Timeless Tales of Honor (79 page)

She nodded, studying him guardedly. "Northumberland's heir. I met you once many years ago when you came to Lambourn with Richmond. I was twelve or thirteen, I believe."

"You were eleven," he corrected, his eyes still creased with mirth. "You were a lovely child then and I am pleased to see that your beauty has come to rival the magnificence of the angels. Truthfully, you are breathtaking."

She blushed slightly, a bit wary of his presence and still extremely disappointed that he was not Richmond. Before she could reply, soft footfalls met the earth behind her and a gentle hand was suddenly resting on her shoulder.

"I will thank you not to molest my charge, sir knight," Mary Deus' voice was taut, stern. "Arissa, Emma, retreat to the abbey immediately."

The two young ladies turned to comply with the abbess' bidding, but Hotspur halted their progression. "It was not my intention to vex them, Your Grace. I am Sir Henry Percy, sent by order of the king and I would ask that the lady hear my message," snapping his fingers, no easy feat through the thickness of gauntlets, one of his knights produced a rolled length of parchment and handed it to him. He extended it to the small abbess. "As you can see, the missive bears Henry's seal. I would suggest that you read it immediately, as there is little time to waste."

The abbess did not change expression. Tearing her eyes from the somewhat-pushy knight, she gazed at the yellowed vellum and was met with the sight of Henry's garbled seal. "It's muddled," she said, tracing her finger over the red wax. "I can scarcely read it."

Hotspur eyed the seal; it had taken two days to perfect a seal that was similar to Henry's. Still, they had not possessed the time for trial and error to create a perfect likeness and had taken their chances with the first passable forgery. If the woman was swayed by the barely-accomplished signet, he would be pleasantly, and thankfully, surprised.

"I have been riding for several days through all varieties of weather conditions," he said honestly. "If the seal is mussed, then it was purely beyond my control, I assure you. If I may, Your Grace, I suggest you read it now."

The abbess' jaw ticked, a strong indication of her displeasure. After a moment's indecision, she broke the seal and unrolled the vellum. Arissa and Emma, Hotspur and his knights, watched with anticipation as the educated woman read the missive carefully.

After several long, tensely-silent minutes, the abbess seemed to sigh with regret.

"I was unaware of Henry's poor health," she said, raising her gaze to meet Hotspur. "How long has he been suffering?"

"For some time now," Henry replied, wondering how much time he was going to spend in Hell for lying to a woman of the cloth. "Unfortunately, his physicians do not believe he has much time left on this earth and Henry has requested to see Arissa before he dies. I am ordered to bring her to London as soon as possible."

The abbess sighed again, pondering the news and the consequences thereof. Certainly there was no time to send a missive to London confirming the request if King Henry was on his death bed. The man was understandably eager to make amends with the wrongs he had done in this life, Arissa included, and the abbess could not fault him the desire to reconcile with his bastard.

Carefully, thoughtfully, the abbess re-rolled the missive. "Why did Sir Richmond not come for her?"

Hotspur did not falter. "Because he’s busy with the situation on the Welsh border," he replied steadily. "Henry asked that I accomplish the duty since Sir Richmond was else occupied."

"Richmond is on the Welsh border?" Arissa asked before she could stop herself, filled with concern and confusion. He was supposed to be in London, demanding her hand. Why was he in Wales?

Henry's soft eyes found her. "Sir Richmond is a master of negotiation and Henry asked that he assist the crisis on the border to see if a bloodless conclusion cannot be sought against the Welsh," seeing the sorrowful expression on Arissa's face, a measure of guilt swept him; God help him, Richmond was his friend. What he was about to do was not only treacherous, but blatant cruelty. Yet, it was necessary.

Tearing his gaze from the magnificent face, he refocused on the abbess. "Time grows short, Your Grace. Every moment we delay is a moment away from Henry's life. Surely you cannot deny a father the right to see his child before he passes on?"

The abbess drew in another long sigh, staring at the mighty knight before her; she was well aware of Henry Percy, soon to be the second Earl of Northumberland. Hotspur was a fierce fighter, the most powerful knight in England next to Richmond le Bec, and she knew he was a man of honor. Truthfully, she had no firm basis to deny the request and she realized with resignation that she had no choice but to allow Arissa to travel to London to meet her dying father.

"Nay," she said after a long moment, her voice quiet. "I shall not deny his request. But the lady will travel with an escort, a chaperone of my choosing. And she will be returned to me as soon as Henry has finished with her. Is this understood?"

Hotspur felt a bolt of relief run through him, so powerful that he fought the urge to collapse with thanks. But the added element of an escort was something he had not anticipated; still, it would be of no consequence. A harmless nun was insignificant in the overall scheme and he would not fret over the unexpected addition. All that mattered was that Arissa was to be placed in his custody, as Owen had correctly predicted.

"I understand your directive perfectly, Your Grace," he said steadily. "The lady will be in good hands."

The abbess continued to eye him a moment before faintly gesturing to her two young charges, silently demanding them to return to the abbey. As Arissa and Emma dashed away, the abbess maintained her cool gaze on the mighty knight.

"I must tell you that this situation is unnerving," she said quietly. "But based upon your reputation as an honorable man, I will not dispute the poorly written missive nor the blotched seal. All I ask is that you return Lady Arissa to me, unharmed. She is, after all, my charge."

Hotspur nodded faintly, feeling a substantial increase in his own guilt.

"I shall guard the woman with my life." He meant it.

While Hotspur and his army wait on the road, Emma helped Arissa pack a small satchel. Soap, a comb, another clean woolen frock and the surcoat she had arrived in filled the small bag. As Arissa donned a pair of soft woolen hose to protect her against the chill, Emma seemed particularly distracted. Securing the heavy cloak Richmond has given her, Arissa laughed softly at the picture she presented.

"Look at me, Emma. Dressed in a plan gray woolen frock and an exquisite cloak of the finest material," with a smile, she turned to her moody friend. "I look terribly mismatched. I suppose I should.... now, what's the matter with you? Why do you look like that?"

Emma had been fumbling with her hands, a frown on her face as she immersed herself in thought. Hearing Arissa's softly demanded question, she cast her a long gaze.

"What did Hotspur mean when he called you Henry's daughter?"

Arissa's smile faded. After a lengthy, guilty moment, she averted her gaze and planted her bottom on the edge of her cot. "Do not be angry with me for not telling you," she said softly. "I myself discovered my true heritage only a few weeks ago. Apparently, I am a bastard of royal blood, sent to live with the Earl of Berkshire so that I would not shame my father the king."

Emma stared at her, shocked but not completely disbelieving. After all, she'd had time to dwell on the clues Hotspur had raised and was somewhat prepared for the startling truth. After a moment, she exhaled sharply and leaned against the wall. "So you are the king's daughter?"

"Aye."

“Truly?”

“Aye.”

"Does Richmond know?"

"He’s the one who informed me of my true heritage."

Emma's gaze lingered on her dark head. After several long seconds, she simply shook her head. "I.... I simply cannot believe it, Riss. You are not the earl's offspring, but a princess?"

Arissa shrugged vaguely. "Apparently. But I do not feel like one. I feel like a cast-off, a bit of rubbish that no one can decide what to do with."

Emma's brow furrowed. "Why do you say that?"

Arissa toyed with the hem of her cloak, advancing to chewing on her nails, a habit she had yet to break. "Look at the situation; my mother abandons me at birth and I am forced to live with another family, my true identity concealed from the world. When I become of age, I am forced into an abbey to hide for the remainder of my life. Would you not feel like so much extra baggage?"

Emma pondered her question a moment. "I do not know, Riss. Richmond doesn't think you are extra baggage."

Her smile made a weak appearance. "Nay, he does not. Mayhap I shall be lucky enough to see him in London. Certainly, I can hope."

Emma's gaze lingered on her friend a moment longer, still reeling with some shock and amazement. But, truthfully, she did not know why she was so surprised; Arissa had always possessed a special aura, a grace and beauty beyond the limits of mere mortals.

Still, Emma found herself giddy with the knowledge. The longer she gazed at Arissa, the more excited she became.

"You are going to London to see the king," she said, her mood rising. "Aren't you excited?"

Arissa sucked on a fingernail she had nearly chewed raw. "You heard the contents of the message; the king is dying and wishes to see me. I.... I do not think I should be excited about death."

"I did not mean it that way. Yet, it's as if an entirely new life is about to open up for you. The acknowledgement of your royal blood by your ailing father," she suddenly cocked her head in thought. "Mayhap he will tell you that he’s agreed to a marriage between you and Richmond. Would not that be exciting?"

Arissa nodded, attempting to fold her hands lest she chew them all to bloody nubs. "Certainly, I can hope for the best," she glanced at her satchel, sighing with longing. "Sweet St. Jude, Emma. I miss him so."

Emma's rising excitement cooled. As badly as Arissa missed Richmond, she found herself longing for Gavan in the same manner. Even though the guilt of wishing death upon the man's wife had not faded entirely, she found her sorrow of the woman's death had not cooled her love for him. If anything, her adoration had grown. It was a breathing entity, capable of pain and madness. It was something she was unable to control in the least.

"I know you miss him, Riss. But you shall be with him soon."

Arissa rose from her cot, pondering the dingy little room. "Mayhap he will join me in London and I shall never have to return here again. Mayhap this is the last I shall see of this gloomy place." Moving to the window, her gaze wandered to the large army waiting patiently in the distance. After a moment, she turned to her friend. "I shall send Gavan for you, Emma. I shall not leave you here alone."

Emma met her gaze, torn between her fading guilt and the love she had always felt for the man. "Do not.... do not force him. After all, he just lost his wife. He must have time to heal."

"He will be given ample time to heal. And then I will send him for you."

Emma did not say anything for a moment. Meandering to the window, her gaze fell upon Hotspur's stationary army. "If he comes, it will be the answer to my prayers, Riss. The impossible dream I never thought to come true."

Arissa put her arm around Emma's shoulders, hugging her gently. "Dreams do come true, Emma. I am living proof of that."

S
ister Repentia was well acquainted
with the relatively flat topography that surrounded London, which was why the first inkling of trouble infiltrated her veins at the sight of snow-capped mountains in the distance. Although the rest of the caravan seemed unconcerned, including Arissa, she felt the distinct taste of apprehension as they drew closer to the white cluster of hills. There was something vaguely familiar about the sharp landscape and she spent the majority of her time staring at the snowy mountains, trying to determine their placement.

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
.

O
wen 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.