The Unveiling (26 page)

“Your veil.” He thrust the material at her.

She accepted it, but did not settle it atop her head. It was too late, for she had already fallen beneath the regard of most in the hall, including Lady Isobel, her daughters, Sir Merrick, and Squires Warren, Samuel, and Charles.

Garr lengthened his stride, distancing himself from her as he crossed to the dais before which two men stood.

“Here now,” Abel sad, stepping past the men, “the Baron Wulfrith is returned.”

Who were they? Dreading the answer, Annyn halted before an alcove and tightly gripped the circlet and veil.

“My lord,” the tallest of the visitors said when Wulfrith stood before them, “I am Sir Christienne, come with Sir Drake to deliver tidings from Duke Henry.”

Annyn hardly dared breathe.

“Sir Christienne,” Garr acknowledged, “Sir Drake, what are these tidings?”

No offer of drink, nor of a seat to ease the ache of their long ride. Doubtless, they noticed the lack of hospitality. But then, until Garr decided which side he would join, they were the enemy.

“Duke Henry shall arrive at Stern in a fortnight,” Sir Drake answered. “He bids us to tell you there are three things he requires.”

“First?” Garr clipped.

“Your allegiance, my lord.”

“Next?”

“Sir Rowan, who is to bound up as a traitor for aiding Lady Annyn Bretanne in her flight from Castle Lillia.”

Annyn clenched the circlet so tight the metal gave. In spite of Rowan’s confession that had so reviled, she would not have him suffer more. She looked to where Garr stood with his back to her.

“Last?” he prompted.

“That you deliver Lady Annyn Bretanne who has been given to be Baron Lavonne’s betrothed.”

Though Annyn was not surprised, she felt as if a dagger rent her innards. Garr had said he would think on letting her go, but in that moment she knew he would not. Those who held against Henry’s rule would lose everything once he came to power.

Ignoring Lady Isobel’s gaze, Annyn awaited Garr’s acquiescence.

“Tell Duke Henry that the Baron Wulfrith grants him leave to come unto Stern Castle.”

Annyn caught her breath at so bold a message to one who would soon be his overlord. His king.

Sir Christienne stepped forward. “That is the message you would have us deliver, my lord?”

“Exactly as spoken.”

Finally, the knight said, “Aye, my lord. Now what do you say to the Duke’s demands?”

“That I shall give answer myself when he arrives.”

“But my lord, Duke Henry would know—”

“Exactly as spoken, Sir Christienne!”

The man inclined his head. “As spoken, my lord.”

Garr motioned to a serving wench who hovered near a sideboard. “Ale for these men that they might refresh themselves ere their return journey a quarter hour hence.”

Annyn startled. A quarter hour? That was all he gave? Of course it was. They had served their purpose and he was done with them.

She stared at Garr’s profile, but as the memory of his kiss sought her out, she retreated to the stairs. Halfway up, she realized she was not alone and, looking around, saw that Squire Warren followed.

With a self-satisfied smile, he raised an eyebrow that told how Garr had learned she had gone missing. Had she fooled Warren, he would not be so light of mouth. “What was it that revealed me?” she asked.

He pointed to the hem of her bliaut. “Though Josse is not a lady, she would not allow her ankles to show.”

But Annyn Betanne, who had pretended to be a man, had no such qualms. Worse, on the stairway she had allowed Garr—

How was it that having known and thought of him all these years as “Wulfrith” she so suddenly accepted his Christian name? Because of a kiss he would have given any harlot?

“Too”—Squire Warren glanced at her bodice—“her...uh, Josse bounces when she walks.

As the hose could not do. She smiled tightly. “Most observant, Squire Warren. I am pleased that some good came of my having outwitted you and Squire Samuel at Wulfen.”

As his humor paled, Annyn turned up the stairs. It was time to return Josse’s bliaut.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

She would no longer hide in her chamber. Knees sore from kneeling amid the rushes, hands cramped from clasping them hard before her, throat tight from all the words she had given to God’s ear, she gripped the bed post and pulled herself up.

She glanced heavenward. “I lay it at your feet, Lord. At least, I shall try.” Pained that her faith was not stronger, she crossed the chamber. When she opened the door, Squire Samuel frowned over her.

“There is something you require, my lady?”

She smoothed the bodice of Gaenor’s bliaut that fit better than Josse’s and tried not to think on the maid’s indignation that had awaited her upon her return to the chamber. “Aye, you may see me to the hall for supper.”

“A tray is to be brought to you.”

Though tempted to turn back, she stepped past him. “You are coming?”

He muttered something and followed.

Conversation was at its height when Annyn entered the great hall, but when attention turned to her, a hush fell.

Advancing on the high table where Garr reigned, she briefly met his narrowed gaze before searching out a place for herself. A bit of bench was between Beatrix and Sir Merrick, but as she settled between the two, Beatrix scooted nearer her sister. And not likely out of kindness.

Keeping her chin up, Annyn clasped her hands on the table edge to await the arrival of her trencher.

“You may share mine,” Sir Merrick offered. He pushed it between them and motioned to a serving wench.

Once more bothered by the feeling he knew something of Jonas’s death, she said, “I thank you.”

As the din of the hall was slow to resume, she looked to the nearest of the lower tables and met the stare of a man there. He shifted his gaze to the trencher he shared with another. That man also looked away, and the next. By the time the serving wench delivered a spoon to Annyn and a goblet of wine, nearly all feigned an interest in something or someone else.

“You are much improved, my lady?” Sir Merrick asked as she scooted her spoon around the trencher.

She nabbed a piece of venison. “I am. How do you fare, Sir Merrick?”

“Well.”

And yet the deep shadows beneath his eyes told otherwise. As he searched out the trencher, she wondered how best to broach the subject of Jonas. Straight on. “Did you kindly regard my brother, Sir Merrick?”

His spoon paused above the trencher.

“Ah, you did not.” Hopefully, that would move him.

He lowered his spoon. “Aye, I did. We squired together under Lord Wulfrith.”

She forced herself to dip her spoon again. “Then you were at Lincolnshire with him.”

“Why do you ask, Lady Annyn?”

She met his gaze. “That I might know how he died.”

He returned his attention to the trencher.

“Do you know, Sir Merrick?”

“Lord Wulfrith did not do it,” he finally spoke.

She laid a hand on his arm. “Nor did Jonas.”

“In that you are right.”

He knew! She waited for the rest, to finally learn who had murdered her brother, but he resumed his search of the trencher.

Annyn gripped his arm. “Will you tell me?”

“I cannot tell what I do not know, Lady Annyn.”

“But you said—”

“I did, but that is all I have to tell.” He took another bite of stew before returning his gaze to her. “As Lord Wulfrith is not one to murder, neither was your brother one to take his own life. One need not have been present at the hanging to know that.”

There had to be more.

He looked past her and frowned. “Lord Wulfrith does not like your hand upon me, my lady. Pray, spare me his jealousy and remove it.”

Annyn looked into Garr’s fierce eyes where he sat half a dozen up from her. Was it jealousy that shone from him? Jealousy when he did not want her?

“Lady Annyn?” Sir Merrick reminded her of her hand.

She looked back around. “May we speak again?”

“I shall be leaving soon.”

Then he was returning to Wulfen. “Before you leave?”

“Perhaps, though there is naught more to tell.”

Feeling as if she released a lifeline, Annyn drew her hand from him.

Garr stared. He did not like it, especially the unsettling emotion it caused to beat within his breast. Of what had the two spoken that Annyn thought to lay her hand on Merrick? What required that her head be so near his? He did not like it at all. She should have remained abovestairs where it was easier to clear his mind of her, but she had come down with her chin up and Gaenor’s bliaut sweeping curves his hands remembered.

He tightened his hold on his meat dagger. There was something about Annyn Bretanne that stuck to him and would not be brushed off. He wanted to slide his fingers through silken strands so black they knew no sliver of moon and teach her soft mouth to give as it took.

By faith! I lust!
And for a woman promised to another. Once more reminded of Duke Henry’s demands, he ground his teeth. Though the first demand was decided, all three were required.

He rose and, when those in the hall looked up with dismay at the possibility their meal was at an end, said, “Continue.” Ignoring his mother’s gaze as he strode past her, he glanced again at Annyn and Merrick. There was little space between them, but he was pleased to see they no longer conversed.

Though Annyn’s back stiffened when he passed behind her, she did not look around, and for that he was grateful. He was uncomfortable enough without having her blue eyes further stir him.

He crossed the hall, ascended the stairs, and entered the chapel.

Annyn longed for her chamber, but she knew she would find no escape there from Rowan’s revelations though she endeavored to lay them at God’s feet. Too, neither would she find insight into what Sir Merrick would not reveal. Thus, she forced herself to remain seated on the bench before the hearth in hopes that Sir Merrick might free himself from the men who had gathered to boast of swords and destriers. Would he ever? And what of Garr? Might he return to the hall?

She looked to Lady Isobel who sat opposite with a daughter on either side. Though the woman had been somewhat abrupt this evening, doubtless due to the deception worked on Josse, she persisted in her attempt to pull Annyn into a discussion. But Annyn knew little of needlework to which the three Wulfriths applied themselves. She had always found hunting and weapons more interesting. Not that she couldn’t run a stitch to cloth. Or could she? It had been so long.

“You are sure you would not like to work a piece of cloth, Lady Annyn?” Lady Isobel offered again, the foreign lilt of her voice soothing.

And enjoy herself as much as they? Truly, none of them appeared to delight in the task of plying needle and thread. It had to be something they did because it was expected—while men enjoyed themselves.

Annyn shook her head. “Needlework is the lesser of my talents.”

Gaenor’s head came up from the sleeve of a bliaut to which she applied flowers and vining leaves. “What are the greater of your talents, my lady?”

Her mockery made a fine point on the air, causing Beatrix to giggle. “I hear, Sister”—she grinned—“’tis the things of men at which she excels.” She slid her gaze to Annyn. “Is that not so,
my lady
?”

“Beatrix!” Lady Isobel admonished.

Though touched with embarrassment, Annyn told herself it was not for her to feel. She had been wrong in avenging Jonas, but at least her life had more purpose than poking and prodding a needle, tugging and jerking a thread, and suffering snags and snarled stitches. She smiled. “Most assuredly, Lady Beatrix.”

Disappointment at missing her mark caused the young woman’s pretty mouth to slouch.

“Then we make for poor company, Lady Annyn?” Gaenor tried again. “No doubt you would prefer the talk of men to the gaggle of women over needles.”

True.

“That is enough!” Color suffused Lady Isobel’s face.

Her older daughter lowered her gaze and shifted her graceless figure on the bench.

Though stung by Gaenor’s attempt to humiliate, Annyn took pity on the young woman who reminded her of herself of years past. Still, there was promise in Garr’s sister. Given a few more years, she could be most becoming—if she ceased stooping her shoulders in an attempt to subtract from her height and smiled rather than scowled.

“Actually,” Annyn said, “what I would prefer is a game of dice.”

A snort sounded from where Squire Samuel stood at her back, but it did not compare to Lady Isobel’s wide-eyed dismay. “Dice, Lady Annyn?”

Realizing she had delivered Gaenor from her mother’s wrath only to turn it on herself, Annyn regretted her choice for lightening the mood. Of course, she
did
like dicing, a game Uncle had taught her, though he had muttered over and again that he should not. It was one thing for a man to play the “sinful” game in opposition to the preachings of the Church, but far another for a woman to do so.

Annyn knew it would be best to say she jested but she decided against retreat. Decried for having disguised herself as Jame Braose, then Josse, henceforth she would simply be herself. And Lady Annyn Bretanne of the Barony of Aillil liked the casting of dice. “Aye, Lady Isobel, dice—also known as God’s game.”

“God’s game?” Gaenor and Beatrix exclaimed.

Isobel dropped her needlework. “Surely I did not hear what I think I did.”

Annyn sat forward. “Does not chance belong to Providence, my lady?”

Garr’s mother seemed to consider it but shook her head. “I shall not abide this talk of dice being of God.”

What was it Uncle had used to quiet his own conscience? “But surely you know from Bible readings that the Apostles cast lots to select the successor to Judas?”

Again, her words gave Lady Isobel pause, and again the woman shook her head. “The choice of a successor is far different from the wagering of coin that all know to be the daily ruin of nobles and villeins.”

“On that I agree, but coin does not need to be wagered to enjoy the game. Indeed, many times I have played for the plumpest apple, the sweetest tart”—she eyed the needlework in Gaenor’s lap—“so that another would undertake the task of sewing and mending.”