“Promise I shall forget all of my pain.”
“I promise.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Year of our Lord 1403
The Month of July
Lambourn Castle
In spite ofthe heat and humidity, bugs danced upon the surface of the water like a thousand happy fairies, frolicking endlessly. In the reeds, frogs burped and water lilies hovered silently as small fish nipped at their ragged edges. All was peaceful and serene in this delightful, sticky little world as The Horde infiltrated the shores of the tranquil sanctuary.
Laughter floated about the joyful haven, peppered by the squeals of those who were unfortunate enough to become the recipient of water to the face. As Emma and Regine waded up to their knees in the cooling relief, Arissa and Penelope sat on the shore beneath the shade of a large oak tree in various degrees of discomfort.
“Sweet St. Jude, it’s hot,” Arissa mumbled, lying on her back and staring up at the massive branches creating futile shade in the face of such sweltering humidity. “I can hardly stand this heat. It’s merciless.”
Lady Penelope Ellsrod fanned herself furiously in response. Her husband was undoubtedly cooking within the confines of his armor, patrolling his station somewhere within the rebuilt bailey of Lambourn. In command of the massive structure with the earl off fighting the Welsh rebels, Daniel was as arrogant as if Lambourn were his very own fortress. Penelope wished he’d pay as much attention to her as he did to Lambourn’s security.
“Daniel’s going to die of heat exhaustion before our son is even born,” she muttered, rubbing her slightly rounded belly. “I do believe his armor has somehow become physically attached.”
Arissa smiled, sitting up with effort. In fact, Penelope had to reach out and pull her into an upright position. “He’s the earl’s captain now, Pen. Of course he’s busy with Lambourn’s security while Father is away.”
“There is nothing more to worry over now that Ovid de Rydal has ceased his hostilities,” Penelope insisted. “Good Lord, I thought the man was going to die of pure shock when he was told his son had violated Whitby. He’s apologized for Tad’s attack more times than I can count, and still he sends gifts and tokens of esteem to make amends for the actions of his impetuous heir.”
Arissa nodded faintly. “I am glad the man has finally come to reason, especially after Gavan reiterated that Richmond had nothing to do with Tad’s ambush. Father thought Ovid would go mad with the knowledge that his son had been killed in his attempt to abduct me, but I am pleased to see that his assumptions were wrong. Ovid realized Tad’s vengeance was misplaced, as we all did. I am so very tired of battles, of fighting. I simply want to know a measure of peace.”
Her smile faded as Emma waded back to shore, the soaked hem of her surcoat clinging to her ankles. Slender and beautiful at seventeen years of age, her cheeks were flushed a delicious pink in the humidity as she sat gracefully before her two friends.
Arissa’s gaze moved to her closest friend, truly at peace for the first time in her life. She remembered when she had sent Gavan to retrieve Emma from Whitby. Emma had returned seated in front of the knight, as happy and as lovely as Arissa had ever known her to be. And Gavan, in spite of the violent circumstances surrounding the Welsh rebellion and Richmond’s defection, had seemed very much content with Emma in hisarms. A situation that Arissa hoped would develop to a pleasing end.
Emma did so love the man, and she knew that Gavan was in desperate need of comfort after his wife’s death. But as Arissa pondered the passing of Gavan’s wife, she inadvertently began to ponder her own emotional state should Richmond meet his fate upon the cold hills of the Welsh border. Lingering on her darker thoughts, she couldn’t help her expression from dampening.
Emma shifted herself on the cool grass, gazing into Arissa’s gloomy countenance. From the melancholy settled upon the beautiful features, Emma could guess the subject of her friend’s thoughts.
“Have you heard from him at all, Riss?” she asked softly.
Arissa shook her head. “You would have known the minute I received any missive. I have not heard from him since February, when Owen was preparing an offensive. Father took the missive from me and burned it in a fit of anger,” her throat constricted with sobs, but she swallowed them away, forcing down her sorrow and longing. She thought, once, her grief would ease with time. Unfortunately, it had grown.
“Your father still believes him to be a traitor,” Emma said softly, sighing. “I never thought I would see the day when Richmond and Gavan would fight against one another.”
Arissa’s brow furrowed with sorrow and Penelope rose unsteadily, extending her hand to her raven-haired friend. “Come, let us go inside. It is much cooler in the hall and we can play games.”
Regine, splashing about loudly, meandered onto the shore. Still tubby and round at the brink of womanhood, she hadn’t changed overly in the past several months. In truth, with all of the transformations Arissa had been witness to, she found the fact that Regine had remained constant very comforting. Some things never changed.
“Forget about the games, Riss,” Regine said loudly, plopping heavily on the grass beside her sister. With a contented sigh, she moved to rest her head on Arissa’s vanishing lap. “Let’s talk about Ronald de Becket. Do you suppose he will come to call on me now that he and father have become good friends, battling the Welsh together?”
Battling Richmond, you mean. Arissa tried not to let her depression reflect on her sister’s eagerness to attract a beau. With her thirteenth birthday approaching in less than three weeks, Regine was eager now more than ever to find a husband and Arissa resigned herself to the fact that her baby sister’s inquisitive ideals would never change. “I do not know, Regine. He’s rather old for you, do not you think? He’s past thirty years.”
“And Richmond is forty,” Regine snapped before she could stop herself. As Penelope and Emma looked on with varied levels of sorrow and apprehension, Regine quickly sat up beside her sister with remorse in her eyes. “I am sorry, Riss. I did not mean to…. it does not matter how old he is.”
Arissa opened her mouth to reply when a familiar figure approached across the grass, his fair hair glistening under the bright sun. “I have been sent to escort you inside,” Bartholomew de Lohr announced loudly. “Word had come down from Hera herself; escort the fair Muses into the safe haven of Olympus before Hades himself burns them to a crisp.”
Distracted from Regine, Arissa smiled brightly at her brother. Convinced he had been killed by the Welsh spies, it was a perpetual surprise to realize he had been fortunate enough to survive his injury.
It had taken him months to recover from his near-mortal wound, leaving him a good deal thinner and considerably weaker. Yet in spite of the physical obstacles, Bartholomew’s spirits had never been healthier; he was the same brilliant eccentric she had come to know and love.
“Which Hera might that be?” she asked as he extended his hand to help her to stand. Between Penelope, Bartholomew and Regine, Arissa was able to rise easily. “Do you refer to Lady Maude or my mother?”
