Timeless Tales of Honor (73 page)

The dark December sky crowded with gray-puff clouds, threatening rain as three grieving mortals huddled beneath it. But God did not choose to add to the sorrow that cloaked the muddy field; a brisk sea breeze gently whisked the clouds away, leaving the night a brilliant, beautiful thing indeed.

W
hitby Abbey was nestled
upon the sheer cliffs of the Yorkshire coast, a looming gray sentinel above the churning waters. A large structure, moody and silent, Arissa took one look at her future home and burst into tears. Seated on the wagon bed, Emma did her best to comfort her friend as she too drew in the imposing sight.

The caravan passed through the eastern portion of the North York Moors, hugging the coastline as they drew closer to the stone abbey. It could be seen in the distance for several miles, hanging on the horizon as if silently beckoning the approaching horde into her gaping jaws. After her first glimpse, Arissa refused to look at the structure any longer and turned her back on it stubbornly. With every step her grief took greater foothold and she sobbed quietly into her kerchief as Emma held her hand.

Although his reaction had not been quite as emotional, Richmond too felt the distinct pressure of sorrow as his eyes beheld the abbey with the solid reputation. The closer the column drew, the weightier the sentiment became until he found himself looking away from the structure. He just couldn’t stomach to look at it anymore.

It did not strike him odd that Gavan seemed to be in full command of the troops this morn, allowing his liege the opportunity to become acquainted with the idea that the day of separation had finally come. All of Richmond's energies were focused on the larger-than-life cathedral looming ever closer, threatening to snatch what was most precious to him, and he found himself struggling against the familiar anxiety that had plagued him for well over a week.

Twenty glorious days filled with the ever-lurking threat of separation. Forcing himself to concentrate on his strategies, he found himself planning his schedule once he deposited Arissa within the safety of Whitby's walls; to plea for her hand, to wrangle the king's cooperation in the matter, to settle the unpleasant business at hand. He began to calm as he determined the time table by which to complete his duties and retrieve Arissa. It was going to be as short as he could possibly make it.

Richmond was so involved with his thoughts that he was genuinely startled when several of his men chorused an alarm. Momentarily off-guard, he reined his destrier in the indicated direction only to be faced with a band of soldiers charging towards him across the bleak moor.

It took him less than a second to observe the wicked flash of weapons in the weak sunlight, at least a hundred men armed for warfare, and his heart surged into his throat when he realized, very shortly, they would be under attack.

"Gavan!" he roared, unsheathing his mighty broadsword. "Take Arissa and Emma to the abbey!"

Gavan was already in motion, the surge of an impending fight infiltrating his veins. Digging his golden spurs into the charger's sides, he made his way toward the ladies as Richmond's men-at-arms took up defensive positions.

Arissa and Emma were hovering at the edge of the rig, watching the rapidly approaching army with a good deal of fright. Gavan drove his steed to the edge of the bed, holding out an arm.

"Riss, Emma!" he shouted. "Come to me! Hurry!"

Arissa did not hesitate. She leapt into his arms in a great bundle of burgundy and gray wool, barely seated in front of him before he was extending his arm to Emma. Wedged behind the mighty knight, Emma wrapped her arms about his armored waist and closed her eyes tightly as he spurred his destrier toward the abbey. She had never been so terrified in her entire life.

Richmond glanced at Gavan and the women as they charged past him, too caught up in planning a defense to give them more than a look. Ordering the wagon to follow Gavan, he commanded his men forward to meet the onslaught; in truth, there was no place for them to run, nowhere to hide. With the sheer cliffs of Yorkshire to their backside and surrounded by miles of bleak moors, there was nothing to do but face the attack with their customary courage.

Even as his men moved to greet the assault, he was wildly curious to know who would be launching an attack against him this far north. Surely the Welsh would not stray so far from their borders in a group of this considerable size, and he knew with great certainty that William would not have sent an army to trail him only to launch an attack at the very moment Arissa reached her destination.

Bearing that in mind, he met the wave of incoming soldiers with his habitual boldness, slicing through flesh and bone easily. Dispatching two soldiers immediately, he raised his sword to a third when his gaze fell on the brilliant colors of the man's tunic.

Green and gold
. De Rydal bore colors of green and gold. In that horrified slice of an instant, realization dawned. He knew the identity of the attacking army and panic surged through his veins like nothing he had ever experienced before. God help him, there was little question as to who had planned the attack. His bright blue eyes sought out the face he knew to be looming somewhere within the midst of the battling soldiers.

Aye, he knew who it was. And he had to find him.

He had to kill him.

G
avan reached
the abbey with the thundering wagon on his heels. The sounds of battle wafted from the moor in the distance and he was desperate to move Arissa and Emma to safety. Pulling the ladies off his snorting charger, he hastened to the massive oak door that protected the abbey from the outside world.

He had barely lifted his fist to knock when the door flew open. Several nuns, wide-eyed with fright, gazed between the massive knight and the fields beyond.

"Sir Knight," the nun who had opened the door spoke softly, her voice quaking. "What hell has been brought about us?"

Gavan thrust Arissa and Emma forward, ignoring the pleading question. "Take them," he commanded. "I shall return."

As Arissa stumbled into the nuns' protective custody, Emma turned her big blue eyes to the man who had been determined to ignore her for the better part of three weeks. With a bloody battle waging in the near distance, she was in a panic over his safety. She put a hand on his arm.

"Gavan," she said. "Please.... please be careful. If something hap...."

He cut her off sharply, yet with the distinct gentleness she had seen on occasion where it usually pertained to Arissa. All Emma had ever seen in his eyes when he gazed into her face was annoyance.

"Child's play, my lady,” he assured her softly. “Trust me that all will be well."

Swallowing hard at the gallant, confident expression, it was almost as if he was pleased for her concern. As if he welcomed it. She'd grown so accustomed to his rejection that open kindness was a baffling concept to behold.

"But...,” she stammered. “But...."

He shook his head, squeezing her hand reassuringly as he removed it from his arm. "Please excuse me while I banish these ruffians from Whitby's lands. Have no doubt that the battle shall be brief."

He turned on his heel and mounted his charger, ordering the wagon out of sight. Unsheathing his brilliant broadsword, he turned his destrier in the direction of the battle and spurred the beast into a gallop.

Arissa, Emma, and a host of nuns watched Gavan make haste toward the skirmish. After several long, dazed moments, gentle hands reached out to grasp the young ladies and pull them into the dimly-lit interior of the abbey. As the ancient door closed, Arissa and Emma found a host of curious faces upon them.

Arissa swallowed hard, dazed and shaken with the turn of events. "I.... I am the Lady Arissa de Lohr. I believe you are expecting me."

The nuns stared at her a moment before looking to each other in confusion. Arissa and Emma passed uncertain glances and Arissa cleared her throat daintily, preparing to explain.

"I was due to arrive after the first of the year, yet because of unforeseen circumstances I find myself having arrived early," when the nuns continued to look baffled, Arissa hastened to clarify the still-puzzling situation. "My....my father is the Earl of Berkshire. Surely your mother abbess is aware of my impending arrival?"

"I am.”

A sultry, low voice came from behind the group of nuns. Startled, the women clad in gray parted to reveal an older woman, swathed in a heavy woolen habit from her head to her toes. Shielded in the dank shadows, she moved forward with the grace of a cat and Arissa found herself gazing into piercing, all-knowing eyes. They appraised her openly and Arissa struggled against the urge to shy from the intense stare.

After several moments of scrutiny, the woman drew in a deep breath as if satisfied with her observation. "You do not look like your father. He’s rather fair."

Swallowing again to regain of measure of composure, Arissa nodded weakly; there was something in the woman's eyes that suggested she was not speaking of William de Lohr.

"I.... I am told I favor my mother," she said softly.

The woman did not respond and Arissa could again feel the heat of her gaze. Averting her eyes, she pondered the well-scrubbed stone floor, the bare walls, acutely aware of the smells of soot and must around her; it was an atmosphere she discovered to be most cloying. She found her thoughts drifting to Richmond when a soft, wrinkled hand suddenly reached out to clasp her chin.

The abbess' eyes were far gentler than they had been moments before. "Look at me, child, do not hide your beauty," she said quietly. "What is it you have brought to my doorstep? A battle for your very soul, mayhap?"

"I.... I do not know who has attacked us, Your Grace," Arissa stammered. "We were caught by surprise."

The abbess gazed at her a moment longer, scrutinizing features so fine she would have sworn that God himself had intended to have her. A young lady she had been expecting for eighteen years, whose heritage and bloodlines were as powerful as England herself. She recognized the features, as they were very similar to another woman she knew.

A woman she had met for the first time eighteen years ago, devastated and crushed by circumstances beyond her control. A woman she had nurtured to a fragile emotional health that, to this day, was still not particularly robust. Gazing into the familiar features of the young woman before her, she hoped the sight of pale green eyes and raven-black hair would be enough to fortify the aching spirit housed within these old walls for the past eighteen years. The ache of a mother's love.

"I am Mother Abbess Mary Deus," she said after an eternal pause, dropping her hand from the lovely face. "You are indeed early, as we were not expecting you until the week after Christmas. But your company is welcomed all the same and we will not question God's wisdom in bringing you to us sooner than intended," her intense gaze moved from Arissa to Emma, and she fixed her heady stare on the young blond girl. "I am afraid servants are not allowed at Whitby, my lady. She must return to Lambourn."

"She’s not my servant," Arissa grabbed hold of Emma, pulling her forward for the abbess' inspection. "This is the Lady Emma Trevor. She wishes to pledge servitude to God."

The abbess cocked an eyebrow, indicating either disbelief or pleasure. "I see," she replied non-committally. After a moment, the woman turned to the other nuns. “Where is Sister Repentia?"

"In the kitchens, Mother," came a soft reply.

Mary Deus nodded briefly and Arissa swore she saw the woman's jaw tick. "Seek her. Inform her that our new pledge has arrived."

A nun broke off from the crowd, shuffling away on silent feet. When the woman disappeared into the depths of the sanctuary, the abbess refocused her attention on the two frightened young women before her. A weak smile creased her lips.

"You are undoubtedly tired. Follow me and you shall be refreshed."

Still clutching one another as if permanently joined, Arissa and Emma did as they were told. As they moved down the ancient corridor, each lady found herself torn between great curiosity for her new surroundings and a deep concern for the raging skirmish in the moor.

Beckoned into the bowels of the musty abbey, they found themselves in a soaring gallery, rather small in size, but the ceilings overhead were of magnificent height. There were a few tables, scrubbed and worn, and little else. The entire place reeked of dampness, of age, and of a humble existence.

The mother abbess bade the ladies to sit. "Sister Repentia will be with you shortly," she said, watching as the young women silently took their seats. "This is where we eat and pray, and sometimes it is used to house weary travelers who seek refuge for the night," she indicated a slumped bundle against the far wall, hidden in the depths of the shadows. "Alas, that man came to us recovering from a great injury. As we commonly do not accept men into our sanctuary, he was quite weak and we could not refuse him aid."

Arissa and Emma turned to stare at the swathed figure. "Do you tend a lot of sickness?" Arissa asked softly. "I am aware that some abbeys dedicate themselves to healing, but I did not believe Whitby to be such an establishment."

"It is not," Mary Deus replied. "We prefer the isolated life, paying reverence to God and doing penitence for man's evil nature. In fact, I harbor five recluse nuns within my abbey, women intent on maintaining the purest life possible."

Arissa nodded in understanding, folding her hands and trying not to appear overly unnerved. Although her body was safely guarded within the confines of the gallery, her mind wandered outside the walls of the abbey, seeking Richmond as he waged battle in the moors beyond. She was horribly worried.

Tears sprang to her eyes and she lowered her head, desperately attempting to fend off the tide of emotions. The mother abbess excused herself without a word, leaving Arissa and Emma alone in the midst of their fear and disorientation.

Alone in a mysterious realm of holy penitence and literal scripture; alone without those they loved for the first time in their young lives.

Alone at Whitby.

M
ary Deus moved
into the lightless depths of the abbey's kitchen, a large room filled with the sharp smells of smoke. Her intense eyes searched for the familiar figure that inhabited this chamber most of the time, a woman who took delight in preparing God's bountiful harvest. But the room was vacant and the mother abbess sighed slowly, wondering if the nun who had been sent to inform Sister Repentia of the newly arrived pledge had only succeeded in chasing the woman into hiding.