But as she gazed at her mother, the woman’s words took hold and Arissa found herself contemplating the meaning, the edge of her furor reduced by her uncertainty. “But…. if I was the king’s child, then why couldn’t he protect me? Why was it necessary to send me away?”
“Henry was not the king at that time– Richard was,” Sister Repentia said softly. “Furthermore, Henry was married to Mary Bohun. It was unfortunate for us that we happened to fall in love, resulting in your birth. And it was imperative that we did whatwas necessary to assure you a full, unhindered life. We had to remove you from the bowels of political intrigue and hatred.”
Arissa’s uncertainty was gaining hold. But her resentment was still a powerful force. “You loved Henry?”
Sister Repentia smiled tremulously in remembrance. “As you love Richmond.”
An entirely new light was cast onto Arissa’s arena. If the woman had loved Henry as much as she loved Richmond, then it had been a powerful love indeed. A love strong enough to warrant sacrifice for the safety and happiness of another.
She continued to gaze at her mother, the pain of abandonment and separation in her eyes. “And you loved me?” She found she needed to know.
Sister Repentia’s eyes filled with tears, her smiled fading. “Enough to sacrifice my life for you,” she whispered, allowing her tears to fall as her naked pain became evident. “You see, my husband had vowed vengeance upon both of us. The only solution was to send you away to assume a secret identity, shielded from the rage of a dishonored husband. And my only alternative was to commit myself to the one place my husband could not harm me.”
“An abbey?” Arissa echoed.
Sister Repentia nodded, wiping at her damp cheeks. “Henry was already married and there was no possibility that we could ever be together. Whitby became my refuge, my strength, my rock of faith until such time as you came to join me. Although you and I were separated at birth, Henry had promised me that you would join me in the cloister when you became of age. I lived on that promise.”
Arissa lowered her gaze, feeling her mother’s pain as it mingled with her own. The woman had waited for the day when Arissa would join her, but Arissa had ignored the reverence of the abbey by declaring her love for a man, a man whowould rescue her from the sheltered existence of Whitby. Unknowingly, she had completely disregarded her mother’s joy.
If only she had known. She found she simply could not maintain her fury any longer. There was no longer the need.
After a moment, she shook her head, returning her attention to the black-haired woman. “No wonder you never told me of your identity. With my anticipation for Richmond’s return expressed on a daily basis, I can understand your reluctance.”
Sister Repentia sighed heavily, relieved that Arissa was calming and coming to understand the sacrifice, the pain, the daily anguish that had constituted her life for the past eighteen years. But even if they were coming to understand one another, they had barely scratched the surface of the entire circumstance.
“It doesn’t matter now,” she said softly, moving toward the vizier, studying her daughter in the weak light. A faint smile appeared once again. “All that is of import is the fact that you now know the truth. And I must tell you all that is within my heart, if you would be willing to hear me.”
Arissa nodded faintly, coming to realize why the woman’s features had struck a chord deep within her on the first day they had met. She knew her. “I want to hear everything,” she whispered. “Please.”
Sister Repentia touched her face, feeling the silky skin. The last time she had touched the same cheek, her daughter had been an infant and the beauty resulting from that tiny babe was beyond her comprehension. “You are so utterly beautiful, Arissa. I can scarcely believe God has blessed me with such a magnificent child.”
Arissa smiled, her lips quivering. Her fury was vanished, replaced by a desperate need for understanding and a hunger for knowledge.
“I love you, Mother,” she blurted, her defenses dissolved and the contents of her heart pouring forth. Tears spilled down hercheeks as she took her mother’s hand. “I have always loved you. I loved you even when I believed you did not want me.”
Sister Repentia joined her in her tears. She had waited eighteen years to hear those very words and she could hardly believe the sweetness they evoked. Kissing the young hands, she wiped at her daughter’s tears even as she ignored her own.
“And I love you, my darling Arissa. I always have.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Mayhap it wasbecause his fortieth birthday was approaching in a matter of days and he was growing more decrepit by the moment. Or mayhap it was because he hated the Welsh and their damnable snow. For whatever the case, Richmond found that his joints were achier than usual as he crossed the border into the midst of a harsh Welsh winter.
Having left Gavan at the border camp just outside of Minsterley, it had been a difficult decision to travel alone into the heart of the Welsh rebellion. Upon receiving information from Henry’s border commanders regarding Hotspur’s whereabouts, he and Gavan had concurred that it would be wise if Richmond descended into the midst of the insurrection alone, a single man as opposed to a threatening collection of knights.
The majority of the crown’s army based on the Welsh border had not seen Hotspur in over two weeks, when he had paused in camp long enough to comment on his “negotiations” with the Welsh Prince and to retrieve about two hundred of his personal troops. It was the universal consensus that he was planning to rebel against the king, a rumor that was becoming more of a reality by the moment.
Having spent nearly three weeks collecting intelligence against Hotspur to better understand the man’s moves and motives, Richmond had been forced to agree with the overall assessment of the situation. His heart sank to realize that most likely he would be forced to destroy Hotspur, a task he looked forward to with the utmost reluctance. But he had made Henrya promise; if he was unable to maintain Hotspur’s alliance, then he would obliterate the man.
Riding in layers of wool and his armor, steel protection that took on the characteristics of a block of ice, he directed his sturdy destrier in the direction of the Welsh encampment based on the instructions given him by the English spies. As he finally came upon the encampment, complete with a large bonfire struggling fiercely to ward off the bold Welsh winter, he was met by a patrol about a quarter of a mile out. Six men armed with crossbows and broadswords, and Richmond immediately held up his hands to indicate he was not a threat.
“I have come seeking Hotspur,” he announced loudly. “My intentions are peaceful.”
The man in the lead rode alongside, sizing him from top to bottom. “Are you one of his men?”
Richmond nodded without hesitation. “My name is Richmond le Bec. Announce my arrival.”
Since the war between the English and the Welsh had cooled over the past few months, hostilities were not as high as was usual and the Welsh patrol was not particularly reluctant to admit the seasoned knight entrance to their stronghold. But not without a standard measure of security.
