Laughter
had come again, as had beauty and bright opinions of the world in general. Even
though the mother abbess had tried to discourage such interaction in the
beginning, afraid the addition of the two lively young women would upset the
delicate balance of her abbey, it was apparent that the aura emanating from
Arissa and Emma had worked in harmony with the holy atmosphere of the godly
fortress.
A
measure of vigor began to infiltrate their lives, the meaning of life that a
few of the older nuns had forgotten existed. As the holy women of the order
taught Arissa and Emma about life at the abbey, they in turn received an
updated education on what it meant to be young and happy and full of hope.
Arissa
had never attempted to deny her relationship with Richmond le Bec and it was
obviously from the day she had arrived at the abbey that she was desperately
attached to the man. It did not seem to matter that he was twice her years, an
aging knight who was rapidly approaching the winter of life. The only matter of
concern for Arissa seemed to be when he would return to marry her, and she had
taken to expressing the joy of endless love to all who would listen. Expressing
her glee to women who had never experienced such feelings and who had quickly
become consumed with the intriguingly concept.
With
haste, the mother abbess had put a stop to Arissa's stories of undying devotion
lest her nuns find themselves confused and willing to explore such areas that
were better left unventured. Even so, Arissa had never made any secret of the
fact that she was not destined to join the cloister and looked forward to the
day when Richmond le Bec would return for her.
The
foolish fantasies of a young maiden's mind? Mayhap, Sister Repentia thought.
But, somehow, she realized she would not be at all surprised should Richmond le
Bec reappeared at their door one day.
Sister
Mary Ignatius finished the reading and the entire congregation rose to praise
God in song. As the hymn commenced, Sister Repentia found her gaze wandering to
her daughter and her young companion. It was odd how the two of them seemed to
have physically matured over the past two weeks; with the simple fare provided,
Emma had slimmed considerably, dropping a good deal of the weight she had
carried on her short frame. What emerged was a beautiful figure, full of
bustline and slender of waist, and her face had refined to a beautiful oval
shape. In fact, as Emma rapidly approached her seventeenth birthday, Sister
Repentia realized a very beautiful woman was surfacing before her eyes.
Arissa
had matured as well. Rather delicate and frail upon arrival, she seemed to have
increased in vigor and the roses gracing her exquisite cheeks were a constant
phenomenon. Even now, swathed in the simply gray frock and kerchief worn by all
new pledges, there was no beauty on earth that could compare with her. She
seemed to gain a certain strength from the chores that she was required to
accomplish, churning butter and scrubbing floors. The more she exerted herself
in a controlled fashion, the healthier her glow.
Sister
Repentia had been told of her frequent bouts with chill and of her breathing
attacks, and she had been lead to believe that Arissa had led a fairly easy
life due to these afflictions. But with the exercise and food and routine of
the abbey, she seemed to have flourished into an extremely healthy specimen.
Even though Arissa professed her dislike for the abbey, mayhap it had been good
for her in a manner to which she was unaware; although her spirit had been
dampened by her longing for le Bec, her body had thrived nonetheless.
Sister
Repentia was barely aware when Vespers was concluded. She had been consumed
with reviewing the days since Arissa had arrived, marveling at the change that
had occurred within the confines of Whitby's holy order. As the nuns filtered
from the chapel in anticipation of the evening meal, a lamb stew Sister
Repentia had been simmering all afternoon, the slight nun hurried from the
chapel ahead of the throng to prepare the gallery for the feast.
Behind
her, she heard the soft footfalls of clogged feet. Her novice helpers scurried
after her like eager pups.
"We
could smell the lamb stew up in the loft," Emma said eagerly, licking her
lips and tucking stray blond hair back into her kerchief. "It has been
over a week since we have had stew."
Sister
Repentia marched into the gallery without replying to Emma's enthusiastic
statement. "Set out the bowls and the bread, please."
Arissa
and Emma immediately moved to do the sister's bidding. Helping her with kitchen
chores had been part of their daily routine for the past two weeks and for
young women who had grown up relatively pampered and well-removed from mundane
chores, they enjoyed the satisfaction of manual labor a good deal.
The
young pledges giggled and whispered as they set out the coarse wooden bowls and
crude cups. Sister Repentia emerged from the kitchen bearing the pot of stew
and the two young ladies rushed to her aid. As Arissa carefully ladled out the
thick soup, Emma placed loaves of crusty brown bread on every table.
The
coarse crust of the brown bread reminded Emma of the occasion when Bartholomew
had used two stale bread crusts to create "horns" for effect during
his recitation of a prose involving the ancient Minotaur. Her humorous
recollection of the event sent Arissa into gales of laughter and even Sister
Repentia struggled against the grin that threatened.
But
Arissa's laughter soon faded, a deeper grief taking hold as she realized the
recitations, the outrageous skits, the inane manner in which her brother had
portrayed Greek tragedies was to be no more. Bartholomew was gone, killed
defending her against the Welsh enemy, and her tinkling laughter was suddenly
replaced by the swell of tears.
Emma
was immediately remorseful as she observed her friend's despondent manner. Bartholomew's
death had been a difficult event for Arissa to deal with; naturally, she felt
very guilty for having inadvertently caused the incident. "I am sorry,
Riss. I did not mean to remind you of Bart."
Arissa
sniffled, swallowing her tears bravely. To cry would only bring shame to her
brother's brave sacrifice and she loved him too much to dishonor him in such a
fashion. "I want you to remind me, always. I do not ever want to forget
Bart and his unique personality."
Sister
Repentia watched her daughter a moment as she doled out the remainder of the
stew. "Who is Bart?"
Arissa
sniffled again, squaring her shoulders bravely. "My brother. He was killed
defending me when Lambourn was invaded."
Sister
Repentia stared at her a moment as the words of selfless sacrifice sank deep;
uttering a small prayer of thanks for the brave actions of the earl's son, she
returned to her duties silently. Arissa, for her part, was reminded of another
amusing incident and opened her mouth to relay a similar image of Bartholomew's
foolery when a flustered young nun suddenly rushed into the fragrant hall.
"An
army approaches, sister!" she announced breathlessly. "Where is the mother
abbess?"
Sister
Repentia was startled with the news; before she could respond, Arissa leapt to
confront the woman.
"Are
they flying a banner?" she demanded. "Can you see the
standards?"
The
young nun fixed Arissa in the eye; she had been one of the many who had been
privy to the young lady's tales of interminable love and in spite of her
devotion to God, she found it wonderfully romantic that Richmond le Bec had
indeed returned for his fair maiden. "Henry's standard, Arissa. I saw the
crimson myself."
Arissa
dropped the wooden spoon in her hand; the color drained from her face as she
turned her wide green eyes to Emma.
"Richmond
has returned," she whispered, her entire expression laced with disbelief
and the most unimaginable joy. "He’s come, Emma. He’s come!"
Emma's
face was a mirror of Arissa's; startled blue eyes gazed back at her friend.
"Gavan," she murmured. "He must have come, too. Oh, Riss, Gavan
has come too!"
Sister
Repentia tried to stop them, but she knew her shouts of restraint were in vain
as the two young women made haste to the front door. The panel was closed,
although several nuns were trying to peer from the slender crack between the
frame and the slightly-ajar panel.
Shoving
the gray-clad women aside, Arissa yanked the door open and dashed across the muddy
walk before anyone could stop her. Emma was directly on her heels, the both of
them ignoring the cries of Sister Repentia. Clearly, there were matters of far
greater import than the anxious shouts of an aging nun.
Richmond
and Gavan had come.
Arissa
saw the army approaching on the road, riding the crest toward the abbey with
Henry's banners streaming in the brisk sea air. The charger in the lead was a
dark animal, though distant, and Arissa set her sights on the mighty beast.
Richmond's charger, she was sure. Her heart sang with the joy; already, she
could taste him upon her lips. Already, she could feel his body on her, in her,
never to let her go. She had never been happier in her life.
Until
she realized the charger in the lead was a brown animal. Apprehension and
confusion filled her as she slowed to an unsteady halt, scrutinizing the
additional chargers that made up the front of the knightly column. More browns,
grays, even chestnut. She'd never seen them before.
A
creeping anxiety swept her as the destriers closed in on her position; frozen
to the muddy turf, she could do naught but stare at the mighty warhorses as
their riders reined them to an uneasy halt. The column of men flying Henry's
banner came to a grinding stop and Arissa could feel Emma behind her, clutching
at her in fear.
The
man on the brown charger approached her, a big man in well-used armor. It was
apparent that he was studying her, for his helmed head focused on her for
several moments before he offered a weak, if not somewhat disbelieving,
salutation.
"The
Lady Arissa, I presume?"
Arissa
stared at him, bitter and disappointed to the core. Angry, even, that the
knight before her had dashed hopes. "You are not Richmond."
The
man shook his head, slowly. If there was any doubt that the rumors regarding
the existing love between the Lady Arissa de Lohr and Richmond le Bec were
false, it had been dashed in that instant. From the expression on her face, he
could see that she was beyond disappointed. She was crushed.
"Nay,
my lady, I am not Richmond," Henry Percy could scarcely believe the beauty
before him. "I have come with a message from your father."
Arissa
continued to stare at him, her considerable bitterness eased somewhat with the
knight's brief explanation. "What message? And who are you?"
The
knight dismounted his warhorse. Raising his visor, Arissa caught a glimpse of
dark eyes, not entirely unkind. "My name is Henry Percy. Might I speak
with the abbess?"
Arissa
blinked as the sound of his name settled into her memory. After a moment, she
tilted her head thoughtfully. "Hotspur?"
His
eyes crinkled with a smile. "Then you do remember me?"
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."