Timeless Tales of Honor (81 page)

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 her cheeks 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."

M
ayhap it was
because 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 Henry a 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.

"Hand over your sword," the Welsh soldier commanded.

Richmond unsheathed his broadsword immediately, delivering the heavy weapon hilt-end first. As the patrol encompassed him in a protective circle, the group spurred their horses toward the distant camp.

The atmosphere was heavy with smoke as Richmond reined his charger into the belly of the encampment, noting the heavily-clad soldiers as they patrolled the cluster of tents under the threat of a fierce snow. A host of dark eyes returned his impassive gaze as he halted his steed in the indicated area, dismounting into nearly a foot of slushy snow.

Two of the soldiers from the patrol took the lead, directing him to follow. Richmond passed a group of heavily-bundled women, whores who serviced the soldiers, and was the recipient of several suggestive leers. Ignoring the trollops, he made his way through the deep snow and into a collection of larger tents.

The soldiers led him to a lean-to shelter, constructed from oiled tarp and well-tanned hides. While one man slipped inside, Richmond waited with the other soldier under the canopy of thick gray clouds. As the rumble of soft voices emanated from inside the tent, a light dusting of snow began to fall.

Hotspur's appearance was almost immediate. Eyes wide at Richmond, he stepped out into the snow to greet his friend.

"God's Blood, Richmond!" he said in disbelief. "Why did not you send me word of your arrival? I could have met you on the border, man!"

Richmond shook the extended hand, his heart warming at the sight of his friend. But in the same breath, his sense of despair deepened as he greeted the man he would soon be forced to kill.

"It has been a long time, Henry," he said softly, feeling the warmth and camaraderie between them in spite of the unnerving circumstances. "I apologize for not sending word ahead. In fact, I couldn't be sure that you were even here."

Hotspur's smile faded somewhat. Dismissing the two soldiers with a few whispered words, he led Richmond into his tent. The interior of the shelter was warm, lit by a brightly burning vizier reeking of dung. Feeling the heat like a slap in the face, Richmond removed his helm and tossed it to the floor, already sweating. Henry grinned, handing him a goblet of wine that was eagerly accepted.

Richmond took a long drink, grimacing with the aftertaste. "Welsh wine," he muttered. "I never could develop a taste for it."

Henry snorted softly, quaffing from his own tin goblet. "When it is the only drink supplied, you learn to live with it," he drank again, refilling the chalice Richmond had already managed to drain. As Richmond put the cup to his lips, Hotspur eyed him carefully. "Care to tell me why you are here? 'Tis a long way from London."

Richmond drained his cup, already feeling the warmth fill his veins. All of his armor from the waist up fell to the floor in pieces, along with a heavy woolen tunic. Clad in his lower body protection and a relatively thin linen tunic, his poured himself a third cup of wine.

"You know why I am here," he said quietly, pondering the dark contents of his goblet. "Truthfully, Henry, do you take me for a fool? At the king's bequest, I ride to the border to assess the progression of the Welsh rebellion and upon arrival I am told that you have not been seen in weeks. It is assumed that you have turned against your king and have taken up camp within the Welsh resistance," he took a long drink, eyeing Northumberland's heir. "Would you refute these rumors?"

Hotspur stared at his friend through the dimly-lit interior of his tent. He could scarcely believe the man was before him, living and breathing. He fully expected him to be stationed in London, by Henry's side, as a missive arrived from the Welsh border announcing a precious hostage.

Henry was terribly possessive of Richmond; during the skirmish with Richard, Henry had kept Richmond with him constantly as if using the man as a bizarre security shield. Rarely had Richmond left his king's side, and the fact that he had suddenly appeared in the midst of the Welsh stand-off was somewhat of a shock.

Owen would think so, too. Although they eventually desired Richmond within their fold, to have the man here on the very day that Arissa had arrived was something of a surprising event. Glendower had prepared for months of exchanging missives before allowing Richmond into his encampment, and Hotspur was correct in his reasoning that having Richmond and their valuable hostage within the same enclosure was not a particularly attractive situation.

It was dangerous to have the lovers within such close proximity. Events could rapidly spin out of control if they weren't careful.

But for the moment, Richmond was expecting an answer and Henry struggled not to appear too distracted by the unexpected wrinkle in their plans. He smiled feebly and averted his gaze.

"I fear to refute the rumors would be to perjure myself," he said softly. "Obviously, I have taken up residence within the heart of the Welsh rebellion and I have brought two hundred of my men with me. Hundreds more will be coming from Northumberland and her allies to the north, numbers that will be able to bring Henry to his knees. But, certainly, this is of no surprise to you. If you listened to the hearsay, then you have already suspected as much."

Richmond gazed at his friend a long moment, sighing heavily after a time. Slowly, he set his empty goblet to a worn table. "I know your alliance with Henry has never been particularly strong, but I never realized it would take something as insignificant as a monarch's thoughtless ramblings to drive you to the enemy."

"Thoughtless ramblings?" Hotspur's eyebrows rose in mild outrage. "I would hardly call the slander he spouted insignificant, Richmond. The man accused me of incompetence and foolery, among other things. If my alliance to the king is dissolved, then it is by his own hand and not mine."

Richmond sighed again. "You are well aware of the careless nature of England's monarchs. You knew the loss of the three fortresses was not your fault and you should have maintained your innocence. Instead, you defect to the enemy and it makes your guilt appear entirely sincere."

Hotspur bolted from his chair, his face taut. "Do not tell me how to maintain my reputation, le Bec. My nickname speaks for itself."

"Hotspur indicates quick temper and sharp skill," Richmond returned steadily. "It would seem that at least half of that nickname is more prevalent than the other."

"Bastard," Henry muttered angrily, turning away. "How dare you come here to question my judgment and loyalties. 'Tis I who have been battling the Welsh on the border for nearly two years, only to be slapped in the face for my efforts by an ungrateful monarch who, by all accounts, isn't even the rightful king. If there was any justice of righteousness in this world, Richard would still ruling England."

"And England would still be divided by bitterness and inner turmoil. Henry, for the most part, has stopped the civil squabbles by united her feudal barons."

"Henry is king only because the church forced Richard to step down," Henry shook his head sharply. "I have no desire to argue the point with you. We will always see differently in this regard."

Richmond scratched his head wearily, thinking on another cup of wine. "Mayhap. As it is, I have ridden all the way from London to obtain the answer I have received this night," he moved to pour himself another chalice of liquor. "You are intent to oppose Henry?"

"I am."

Richmond finished pouring his wine, studying the contents closely. "Then you have put me in an extremely awkward position," he said softly. He turned to his friend, his expression one of remorse and sincerity. "You realize we will be fighting on opposite sides, Hotspur. I do not relish the idea of meeting you on the field of battle."

Henry met his gaze with a countenance of equal depth. "Nor I. But I must do what I feel is correct."

"You mean you must seek vengeance on your king."

Hotspur nodded faintly. "There is a measure of truth in that statement, but it is not the entire reason. There are several, those which we have discussed before and those I have never mentioned."

Richmond pondered his statement a moment, drinking the dark liquid in his cup. "I am sorry for the both of us. You are my good friend and I do not want to see you die."

"Nor I, you." Owen Glendower entered the tent, his dark eyes wide at the sight of Richmond le Bec. A frantic soldier had sought him in his tent, informing him that le Bec had arrived and was currently in Hotspur's company. Shocked that Richmond had made an unexpected appearance, he had hastened to join the conversation.

Gazing at the two English faces, he could see that he had been correct in assuming the topic of discussion. And he further suspected that he would be forced into playing his advantage far earlier than anticipated. In fact, he expected his bargaining pawn to arrive shortly. He’d sent for her when he heard of le Bec’s arrival. The sooner Sir Richmond and King Henry knew of his advantage, the sooner a reasonable truce could be met.

"Greetings, Sir Richmond, " Owen said quietly, moving into the room. "We have not met; my name is Lord Owen Glendower."

Richmond appraised the shorter man. "I am honored, my lord."

Owen studied the man a moment; exceedingly large, he was powerfully built and amazingly youthful-appearing for a man in his fortieth year. "We were not expecting you."

"I sent no word ahead," Richmond acknowledged. "Truthfully, I have not come to see you, but Henry. My conversation pertains to him alone at the moment."

Owen moved to a chair by the vizier; in spite of his warring ways and his Welsh ancestry, his blood was not as thick as he would have liked it to be and he was constantly seeking warmth where he could find it. Sitting, he extended his hands to the iron heater. "If you are discussing Hotspur's role against English oppression, then I am afraid your conversation does concern me," he eyed Henry. "I would assume that you have informed him of your plans?"

"Not all of them," Hotspur replied. "He’s aware that I am no longer supporting the crown."

"And he’s aware of your reasoning?"

"Aye."

"Is he also aware of his role in our plans?"

Hotspur did not reply for a moment. "We have not yet moved into that particular area."

Owen nodded faintly, noticing the gleam of curiosity in Richmond's bright eyes. After a moment, he offered the man a forced smile. "I can see that our words have piqued your interest," he rubbed his hands together in the heat. "In faith, I can tell you that our inferred plans have stemmed from Hotspur's resistance to the idea of facing you in battle. You are his friend, Sir Richmond, and he has no desire to kill you."

Richmond's jaw ticked faintly. Already, he could see that Owen was confident, ambitious and calculating. However, the man was talking in riddles and Richmond felt himself losing patience with the conversation already.

"Killing is never a true pleasure, friend or foe. It is a necessity," he said shortly. "If you would be so kind as to inform me how I seem to fit into your grand scheme for world peace, I would be obliged."

Hotspur's gaze was unreadable across the dim room, but Owen seemed to take pleasure in the imminent disclosure. When it became apparent that Hotspur had no intention of elaborating, Owen took charge.

"Hotspur does not seem to think that Henry is manageable with you leading his armies," he began softly. "It would stand to reason, then, that if Henry and I were to do battle against you and the crown's armies, the struggle for Wales' independence could never come to a harmonious ending within our lifetime. And I demand to know a measure of peace before I die."