“All too well. And I intend to utilize that instrument.”
“Aye – with threats and warnings. Not with understanding and good faith.”
Owen cocked an eyebrow. “Just as Henry has shown good faith in your ability?” when Hotspur looked away, Owen drew in a deep breath and returned his attention to his niece. “Have no fear, my friend. Arissa shall be my guest until Richmond and Henry come to terms with the new order of England and Wales. Her presence will work to our advantage, I promise you.”
Hotspur’s gaze lingered on Arissa a moment longer, an ugly mottle shading his cheeks. The situation was deepening by the moment and he was not at all sure that allying himself with Owen Glendower had been a wise decision. But it was done, and he was forced to make the best of it. He had come too far to turn back.
Moving for the tent flap, he jabbed a gloved finger at Owen. “Do not touch her. And allow her time to recover before you inform her of the reasons for her imprisonment,” his jaw ticked a moment as he gazed between the Welsh prince and the young girl on the floor. “I shall return for her, have no doubt.”
Alone with his cousin, Owen reflected on the events that had led to this point in time. Lives lost, wasted efforts exhausted. He mused that the emotional toll had been far greater than the physical. As he gazed at the young lady’s dark head, it would stand to reason that the emotional destruction was about to rise.
Higher, yet.
*
Arissa lost track of time as she huddled in Owen’s tent, oblivious to all else but her disorderly thoughts. She still was not completely rational when Hotspur removed her from the shelter and took her to a small, warm tent lined with an abundance of furs. She had allowed him to carry her across the snowy compound, thinking his powerful embrace to feel a good deal like Richmond’s and wishing that it was.
Henry managed to settle her nicely in the musty, warm tent, muttering something about returning with a bit of food. But Arissa had ignored him for the most part, still shaken with the news of Sister Repentia’s identity. Although she did not blame Hotspur for her emotional state, he felt extremely guilty nonetheless and quit the tent without another word. Knowing that whether or not he and Richmond met on the field of battle as a result of their political differences, surely they would do battle somewhere, somehow, for his transgressions against Arissa. He was sure of it.
Even as Hotspur wrestled with his guilt, Arissa forgot him the moment he left the tent. In faith, it had not been difficult to understand the truth behind her royal heritage; Richmond had taken the time to explain the facts, maintaining a calm and tender atmosphere, and although she had been astonished with the concept, she hadn’t felt near the devastation or confusion that she was experiencing now.
After an eternity of sitting atop a pile of warm furs, attempting to calm herself, she shifted a little and removed her hood, taking the time to note her surroundings for the first time. She’d barely begun her observations when her vision came to rest on an identical pair of pale green eyes, gazing at her from the opposite side of the tent with the utmost apprehension.
Sister Repentia sat huddled in the corner, obscured by a pile of furs and the dim shadows. She stared at her daughter, and Arissa met her gaze with the same shocked expression.
Truthfully, she did not know how to react. It was obvious by the countenance on Sister Repentia’s face that she was aware that Arissa had been told her identity. Arissa did not know how the woman knew, but she did. And the longer she gazed into the familiar pale green eyes, the more unnatural fury gripped her.
“How could you do this to me?” she suddenly hissed.
Sister Repentia swallowed. “It…. it was never my intention to keep the truth from you, Arissa. But the timing never seemed to be correct for my confession. I had hoped that we would come to know one another better and….”
“You made a fool of me!” Arissa exploded, leaping to her feet. She tore at the cloak, ripping it free and tossing it to the frozen ground as she faced her mother with a degree of resentment never before witnessed. “You let me go on thinking that you were my friend when, in fact, you were my… my mother! Sweet St. Jude, did you have a laugh at my expense when you retired at night, thinking of the silly young girl who was living her daily existence in complete ignorance of your identity?”
Sister Repentia shook her head, her breathing coming in harsh gasps. The reaction Arissa was experiencing had been her greatest fear; no understanding, no compassion, no love. Only hatred and fury. Only rejection.
When her brother had come to her as she wait in the wagon, she had not been overly surprised to see him. The reunion had been brief and comforting as he apologized for their parents actions those years ago that had driven a very young girl into the heart of London, desperate to escape the parental hatred.
Through the sometimes-awkward conversation and timid peace, she did not elaborate to David regarding her life in London and was quite surprised when he mentioned his knowledge of Arissa’s parentage. Although he did not mention the reason behind Arissa’s visit to Wales, she suspected correctly that it had something to do with the Welsh’s resistance against Henry and actually began to fear for her daughter’s life. Somewhat humiliated that her brother had discovered her liaison with the English king, she further wondered if the Welsh rebels were intent on harming her, too.
But her fear for Arissa’s safety and her own well-being quickly turned to horror of another sort when she became aware that Owen, a cousin she hadn’t seen in some time, had taken it upon himself to inform Arissa of her mother’s identity. Gazing into her daughter’s face, she realized it was a horror well justified.
“You must believe me, Arissa. I never intended to deceive you,” her voice was pleading. “But the time was never right for me to tell you of our relationship. Can’t you understand?”
“Then when would it be right? Now? In five years, ten years? Never? But, of course, you never wanted me in the first place so why would you even think to tell me of your true identity? Mayhap you did not want me to know the mother who had willingly given up her child in the face of such overwhelming shame.”
Sister Repentia rose, unsteadily. Her pale green eyes were wide with gut-wrenching sorrow as she listened to her daughter rave. Slowly, she pulled away the protective wimple that had perpetually concealed her head from the corrupt world of sin. Black, silky hair, mussed and untamed, spilled well past her shoulders.
“Is that what you have been led to believe? That I never wanted you?” she shook her head, her action laced with remorse. “My God, Arissa, I loved you more than life itself. But it was necessary to place you in protective custody, away from those who would do you harm. Being the king’s bastard entitled you to more than your share of enemies, but being borne from a woman married to a man not your father entitled you to the hatred of a shamed husband as well.”
Arissa stared at the woman, her anguish maintaining a constant level as she observed Sister Repentia’s complete features for the first time; she’d never seen the woman without her wimple to cover thick lengths of glorious black hair. Richmond had been correct when he told her that she favored her mother; they were identical.
But as she gazed at her mother, the woman’s words took hold and Arissa found herself contemplating the meaning, the edge of her furor reduced by her uncertainty. “But…. if I was the king’s child, then why couldn’t he protect me? Why was it necessary to send me away?”
“Henry was not the king at that time – Richard was,” Sister Repentia said softly. “Furthermore, Henry was married to Mary Bohun. It was unfortunate for us that we happened to fall in love, resulting in your birth. And it was imperative that we did what was necessary to assure you a full, unhindered life. We had to remove you from the bowels of political intrigue and hatred.”
Arissa’s uncertainty was gaining hold. But her resentment was still a powerful force. “You loved Henry?”
Sister Repentia smiled tremulously in remembrance. “As you love Richmond.�
��
An entirely new light was cast onto Arissa’s arena. If the woman had loved Henry as much as she loved Richmond, then it had been a powerful love indeed. A love strong enough to warrant sacrifice for the safety and happiness of another.
She continued to gaze at her mother, the pain of abandonment and separation in her eyes. “And you loved me?” She found she needed to know.
Sister Repentia’s eyes filled with tears, her smiled fading. “Enough to sacrifice my life for you,” she whispered, allowing her tears to fall as her naked pain became evident. “You see, my husband had vowed vengeance upon both of us. The only solution was to send you away to assume a secret identity, shielded from the rage of a dishonored husband. And my only alternative was to commit myself to the one place my husband could not harm me.”
“An abbey?” Arissa echoed.
Sister Repentia nodded, wiping at her damp cheeks. “Henry was already married and there was no possibility that we could ever be together. Whitby became my refuge, my strength, my rock of faith until such time as you came to join me. Although you and I were separated at birth, Henry had promised me that you would join me in the cloister when you became of age. I lived on that promise.”
Arissa lowered her gaze, feeling her mother’s pain as it mingled with her own. The woman had waited for the day when Arissa would join her, but Arissa had ignored the reverence of the abbey by declaring her love for a man, a man who would rescue her from the sheltered existence of Whitby. Unknowingly, she had completely disregarded her mother’s joy.
If only she had known. She found she simply could not maintain her fury any longer. There was no longer the need.
After a moment, she shook her head, returning her attention to the black-haired woman. “No wonder you never told me of your identity. With my anticipation for Richmond’s return expressed on a daily basis, I can understand your reluctance.”
Sister Repentia sighed heavily, relieved that Arissa was calming and coming to understand the sacrifice, the pain, the daily anguish that had constituted her life for the past eighteen years. But even if they were coming to understand one another, they had barely scratched the surface of the entire circumstance.
“It doesn’t matter now,” she said softly, moving toward the vizier, studying her daughter in the weak light. A faint smile appeared once again. “All that is of import is the fact that you now know the truth. And I must tell you all that is within my heart, if you would be willing to hear me.”
Arissa nodded faintly, coming to realize why the woman’s features had struck a chord deep within her on the first day they had met. She knew her. “I want to hear everything,” she whispered. “Please.”
Sister Repentia touched her face, feeling the silky skin. The last time she had touched the same cheek, her daughter had been an infant and the beauty resulting from that tiny babe was beyond her comprehension. “You are so utterly beautiful, Arissa. I can scarcely believe God has blessed me with such a magnificent child.”
Arissa smiled, her lips quivering. Her fury was vanished, replaced by a desperate need for understanding and a hunger for knowledge.
“I love you, Mother,” she blurted, her defenses dissolved and the contents of her heart pouring forth. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she took her mother’s hand. “I have always loved you. I loved you even when I believed you did not want me.”
Sister Repentia joined her in her tears. She had waited eighteen years to hear those very words and she could hardly believe the sweetness they evoked. Kissing the young hands, she wiped at her daughter’s tears even as she ignored her own.
“And I love you, my darling Arissa. I always have.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Mayhap it was because his fortieth birthday was approaching in a matter of days and he was growing more decrepit by the moment. Or mayhap it was because he hated the Welsh and their damnable snow. For whatever the case, Richmond found that his joints were achier than usual as he crossed the border into the midst of a harsh Welsh winter.
Having left Gavan at the border camp just outside of Minsterley, it had been a difficult decision to travel alone into the heart of the Welsh rebellion. Upon receiving information from Henry’s border commanders regarding Hotspur’s whereabouts, he and Gavan had concurred that it would be wise if Richmond descended into the midst of the insurrection alone, a single man as opposed to a threatening collection of knights.
The majority of the crown’s army based on the Welsh border had not seen Hotspur in over two weeks, when he had paused in camp long enough to comment on his “negotiations” with the Welsh Prince and to retrieve about two hundred of his personal troops. It was the universal consensus that he was planning to rebel against the king, a rumor that was becoming more of a reality by the moment.
Having spent nearly three weeks collecting intelligence against Hotspur to better understand the man’s moves and motives, Richmond had been forced to agree with the overall assessment of the situation. His heart sank to realize that most likely he would be forced to destroy Hotspur, a task he looked forward to with the utmost reluctance. But he had made Henry a promise; if he was unable to maintain Hotspur’s alliance, then he would obliterate the man.
Riding in layers of wool and his armor, steel protection that took on the characteristics of a block of ice, he directed his sturdy destrier in the direction of the Welsh encampment based on the instructions given him by the English spies. As he finally came upon the encampment, complete with a large bonfire struggling fiercely to ward off the bold Welsh winter, he was met by a patrol about a quarter of a mile out. Six men armed with crossbows and broadswords, and Richmond immediately held up his hands to indicate he was not a threat.
“I have come seeking Hotspur,” he announced loudly. “My intentions are peaceful.”
The man in the lead rode alongside, sizing him from top to bottom. “Are you one of his men?”
Richmond nodded without hesitation. “My name is Richmond le Bec. Announce my arrival.”
Since the war between the English and the Welsh had cooled over the past few months, hostilities were not as high as was usual and the Welsh patrol was not particularly reluctant to admit the seasoned knight entrance to their stronghold. But not without a standard measure of security.
“Hand over your sword,” the Welsh soldier commanded.
Richmond unsheathed his broadsword immediately, delivering the heavy weapon hilt-end first. As the patrol encompassed him in a protective circle, the group spurred their horses toward the distant camp.
The atmosphere was heavy with smoke as Richmond reined his charger into the belly of the encampment, noting the heavily-clad soldiers as they patrolled the cluster of tents under the threat of a fierce snow. A host of dark eyes returned his impassive gaze as he halted his steed in the indicated area, dismounting into nearly a foot of slushy snow.
Two of the soldiers from the patrol took the lead, directing him to follow. Richmond passed a group of heavily-bundled women, whores who serviced the soldiers, and was the recipient of several suggestive leers. Ignoring the trollops, he made his way through the deep snow and into a collection of larger tents.
The soldiers led him to a lean-to shelter, constructed from oiled tarp and well-tanned hides. While one man slipped inside, Richmond waited with the other soldier under the canopy of thick gray clouds. As the rumble of soft voices emanated from inside the tent, a light dusting of snow began to fall.
Hotspur’s appearance was almost immediate. Eyes wide at Richmond, he stepped out into the snow to greet his friend.
“God’s Blood, Richmond!” he said in disbelief. “Why did not you send me word of your arrival? I could have met you on the border, man!”
Richmond shook the extended hand, his heart warming at the sight of his friend. But in the same breath, his sense of despair deepened as he greeted the man he would soon be forced to kill.
“It has been a long time, Henry,” he said softly, feeling the warmth and camaraderie between the
m in spite of the unnerving circumstances. “I apologize for not sending word ahead. In fact, I couldn’t be sure that you were even here.”
Hotspur’s smile faded somewhat. Dismissing the two soldiers with a few whispered words, he led Richmond into his tent. The interior of the shelter was warm, lit by a brightly burning vizier reeking of dung. Feeling the heat like a slap in the face, Richmond removed his helm and tossed it to the floor, already sweating. Henry grinned, handing him a goblet of wine that was eagerly accepted.
Richmond took a long drink, grimacing with the aftertaste. “Welsh wine,” he muttered. “I never could develop a taste for it.”
Henry snorted softly, quaffing from his own tin goblet. “When it is the only drink supplied, you learn to live with it,” he drank again, refilling the chalice Richmond had already managed to drain. As Richmond put the cup to his lips, Hotspur eyed him carefully. “Care to tell me why you are here? ’Tis a long way from London.”
Richmond drained his cup, already feeling the warmth fill his veins. All of his armor from the waist up fell to the floor in pieces, along with a heavy woolen tunic. Clad in his lower body protection and a relatively thin linen tunic, his poured himself a third cup of wine.
“You know why I am here,” he said quietly, pondering the dark contents of his goblet. “Truthfully, Henry, do you take me for a fool? At the king’s bequest, I ride to the border to assess the progression of the Welsh rebellion and upon arrival I am told that you have not been seen in weeks. It is assumed that you have turned against your king and have taken up camp within the Welsh resistance,” he took a long drink, eyeing Northumberland’s heir. “Would you refute these rumors?”
Hotspur stared at his friend through the dimly-lit interior of his tent. He could scarcely believe the man was before him, living and breathing. He fully expected him to be stationed in London, by Henry’s side, as a missive arrived from the Welsh border announcing a precious hostage.