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 her 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 yellowedvellum 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, Arissaincluded, 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?”
