia asked.
Even as Henry held up his arms for Arissa, he met the nun’s gaze steadily. “To our destination, Sister.”
Sister Repentia grasped Arissa by the arm, firmly pulling her away from Hotspur’s extended hands. “This is not the destination that was indicated to the mother abbess,” her voice was remarkably cold. “Where are we?”
Hotspur was not deterred by the suspicious nun; reaching out, he gently grasped Arissa by the hand and pulled her to her feet, into his arms. Cradled in the massive knight’s embrace, Arissa looked quite puzzled as Hotspur and Sister Repentia glared at each other.
“I believe you already know the answer, ’else you would not have asked,” he answered quietly.
Sister Repentia was pale with fright and anger. She pondered the knight a moment. “Then I would calmly ask what you intend to do with us. If you were going to kill us, why did you not do it on the road? Why bring us to Wales to accomplish this task?”
Arissa, her arms wrapped around Henry Percy’s neck, gasped with shock. “Wales?” she suddenly began to squirm, well remembering the fact that Owen Glendower was intent on capturing her. “You must take me away from here! The Welsh prince has already tried to capture me, and if he finds me…!”
Hotspur met her panicked gaze, tightening his grip against her twisting. “He will not harm you, I vow. He merely wishes for you to be his guest for a short time, nothing more.”
Arissa stopped wrestling, staring at the man as if he had gone completely mad. Her breathing, coming in sharp little pants, sent up puffs of fog into the icy winter air. “His guest? What are you…. but what of my father? Am I not to see him? And where is Richmond? You said he was on the Welsh border!”
Hotspur shook his head, feeling his guilt return in one forceful blow. “I am afraid it was necessary to deceive the abbess so that I would be able to escort you to Wales without a struggle. The tale of your father’s illness was a fabrication, as was the story of Richmond’s whereabouts. Owen Glendower is most anxious to meet with you, my lady, and it was necessary to do all that we could in order to assure your deliverance.”
At the mention of the Welsh prince, Sister Repentia’s pallor washed a sickly gray. Struggling to maintain her composure, she looked to Arissa with a mixture of apology and terror; she simply could not believe that they had been delivered into the hive of the Welsh rebellion, by an English knight, no less.
A sickening horror filled her body, threatening her thoughts, her mind, her functions. She wished it were possible to protest this action, demanding the immediate return to Whitby, but she couldn’t seem to muster the strength. In fact, she was quite close to falling away into a cold stupor as she listened to Arissa express her confusion.
“And that would include lying to a woman of the cloth?” Arissa asked, her fear taking flight. “Moreover, why is Owen Glendower so eager to speak with me? He tried to abduct me from Lambourn and killed my brother in the process. He wants to harm me, I tell you.”
Hotspur was afraid to set her to the ground lest she attempt to escape. “Nay, lady, he has no such desire. I promise that I shall protect you should he make such an attempt,” when her struggles suddenly resumed, he clenched her tightly to prevent her from wriggling free. “I swear on my oath as a knight that no harm shall come to you. Do you understand me?”
She was not listening to him; her sense of terror was sharp as she struggled against his iron grip. “Let me go! I shall not meet him! He wants to…!”
Abruptly she slipped from his grasp and would have tumbled to the cold snow had Hotspur not broke her fall. Clutching her arms tightly, he forced her to meet his eye. “Listen to me, Arissa. I will attend you in your meeting with Owen. He will not be provided with the chance to harm you as long as I am present. Do you understand? For Richmond’s sake, I swear to protect you with my dying breath.”
Her fear-filled eyes stared at him, confusion and terror running a tight race. After a moment, she shook her head in awe. “You have delivered me into his arms.” It was a whispered statement, not a question. “How could you do this, Sir Henry? He’s my father’s enemy. He’s Richmond’s enemy, and yours as well… isn’t he?”
Hotspur’s grip loosened, his guilt increasing. “I realize you do not understand the finer elements of England’s politics, my lady, and I am sorry if you are frightened and puzzled. But the situation is not as desperate as you seem to think; in fact, there is no war going on at the moment. As you can see, the world is quite peaceful and I think you will come to see the reasoning behind the calm if you will only listen to Owen’s explanation. Will you do this?”
Arissa pondered his words a moment, torn between her natural fear and her natural curiosity. Hotspur was a legendary soldier, a man of grace and honor and skill. Richmond and Henry Percy were very good friends, and she knew Richmond thought highly of the man. Therefore, it was reasonable to believe that if he assured her there was no need for her fear, then it would be well to heed his advice.
Slowly, she felt herself calming. His dark eyes seemed to have a comforting effect on her, a man who had been closely allied with Richmond for several years
. If he said he would protect her with his life, then she would believe him.
After an eternal moment, she sighed with great resignation. “As you say,” she whispered. “I do not believe that I will be given any choice in the matter.”
Hotspur cast her a brave smile, releasing his grip to tuck her gloved hand into the fold of his arm as he passed a rapid glance at the pale nun in the wagon. “You will remain here a moment. The lady’s conversation with Owen will be private,” turning to Arissa, he urged her forward. “Come along, my lady. We must get you out of the foul weather that would threaten your health.”
Fresh snow crunched under her sturdy shoes as she passed Hotspur a peculiar expression. “You sound a good deal like Richmond.”
His smile faded. “We think a good deal alike.” Or we used to.
*
Owen was waiting for her. The arrival of the caravan had been announced nearly an hour prior and Owen wait with veiled patience for his young cousin to make an appearance. He was pleased that his scheme to obtain the princess had finally succeeded and he paced the floor nervously, anticipating Hotspur’s arrival.
Seated by the vizier, David watched his cousin grind the aged rushes into the frozen earth. All of the planning, the hoping, the prayer for the sorely-needed advantage to bolster the Welsh resistance was finally within their grasp. They had her.
Hotspur did not keep them waiting. Hearing soft voices outside the tent, Owen and David barely had time to turn for the opening when the English knight suddenly emerged into the stuffy innards of the tent, pulling with him a woman of such refined features that, for a moment, Owen was actually struck speechless.
Arissa’s pale green eyes were wide with apprehension as she gazed to Owen, and then to David. As her gaze lingered on David, an odd look of familiarity crossed her face.
“You…,” she began softly. “I…. I know you, my lord, do I not?”
David gazed back at the features of his sister, unbelieving that he had once been so blind to the similarity. Even though Ellyn had been exceedingly lovely, Arissa was by far more beautiful than her mother had ever been. Even if he hadn’t suspected her parentage from the start, he had realized her heritage from the beginning. She was far too colorful and striking to be a pale English wench.
“Sut mae, my lady,” he greeted softly.
Arissa continued to stare at him, a sickening realization dawning. He was the soldier who had killed Bartholomew. Swallowing her distress and nausea, she averted her gaze from the man. “Da iawn, my lord.” Her voice was a strangled whisper.
David noted the taut expression, realizing she did indeed recognize him. Knowing she had responded to his inquiry of her well-being purely out of courtesy, he was eager to make amends for their brutal first encounter. Yet before he could respond, Owen was set to interrupt.
Placing himself between the magnificent young girl and her uncle, the Welsh rebel’s expression was soft with the overwhelming realization of her presence.
“You speak Welsh?” his voice was gentle, surprised.
Arissa eyed him nervously. “A….a little, my lord,” her gaze found David once more and he was not surprised to note the hatred. “My brother taught me.”
Owen disregarded her fury toward David. “Welcome, Princess Arissa,” he said after a lengthy pause. “I am Owen Glendower. It is a pleasure to finally make your acquaintance.”
In spite of her anxiety, she managed to dip into a practiced curtsy. “My lord,” she greeted, her voice quivering regardless of Hotspur’s reassurances.
Owen heard the quake in her tone, passing a long glance at Henry. “Am I to understand that there were no obstacles to her acquisition?”
Hotspur shook his head. “None. Your plan was executed flawlessly.”
Owen nodded faintly, drawing in a deep breath through his nostrils. “I am pleased,” his gaze once again moved to Arissa. He could scarcely comprehend her blinding beauty. “God’s Blood, she’s exquisite. I had no idea Ellyn’s daughter would be so fair.”
Arissa, staring at the ground, suddenly blinked as the impact of his softly-uttered words settled. Brow furrowed, she raised her head to meet his dark, appraising eyes. “I…. I do not understand your meaning, my lord. Who is Ellyn?”
“Your mother, of course,” Owen replied.
Arissa’s eyes widened, forgetting her fear and apprehension and confusion. All that mattered at the moment was that Owen Glendower knew of her mother, the mysterious woman who had abandoned her at birth.
Gazing into Owen’s stubbled face, she removed the hood of her cloak, her eyes as vast as the sky above. “You know of my mother?” her voice was faint. In spite of the fact that the woman had left her to the mercy of the angels, Arissa simply couldn’t bring herself to hate her. It was not her nature to loathe. “Tell me what you know?”
Owen shrugged, glancing at David. “You would undoubtedly know more. I have not seen Ellyn in twenty years.”
Arissa shook her head faintly. “I know nothing about her, my lord. I have never met her.”
Owen’s eyebrows drew together. “Was she not at Whitby?”
“There was no Ellyn at Whitby.”
“She doesn’t use her birth name any longer,” he turned to David. “What was the name she assumed when she took her vows? Rachel? Re..Re….”
“Repentia,” David supplied. “Sister Repentia.”
Arissa suddenly found herself on the ground, her bum stinging with sharp impact as her flesh met with the cold earth. Her head was swimming, her ears ringing, and she could scarcely draw a breath. Strong hands were reaching down to aid her, but she brushed them off, eventually swatting them away. Crawling, rolling, moving away from them, she somehow made her way to the edge of the tent, leaning against a pole for support. Shock did not fully encompass what she was experiencing.
She had no idea what she was feeling. All she knew was that she was feeling more astonishment and anguish than she ever thought possible. The knowledge that demure, kindly Sister Repentia was the woman who had given her life was far more than her young mind could comprehend at the moment.
Hotspur watched her with concern; it was obvious that the lady had been unaware of her mother’s identity and he cast Owen a long, critical glance.
“Sister Repentia accompanied us from Whitby,” he said softly. “I ordered her to stay to the wagon.”
David suddenly rose from his chair. “My sister is here?” he rasped. “Ellyn is in Wales? Why…. how..?”
“As a chaperone,” Hotspur answered softly, refocusing on Arissa’s bowed, quivering head. “The mother abbess would not allow me to take Arissa without a chaperone.”
David’s pale face stared at the tent flap as if to see his sister in the camp beyond, clad in the nun’s habit secured with a simple coarse rope, tied with four knots to remind the holy woman of the four vows she had taken upon entering the cloister. A woman he hadn’t seen since his twelfth birthday, when last he had been witness to a terrible disagreement between his only sister and their parents.
Horrible words, nasty rumors. A disagreement that had caused her to leave Wales for the bustle of London, to fend for herself however she was able.
An argument that David had not been a part of, but he had been old enough to know that their parents had accused his sister unjustly and he found himself more than willing to apologize for her anguish. If Ellyn was truly in their midst, then he would not permit her to leave without allowing him to make amends for the sins of their parents.
Without another word, David quit the tent. Owen let him go, still focused on Arissa. He felt rather guilty that he had not realized her ignorance of Ellyn’s identity and knelt beside her quaking body, wondering how he could possibly make reparation for his lack of tact.
“I apologize for your surprise, my lady,” he said softly. “Had I known that you were unaware of your mother’s identity, I would not have been so callous. Forgive me.”
Arissa did not reply, completely shaken and bordering on mad
ness. From the very moment she had gazed into Sister Repentia’s eyes, there had been something uncannily familiar about the woman. A puzzled inquiry of familiarity that had been politely refuted. Suddenly, she felt foolish and sickened; if Sister Repentia had wanted her to know, then she would have told her immediately. She would not have allowed weeks to pass with nary a word of recognition. Instead, the link had gone ignored. Just as the woman had ignored her since birth.
In spite of the fact that she could not bring herself to hate the woman, it did not prevent her from experiencing a barrage of violent emotions. Resentment, anger, the agony of the unknown… Arissa felt the emotions building within her chest, swirling into a hurricane of torrential feelings. She simply couldn’t believe that the woman had been intent on making a fool out of her.
“My lady,” Owen broke into her turbulent thoughts. “Might I help you to rise? Come and sit by the vizier.”
“Leave her be, Owen,” Hotspur’s voice was tight as he interrupted. “Allow her to recover her shock alone.”
Owen rose to unsteady feet, raking his fingers through his dark hair. “Had I been aware that she was ignorant of Ellyn’s identity, I certainly would not have….”
“Why did not you tell me Arissa was your cousin?” Hotspur cut him off, his dark eyes stormy. “If you have been intent to betray me from the beginning, I shall….”
Owen shook his head sharply. “It has never been my intention to betray you, Henry. I simply thought it best not to mention that the lady’s mother is David’s older sister.”
Hotspur’s jaw ticked unhappily, turning once more to linger on Arissa’s lowered head. “Not only is she Henry’s bastard, but she’s your cousin as well?” he shook his head, pondering the enormity of Arissa’s station in life. “God’s Blood, Owen, she links the Welsh rebellion with the crown of England. Do not you understand she could be the true instrument of peace?”