The Unveiling (13 page)

Though the man did not appear drunk where he sat astride an ivory destrier, he presented as somewhat older than she had first thought.
Was
he older, or was it an excess of drink that aged him?

Garr halted and considered the man. So, Henry had sent Geoffrey Lavonne to do his bidding. Interesting choice, for not four years ago, Garr had himself knighted Lavonne alongside Sir Merrick in a ceremony that had been absent Jonas Bretanne.

Pressed heavily by memories of the young man he had returned to Castle Lillia in a cart, he put them from his mind.

In matters of warfare, Lavonne had proven himself worthy of knighthood. Forsooth, he had surpassed most, though never Jonas Bretanne. However, his imperious bearing caused him to be disliked. He was boastful, antagonistic, and inclined to drink. Too, though his family supported Stephen’s rule, Garr had sensed the young man’s lean toward Henry. Now that Geoffrey was a baron, he had turned to Henry’s side. And regardless of his training at Wulfen, it would have no bearing on what his new liege had sent him to do. A man’s body could be trained in the ways of service and honor, but his heart did not always follow.

Garr glanced to where his brother, Everard, was mounted to the left of Lavonne, behind him a half score of squires. Standing guard on the other side of Henry’s men was Sir Merrick, also bounded by squires. And center upon the wall was Abel and the others. Arrows trained on those who had come uninvited to Wulfen, they would easily fell any who raised a sword.

With such numbers, Henry’s men would not dare. Of course, without they likely would, which once more returned Garr to the presence he had sensed in the wood. It had to have been one of Lavonne’s men.

Garr wiped the moisture from his brow. “Deliver your tidings, Lord Lavonne.”

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Braose’s startle at the name of the man who had come to Wulfen. Did they know each other?

“Tidings are best relayed over a tankard of ale”—Lavonne shifted in his saddle—“a platter of venison”—he jutted his chin toward the deer—”and a warm fire.”

“Indeed.” Garr looked to those accompanying the baron. A dozen knights, a half dozen squires. Too many to allow within. “Then come inside, Lord Lavonne, and relay your tidings.” He signaled for the drawbridge to be lowered.

The baron turned his horse and nodded to his entourage.

“Choose three to accompany you,” Garr called as the chains of the drawbridge let out.

Lavonne jerked his horse around, kicking up mud that further befouled Garr’s boots. “Three?” he bellowed

Garr looked to his boots, back to Lavonne. “Two.”

The man threw off his hood. “What do you think? That I shall put a knife to you in your own hall?”

Beside Garr, Braose shifted.

Lavonne swept up a hand. “In the presence of your
men
?”

It was a taunt, but if Lavonne did think to steal upon him, he would soon recall that the squires of Wulfen were more worthy than most knighted elsewhere.

“Two,” Garr repeated.

Lavonne’s lips thinned. “With this weather, we shall require a night’s lodging.”

“If I grant it, you shall be given a chamber. As for the others, they may raise their tents outside my walls.”

The baron’s jaw bulged, but he bit, “Two ’tis,” and chose his knights.

With a final groan, the drawbridge met the ground. As Garr crossed over it, Squire Jame trailing, the weight he had carried these past years settled more heavily on his sodden shoulders. It was time to choose between England and loyalty. Either way, blood would be let.

Squire for Baron Lavonne? That arrogant, insolent sot whose voice had time and again risen from the solar during the three hours he had spent behind its curtains with Wulfrith? Who had been content with naught at Wulfrith’s table during the evening meal? Who had made full show of his vainglory even as he showed himself to be a fool with each swill of ale?

Annyn sighed. At least he did not disappoint, for he was exactly as his reputation told—a reputation that had chilled her when he had sent a missive to Uncle a year past suggesting a marriage between him and Aillil’s heiress. As his lands adjoined Uncle’s, he had sought to improve his lot. Fortunately for her, his recent siding with Henry had caused Uncle to reject the offer and they had not been introduced. Unfortunately, that new alliance had nearly gained him the wife Uncle had refused him.

Curse him!
And curse Wulfrith for offering “Squire Jame”—thankfully, he had not spoken the surname—for the duration of his stay. Not only had Annyn’s dislike of Geoffrey Lavonne trebled since his arrival, but there remained the possibility he might recognize her from Uncle’s hall.

Pray, let me not be made to undress him,
she silently pleaded as she mounted the stairs with her pallet and blanket beneath an arm.
Let him be drunk asleep on the bed.
It
was
possible considering the effort required for him to cross the hall a short while ago.

“Squire Jame!”

She looked around. Though Sir Merrick was only two steps down from her, she had been too chafed to hear his approach.

“Sir Merrick?”

He opened his mouth, but closed it as if to rethink his words. Finally, he said. “Sleep light. The one you serve this eve is not to be trusted.”

There was depth to the warning, as if... “You know the baron, my lord?”

His lips compressed and brow lowered above his sleepy eyes. “If one can truly know such a man, aye. He and I were knighted together four years past.”

Then the baron had trained under Wulfrith. Four years past...

Finally, Annyn grasped what had eluded her. Sir Merrick was the squire who had attended Wulfrith in bringing Jonas home, the same who had mistaken her for other than a lady. Had he served alongside Jonas? He must have, or at least known her brother. But why had he remained at Wulfen? Were not all those who trained here destined for lordships? Surely there were lands that Sir Merrick ought to be administering.

He heaved a sigh. “Sleep lightly, young Jame.”

“I shall.”

Annyn stared after him as he descended the steps. Did he know anything of Jonas’s death? Might Lavonne? He had also been present during Jonas’s training. Of course, what was there to be told that she did not already know? Jonas had been murdered, and surely Wulfrith was responsible. Had to be. Didn’t he?

Cease this senseless pondering!
Though Wulfrith might be capable of showing kindness, it did not make him incapable of murder. Still, she was afflicted by doubt. Grumbling, she turned and climbed the last of the stairs.

As she paused on the landing, the chapel at the end of the corridor drew her gaze, it being the only room abovestairs that she had previously entered. Though the doors were closed, a flicker of light shone from beneath. As at Lillia, candles were kept lit before the altar.

Annyn sighed. Too soon she must drag from her pallet and hasten to make mass on time to avert Wulfrith’s wrath. Too soon she must choke down bread and cheese on her way to the training field. Of course, with the day’s rainfall—

Nay, still they would run as they did every morning.
War does not wait for good weather,
she imagined Wulfrith making a lesson of it. Hopefully, the rain would cease during the night.

She crossed to the chamber that Squire Warren had told her belonged to Wulfrith’s brother, Everard, and which Lavonne had been given for the night. The baron’s companions were in the next chamber that belonged to the youngest of the Wulfriths, Sir Abel. Unlike Lavonne, they had not been given a squire to tend them.

Annyn dropped her pallet to the left of the door where she was to sleep “lightly” and knocked.

“Enter!” Lavonne shouted.

Annyn pushed the door open.

From his chair before the brazier, the baron waved her forward and slurred, “Come quick ere all the heat escapes, fool!”

He will not recognize you. If he once lifted his gaze beyond his tankard at Lillia, ’twould have been much. And, once again, he is full up in his cups.
She closed the door behind her. “My lord, I am to serve you.”

“Aye, now be the good little man Wulfrith has taught you to be and see me out of these filthy clothes.”

Suppressing a groan, she started toward the bed. “I shall first turn back the covers.”

“You shall first undress me!”

She met his fiery gaze. “Aye, my lord.”

She would start with his boots. Though she had yet to perform such service, it was surely the place to begin, especially as he looked to have no intention of prying himself out of the chair.

When she tugged off the first boot, a sour odor assailed her and she dipped her head to conceal a grimace. The second boot proved as base.

“You have not been long at Wulfen, have you?” Lavonne asked.

She set the boots before the brazier to dry. “A sennight, my lord.”

“I am given a squire with but a sennight’s training?” He pushed on the arms of the chair as if to lever up, but immediately collapsed.

Annyn stood. “I am sure Lord Wulfrith’s choice was not meant to offend,” she rushed to defend a man who could well defend himself. “I vow, Lord Lavonne, I am capable—”

“Enough!” Glowering as if he were a child refused a sweet, he turned his face to the brazier and muttered, “Never was I worthy enough.”

“My lord?”

“Leave me!”

Annyn hastened to the door lest he call her back. There, she glanced behind.

Lavonne’s head hung on his chest, but not in sorrow. He was no longer conscious.

In the corridor, she spread her pallet and, as she did each night, removed only her boots. However, no sooner did she settle a shoulder to her pallet than the light at the end of the corridor tempted her. The flicker of candlelight shone not only from beneath the doors of the chapel, but the seam where the two doors did not quite meet. Someone had entered.

She tossed the blanket aside and padded to the chapel to peer through the narrow opening between the doors.

It was Wulfrith. Silver head bowed, he knelt before the altar. Seeing the proud warrior humbled made new doubt ripple through her and caused the vow she had made Rowan to stagger. She should not be here.

Feeling a presence at his back, Garr opened his eyes. Braose? Though fairly certain it was the young man whose pallet he had seen alongside Lavonne’s chamber minutes earlier, he flexed his prayerful fingers in anticipation of bringing his dagger to hand. This night, men who would become his enemies if he did not join them were within and without his walls.

A moment later, he caught the sound of retreat and lifted his head. “Why do you come to my back?” He settled his gaze on the relics upon the altar.

The door whispered wider and the young man answered, “’Tis I, my lord, Jame Braose.”

Garr eased his mind from the dagger. “Come within.”

“It is late. I—”

“Lesson three!”

“Act when told to act,” he begrudged. A few moments later, he stood beside Garr.

“I have another lesson for you, Braose.”

“My lord?”

“Thirteen: be quick to show respect in the house of the Lord.”

Though Braose was surely groaning inside, he dropped to his knees.

Garr closed his eyes and returned to his prayers.

“My lord?”

Gripping patience, Garr looked to the young man.

“For what do you pray?”

For more than he could tell. Three hours he had spent with Lavonne as the man droned on about England’s heir and what would be required of the Wulfriths in Henry’s England. Through it, all Garr could think was what a pity it was that Henry did not better choose men to speak for him. But why was Braose so forward? “Why do you ask?”

The young man looked to his clasped hands. “I am never certain what to pray for, especially as it seems that all I ask for is denied me.”

“Do you not ask that Henry be king?”

The young man’s head snapped up, and there was no mistaking the fear in his pale blue eyes, fleeting though it was. “You do not know that is what I ask.”

“But I do.” Garr smiled derisively. “In sending you to me, no doubt your father thinks to turn you to Stephen’s side.”

Braose looked to the altar, and the silence grew until, finally, he conceded, “
Can
you turn me to Stephen?”

Garr studied his profile—a pretty one that, hopefully, would become masculine with maturity. He frowned. What was it about Braose that continued to niggle at him? Strangely, the answer felt within reach, as if it might be unveiled if only Garr would take hold of it.

Braose met Garr’s gaze. “Can you, my lord?”

If only he could read the young man’s eyes, but they remained largely closed to him. Still, one thing was clear. Garr shook his head. “Henry is strong in you. But others have turned. Not that it is expected. If it happens, so be it and the father is either well-pleased or greatly displeased. Regardless, he has a son worthy to administer and defend his lands.”

“You say you do not try to turn them?”

“What is lesson ten, Braose?”

“Let no man make your way for you.”

“Aye. Those who leave Wulfen would not be worthy of knighthood if they allowed another to choose their allegiance.”

After a long moment, Braose said, “You have not told me what you pray for, my lord.”

Garr returned his regard to the altar where he came when troubled. Here he sought answers as his mother had first taught him to do. “I pray for England, young Jame. I pray for all that is best for our land. I pray it once more prosper and war be buried with the dead.”

“And you think Stephen and Eustace are best for England?”

How bold he was! But rather than rebuke him, Garr said, “Though loyalty holds me to Stephen, naught could hold me to his son.”

Surprise rose in Braose’s eyes. “For what have you to be loyal, my lord?”

Aye, for what, especially now that there was Eustace? It was the same Garr had asked himself time over, and always the answer was, “Stephen saved my father’s life when they were young men. My father vowed ever to be his man.”

“Then ’tis for him, a ghost, that you remain loyal to Stephen.” Braose shook his head. “What of lesson ten: let no man make your way for you?”