Arissa was wise enough not to dispute the nun who had become an integral part of her life for the past two weeks. With Emma by her side, the three women made their way to the dimly-lit chapel, bowing their respect to God as they entered the sanctuary and moving for their assigned places. At the rear of the chapel, behind the novice nuns, Arissa and Emma dropped to their knees and made the sign of the cross about their head and shoulders.
Sister Repentia’s gaze lingered on the two kerchief-clad heads as they bowed in prayer. By the stone altar in the very front of the sparsely-furnished room, Sister Mary Ignatius was preparing to commence with the reading and Sister Repentia quickly moved for her assigned space.
But even as she made the sign of the cross over her slight body and knelt in reverence, she couldn’t stop her thoughts from lingering on Arissa and her young friend who had literally breathed life into the old abbey within the span of a few shortdays. A spirit the gloomy structure had lacked for decades, unmissed until now.
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 intriguing 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 wouldnot 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 rosiness gracing her exquisite cheeks was a constant phenomenon. Even now, swathed in the simple 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 led 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!”
