Great Protector (49 page)

"She
died for me," he sobbed.

Arissa's
tears fell onto his light brown hair. "She died for you both. There is no
sorrow in a noble sacrifice, Gavan. Only gratitude and love. You must remember
that."

The
dark December sky crowded with gray-puff clouds, threatening rain as three
grieving mortals huddled beneath it. But God did not choose to add to the
sorrow that cloaked the muddy field; a brisk sea breeze gently whisked the
clouds away, leaving the night a brilliant, beautiful thing indeed.

CHAPTER
SIXTEEN

Whitby
Abbey was nestled upon the sheer cliffs of the Yorkshire coast, a looming gray sentinel
above the churning waters. A large structure, moody and silent, Arissa took one
look at her future home and burst into tears. Seated on the wagon bed, Emma did
her best to comfort her friend as she too drew in the imposing sight.

The
caravan passed through the eastern portion of the North York Moors, hugging the
coastline as they drew closer to the stone abbey. It could be seen in the
distance for several miles, hanging on the horizon as if silently beckoning the
approaching horde into her gaping jaws. After her first glimpse, Arissa refused
to look at the structure any longer and turned her back on it stubbornly. With
every step her grief took greater foothold and she sobbed quietly into her
kerchief as Emma held her hand.

Although
his reaction had not been quite as emotional, Richmond too felt the distinct
pressure of sorrow as his eyes beheld the abbey with the solid reputation. The
closer the column drew, the weightier the sentiment became until he found
himself looking away from the structure. He just couldn’t stomach to look at it
anymore.

It
did not strike him odd that Gavan seemed to be in full command of the troops
this morn, allowing his liege the opportunity to become acquainted with the
idea that the day of separation had finally come. All of Richmond's energies
were focused on the larger-than-life cathedral looming ever closer, threatening
to snatch what was most precious to him, and he found himself struggling
against the familiar anxiety that had plagued him for well over a week.

Twenty
glorious days filled with the ever-lurking threat of separation. Forcing
himself to concentrate on his strategies, he found himself planning his
schedule once he deposited Arissa within the safety of Whitby's walls; to plea
for her hand, to wrangle the king's cooperation in the matter, to settle the
unpleasant business at hand. He began to calm as he determined the time table
by which to complete his duties and retrieve Arissa.  It was going to be as
short as he could possibly make it.

Richmond
was so involved with his thoughts that he was genuinely startled when several
of his men chorused an alarm. Momentarily off-guard, he reined his destrier in
the indicated direction only to be faced with a band of soldiers charging towards
him across the bleak moor.

It
took him less than a second to observe the wicked flash of weapons in the weak
sunlight, at least a hundred men armed for warfare, and his heart surged into
his throat when he realized, very shortly, they would be under attack.

"Gavan!"
he roared, unsheathing his mighty broadsword. "Take Arissa and Emma to the
abbey!"

Gavan
was already in motion, the surge of an impending fight infiltrate his veins.
Digging his golden spurs into the charger's sides, he made way toward the
ladies as Richmond's men-at-arms took up defensive positions.

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 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-committal. 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.