The Unveiling, Tamara Leigh [ebook and pdf reader .TXT] 📗

men, especially those considered seriously lacking. Though Jonas's missives spoke little of that training, all knew it was merciless.

The hare crept forward.

Hold! Jonas’s voice, almost real enough to fan her cheek, made her smile, cracking the mud she had smeared on her face as her brother had also taught her to do.

She squeezed her eyes closed. Thirteen months since he had departed for Wulfen. Thirteen months in training with the feared Wulfrith who allowed no women within his walls. Thirteen months to make Jonas into a man worthy to lord the barony of Aillil that would be his as Uncle Artur's heir.

The hare thumped.

Annyn jerked, startling the creature into bounding from the thicket.

Follow, follow, follow!

She swung the arrow tip ahead of the hare and released.

With a shriek that made her wince as she did each time she felled one of God's creatures, the hare collapsed on a bed of muddy leaves.

Meat on the table, Annyn told herself as she tramped to where her prey lay. Not caring that she dirtied her hose and tunic, she knelt beside it.

“Godspeed,” she said, hoping to hurry it to heaven though Father Cornelius said no such place existed for animals. But what did a man who did not know how to smile know of God's abode? She lifted the hare and tugged her arrow free. Satisfied to find tip and feathers intact, she wiped the shaft on her tunic and thrust the arrow into her quiver.

She stood. A catch of good size. Not that Uncle Artur would approve of her fetching meat to the table. He would make a show of disapproval, as he did each time she ventured to the wood, then happily settle down to a meal of hare pie. Of course, Annyn must first convince Cook to prepare the dish. But he would, and if she hurried, it could be served at the nooning meal. She slung the bow over her shoulder and ran.

If only Jonas were here, making me strain to match his longer stride. If only he were calling taunts over his shoulder. If only he would go from sight only to pounce upon me. Lord, I do not know what I will do if—

She thrust aside her worry with the reminder that, soon enough, she would have the assurance she sought. This very eve she would cut her mess of black hair, don garments Jonas had worn as a page, and leave under cover of dark. In less than a sennight, she could steal into Wulfen Castle, seek out her brother, and return to Aillil. As for Uncle Artur...

She paused at the edge of the wood and eyed Castle Lillia across the open meadow. Her disappearance would send dread through her uncle, but if she told him what she intended, he would not allow it.

She toed the damp ground. If he would but send a missive to Wulfen to learn how Jonas fared, this venture of hers need not be undertaken. However, each time she asked it of her uncle, he teased that she worried too much.

Movement on the drawbridge captured Annyn’s regard. A visitor? A messenger from Wulfen? Mayhap Jonas once more returned for willful behavior? She squinted at the standard flown by the rider who passed beneath the raised portcullis and gasped. It belonged to the Wulfriths!

Though the men on the walls usually called to Annyn and bantered over her frightful appearance, her name did not unfurl any tongues when she approached the drawbridge.

Ignoring her misgivings, she paused to seek out the bearded Rowan who, as captain of the guard, was sure to be upon the gatehouse. He was not, but William was.

She thrust the hare high. “Next time, boar!”

He did not smile. “My lady, hasten to the donjon. The Baron Wul—”

“I know! My brother is returned?”

He averted his gaze. “Aye, Lady Annyn, your brother is returned.”

So, neither could the renowned Baron Wulfrith order Jonas's life. She might have laughed if not that it boded ill for her brother’s training to be terminated. Though of good heart, he had thrice been returned by fostering barons who could no more direct him than his uncle with whom he and Annyn had lived these past ten years. Thus, until Uncle Artur had sent Jonas to Wulfen Castle, brother and sister had been more together than apart. Soon they would be together again.

Silently thanking God for providing what she had asked, she darted beneath the portcullis and into the outer bailey, passing castle folk who stared after her with something other than disapproval. Telling herself her flesh bristled from chill, she entered the inner bailey where a half dozen horses stood before the donjon, among them Jonas's palfrey. And a wagon.

As she neared, the squire who held the reins of an enormous white destrier looked around. Surprise first recast his narrow face, then disdain. “Halt, you!”

She needed no mirror to know she looked more like a stable boy than a lady, but rather than allow him to mistake her as she was inclined to do, she said, “It is Lady Annyn you address, Squire.”

Disdain slid back into surprise, and his sleepy green eyes widened further when he saw the hare. “Lady?” As if struck, he looked aside.

Annyn paused alongside Jonas’s horse and laid a hand to its great jaw. “I thank you for bringing him home.” She ran up the steps.

The porter was frowning when she reached the uppermost landing. “My lady, your uncle and Baron Wulfrith await. Pray, go quick 'round to the kitchen and put yourself to order.”

Baron Wulfrith at Lillia? She glanced over her shoulder at the white destrier. How could she not have realized its significance? The baron must be angry indeed to have returned Jonas himself. Unless—

William's unsmiling face. The lack of disapproval usually shown her by the castle folk. The wagon.

Not caring what her appearance might say of her, she lunged forward.

“My lady, pray—”

“I will see my brother now!”

The porter’s mouth worked as if to conjure argument, but he shook his head and opened the door. “I am sorry, Lady Annyn.”

The apology chilling her further, she stepped inside.

The hall was still, not a sound to disturb God and His angels were they near.

Blinking to adjust to the indoors, she caught sight of those on the dais. As their backs were turned to her and heads were bent, she wondered what they looked upon. More, where was Jonas?

The hare's hind legs dragging the rushes where the animal hung at her side, she pressed forward, all the while telling herself Jonas would soon lunge from an alcove and thump her to the floor.

“’Twas an honorable death, Lord Bretanne,” a deep voice struck silence from the hall.

Annyn halted and picked out the one who had spoken—a big man in height and breadth, hair cut to the shoulders.

Dear God, of whom does he speak?

He stepped aside, clearing the space before the lord's table to reveal the one she desperately sought.

The hare slipped from her fingers, the bow from her shoulder. Vaguely aware of the big man and his companions swinging around, she stared at her brother's profile that was the shade of a dreary day. And there stood Uncle Artur opposite, hands flat on the table upon which Jonas was laid, head bowed, shoulders hunched up to his ears.

Annyn stumbled into a run. “Jonas!”

“What is this?” the deep voice demanded.

When Uncle's head came up, his rimmed eyes reflected shock at the sight of her. But there was only Jonas. In a moment she would have him up from the table and—

She collided with a hauberked chest and would have fallen back if not for the hand that fastened around her upper arm. It was the man who had spoken. She swung a foot and connected with his unmoving shin.

He dragged her up to her toes. “Who is this whelp that runs your hall like a dog, Lord Bretanne?”

Annyn reached for him where he stood far above. He jerked his head back, but not before her nails peeled back the skin of his cheek and jaw.

With a growl, he drew back an arm.

“Halt! ’Tis my niece.”

The fist stopped above her face. “What say you?”

As Annyn stared at the large knuckles, she almost wished they would grind her bones so she might feel a lesser pain.

“My niece,” Uncle said with apology, “Lady Annyn Bretanne.”

The man delved her dirt-streaked face. “This is a woman?”

“But a girl, Lord Wulfrith.”

Annyn looked from the four angry scores on the man's cheek to his grey-green eyes. This was Wulfrith? The one to whom Jonas was entrusted? Who was to make of him a man? Who had made of him a corpse?

“Loose me, cur!” She spat in the scratchy little voice Jonas often teased her about.

“Annyn!” Uncle protested.

Wulfrith's grip intensified and his pupils dilated.

Refusing to flinch as Jonas had told her she should never do, she held steady.

“’Tis the Baron Wulfrith to whom you speak, child,” her uncle said as he came around the table, his voice more stern than she had ever heard it.

She continued to stare into the face she had marked. “This I know.”

Uncle laid a hand on Wulfrith's shoulder. “She is grieved, Lord Wulfrith. Pray, pity her.”

Annyn glared at her uncle. “Pity me? Who shall pity my brother?”

He recoiled, the pain of a heart that had loved his brother's son causing his eyes to pool.

Wulfrith released Annyn. “Methinks it better that I pity you, Lord Bretanne.”

Barely containing the impulse to spit on him, she jumped back and looked fully into his face: hard, sharp eyes, nose slightly bent, proud cheekbones, firm mouth belied by a full lower lip, cleft chin. And falling back from a face others might think handsome, silver hair—a lie, for he was not of an age that bespoke such color. Indeed, he could not have attained much more than twenty and five years.

“Were I a man, I would kill you,” she rasped.

His eyebrows rose. “’Tis good you are but a little girl.”

If not for Uncle's hand that fell to her shoulder, Annyn would have once more set herself at Wulfrith.

“You err, child.” Uncle Artur spoke firm. “Jonas fell in battle. His death is not upon the baron.”

She shrugged out from beneath his hand and ascended the dais. Her brother was clothed in his finest tunic, about his waist a silver-studded belt from which a sheathed misericorde hung. He had been made ready for burial.

She laid a hand on his chest and willed his heart to beat again. But nevermore. “Why, Jonas?” The first tear fell, wetting the dried mud on her face.

“They were close.” Uncle Artur’s low words pierced her. “’Twill be difficult for her to accept.”

Annyn swung around to face those who stared at her with disdain and pity. “How did my brother die?”

Was Wulfrith’s hesitation imagined? “It happened at Lincoln.”

She gasped. Yesterday they had received tidings of the bloody battle between the armies of England's self-proclaimed king, Stephen, and the young Henry, grandson of the departed King Henry and rightful heir to the throne. In spite of numerous skirmishes, raids, and deaths, it was told that neither man could claim victory at Lincoln. Nor could Jonas.

“Your brother squired for me. He was felled while delivering a lance to the field.”

Despite her trembling, Annyn held Wulfrith’s gaze. “What felled him?”

Something turned in his steely eyes. “An arrow to the heart.”

All for Stephen’s defense of his misbegotten claim to England.

She sank her nails into her palms. How it had pained Jonas to stand the side of the usurper when it was Henry he