Chapter Sixteen
Whitby 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.
*
Gavan 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 a 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.”