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.
*
Owen was waitingfor 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.”
