Gazing
at the two English faces, he could see that he had been correct in assuming the
topic of discussion. And he further suspected that he would be forced into
playing his advantage far earlier than anticipated. In fact, he expected his bargaining
pawn to arrive shortly. He’d sent for her when he heard of le Bec’s arrival. The
sooner Sir Richmond and King Henry knew of his advantage, the sooner a
reasonable truce could be met.
"Greetings,
Sir Richmond, " Owen said quietly, moving into the room. "We have not
met; my name is Lord Owen Glendower."
Richmond
appraised the shorter man. "I am honored, my lord."
Owen
studied the man a moment; exceedingly large, he was powerfully built and
amazingly youthful-appearing for a man in his fortieth year. "We were not
expecting you."
"I
sent no word ahead," Richmond acknowledged. "Truthfully, I have not
come to see you, but Henry. My conversation pertains to him alone at the
moment."
Owen
moved to a chair by the vizier; in spite of his warring ways and his Welsh
ancestry, his blood was not as thick as he would have liked it to be and he was
constantly seeking warmth where he could find it. Sitting, he extended his
hands to the iron heater. "If you are discussing Hotspur's role against
English oppression, then I am afraid your conversation does concern me,"
he eyed Henry. "I would assume that you have informed him of your
plans?"
"Not
all of them," Hotspur replied. "He’s aware that I am no longer
supporting the crown."
"And
he’s aware of your reasoning?"
"Aye."
"Is
he also aware of his role in our plans?"
Hotspur
did not reply for a moment. "We have not yet moved into that particular
area."
Owen
nodded faintly, noticing the gleam of curiosity in Richmond's bright eyes.
After a moment, he offered the man a forced smile. "I can see that our
words have piqued your interest," he rubbed his hands together in the
heat. "In faith, I can tell you that our inferred plans have stemmed from
Hotspur's resistance to the idea of facing you in battle. You are his friend,
Sir Richmond, and he has no desire to kill you."
Richmond's
jaw ticked faintly. Already, he could see that Owen was confident, ambitious
and calculating. However, the man was talking in riddles and Richmond felt
himself losing patience with the conversation already.
"Killing
is never a true pleasure, friend or foe. It is a necessity," he said shortly.
"If you would be so kind as to inform me how I seem to fit into your grand
scheme for world peace, I would be obliged."
Hotspur's
gaze was unreadable across the dim room, but Owen seemed to take pleasure in
the imminent disclosure. When it became apparent that Hotspur had no intention
of elaborating, Owen took charge.
"Hotspur
does not seem to think that Henry is manageable with you leading his
armies," he began softly. "It would stand to reason, then, that if
Henry and I were to do battle against you and the crown's armies, the struggle
for Wales' independence could never come to a harmonious ending within our
lifetime. And I demand to know a measure of peace before I die."
Richmond
crossed his arms as he listened, indicative of his rising agitation. Hotspur
rose from his chair, pacing away from the Welshman as he focused on Henry's
mighty knight; already, he could sense the storm coming and hated himself
already for being a part of it.
Richmond
scratched his chin when Owen paused in his grand speech, his annoyance evident.
"So what do you intend to do? Kill me now and be done with it? I can
guarantee you that I will not make an easy target."
Owen
smiled at the sarcastic remark, feeling the power of his edge over Henry's
great warrior. "Not at all. We do not want to see you harmed in any way,
Sir Richmond. In fact, we loathe the idea of waging war on opposing sides so
severely that it seems most logical that we should be fighting with you, not
against you."
Richmond
annoyance stopped its advance, maintaining a holding pattern as his curiosity
increased. "You are suggesting you fight with me?" abruptly, his
irritation fled as he focused on the Welsh prince. "Are you suggesting a
truce? A surrender, mayhap?"
Richmond
was off track, veering away from their line of thought. Before Owen could
respond, Hotspur turned from his post in the corner and focused on his friend.
"Nay, Richmond. He’s suggesting that you fight
with
us."
Richmond's
gaze focused on his friend, laced with mild surprise and a good deal of
disgust. "Honestly, Henry. How could you let him believe that I would even
consider such a thing? It's not only outrageous, it's absolutely absurd."
"Richmond...,"
Hotspur shook his head, looking pained and distressed. Owen saw
Northumberland's struggles and hastened lead the conversation.
"It
is not absurd, I assure you. And I also predict that you will pledge your
service willingly before this night if through," Owen smiled at the
expression of intolerance on Richmond's face. When the man turned away from
him, moving toward yet another chalice of wine, Owen rose from his chair.
"I swear it, Sir Richmond. Before this night is over, you will be leading
my ranks."
Richmond
sighed sharply. "I have heard enough nonsense," he snapped.
"Henry, if we have nothing more to say to one another, I shall be on my
way. I grow weary of this conversation."
Owen
was already moving for the tent flap, preparing to drive his point home.
"This conversation may be tiresome, but it is necessary," peering
from the tent flap, he motioned to the soldiers outside. After a moment, he
sealed the flap and fixed his gaze on Richmond. "If you would be so kind
as to move to the opposite side of the tent with Hotspur, my lord."
Richmond
was out of patience. As he opened his mouth to insult the Welshman, Henry
interrupted his tirade. "Do as he says, Richmond. Please do not be
difficult."
Richmond
looked to Hotspur. "Difficult? Damnation, Henry, we were doing quite well
by ourselves until...."
"Please,
Richmond," Hotspur snapped softly in a display of real emotion.
"Listen to him, I implore you."
After
a long, highly-annoyed moment, Richmond tossed the chalice of wine to the
ground and marched to the opposite side of the tent. Flustered and agitated, he
took to raking his fingers through his damp hair and grinding his teeth. He hardly
noticed when the tent flap opened, spilling forth several figures.
Chewing
his lip in an agitated gesture and crossing his arms as he pondered the
insanity of the situation, his entire body jolted as he heard his name spill
forth from a very familiar, very beloved voice.
"Richmond!"
Instinctively,
he groped for the sword at his side that was non-existent and he nearly
stumbled to his knees in his haste to move in the direction from whence the
pleading voice had come. But strong hands were on him, preventing him from
moving forward, and he heard the unmistakable chime as swords were unsheathed
from their scabbards, the glistening steel aimed at his heart.
In
that horrified moment, he hoped he was dreaming as his gaze fell upon Arissa.
Surrounded by several Welsh soldiers at the entrance to the tent, her face was
as pale as the snowy mountaintops and, by her expression, he could see that she
was equally surprised to see him.
The
harsh reflection of broadswords blinded him in the dim light, rods of death
aimed at halting his advance towards his lady. He could hear Hotspur whispering
desperate words in his ear, attempting to calm him before he ran amuck in a fit
of insanity and death, and he found himself torn between wanting to listen to
the man and wanting to kill him for his treachery. Listening won over.
Arissa
had begun to weep and Richmond was consumed with the vision before him. He
simply couldn't believe what his eyes were telling him, filling his mind with
the black tides of disbelief even as he struggled to retain his grip on
reality. Arissa was here, in the midst of the Welsh resistance. Owen, somehow,
had managed to obtain her.
Suddenly,
he understood a good deal of the Welshman's irritating words. God's Teeth, it
was all painfully clear as he stared at the woman before him, more anguish
filling him than he ever thought possible.
Before
this night is through, you will pledge your loyalty to me.
"Oh,
Riss," he breathed, his chest heaving with emotion. "I am so sorry,
kitten. Are you well? Have they harmed you?"
She
was sobbing softly, swathed in the cloak he had given her. Her pale green eyes
were wide with shock and fear, but she managed to nod faintly. "I am
fine," she whispered, her voice rising as she spoke. "Why are you
here, Richmond? What is happening?"
He
opened his mouth to explain, but truthfully, he was not sure how to answer.
Owen, several feet from Arissa, moved toward the slight young woman with a good
deal of sympathy in his expression.
"The
Lady Arissa is aware that as my enemy's daughter, she’s my guest for a time.
Beyond that, I told her nothing more," he said evenly. He had neglected to
tell her of their blood relations, of her ties to both the crown and the Welsh
rebellion. For all she knew, she was simply a captive as Henry's bastard daughter.
Furthermore,
Le Bec had no knowledge of Owen's ties to Arissa and he intended to keep it
that way, for certainly, the knowledge could be used against him just as he was
using the same factors against le Bec. The pain of blood relations went in both
directions.
"It
is not necessary that she be privy to the detailed political dealings of men
and I have chosen not to enlighten her," he continued, almost quietly.
"Do you dispute my wisdom in this matter?"
Dazed
as he was, Richmond was not daft. For Arissa's sake, it would be best to allow
her to believe the simplest explanation, not the more extensive dealings of
factional intrigue. And having no knowledge of Owen's relationship to his
beloved, he couldn't begin to imagine the precise depths of Glendower's softly
uttered statement. Had he known, he would have come to appreciate Owen's sense
of restraint; clearly, if both Arissa and Richmond knew the Welsh resistor was
a cousin of Arissa's mother, it would have made a grossly complex situation
considerably more difficult.
But
Richmond was unaware of the deeper connotations of blood ties; he had enough
grief to deal with at the moment. After a lengthy pause, he lowered his gaze.
"Nay," he whispered, raking his fingers through his hair as he
struggled against his shattered composure. "She does not need to know…."
He
trailed off, unable to continue as he focused his attention on Arissa once
again, drinking in the sight of her. Owen watched the meaningful expressions
between them, the love and warmth filling the room even though they were
separated by several feet. Feeling as if he were intruding on the intimate
reunion, he cleared his throat softly to regain Richmond's attention.
"I
apologize for the blunt presentation of my guest, but I wanted you to
understand my sincerity when I made my previous statement," he motioning
to the guards holding Arissa, indicating for them to remove her.
All
of Richmond's resolve to collect himself vanished as Welsh soldiers moved to
handle Arissa; he broke from Hotspur's grasp, throwing himself forward as a
host of broadswords lurched towards him in response to his action. Startled,
Arissa screamed in horror; Richmond was unarmed, without his usual protection,
and she was terrified that he was about to end up impaled on the tip of a Welsh
broadsword.
"No,
Richmond!" she shrieked, extending her hands beseechingly to Owen.
"Order them to sheath their swords, my lord! Please, before Richmond kills
himself!"
Owen
motioned sharply to his men, who were slow to obey. With Richmond uneasily
restrained by Hotspur's strength and Arissa's words, Owen gazed at the man with
a genuine concern.
"If
you cannot control yourself, my lord, I will make it so that you will not see
her again for some time," he said seriously. "However, if you can
guarantee your composure, I will allow her to remain for a short while."
Richmond,
unfortunately, could not vouch for his composure. His entire body was aching to
hold her, to protect her from enemy hands. She was an unknowing pawn in a game
of cataclysmic stakes and it nearly killed him to realize that, at the moment,
there was nothing he could do to help her. He was being used as much as she
was.
"Can....
can I hold her?" he whispered.
"No."
Richmond's
jaw ticked furiously, his gaze fixed on Arissa. Taking a deep breath, he
struggled fiercely to regain his control and pulled himself gently from
Hotspur's grip. Raking his fingers through is rich brown hair in a gesture
bordering on madness, he faced Owen with as much composure as he could muster.
"I
shall be calm," he said, his voice raspy. "I swear it. Just.... do
not remove her. I want her here, where I can see her."
Owen
nodded faintly and his soldiers vacated the tent, leaving Arissa unattended. As
Richmond tore his gaze away from her and struggled to find a chair, any chair,
so that he would not collapse completely. As he fumbled about, Arissa put her
soft hand on Owen's arm.