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

her more when she was gone from here.

“Hurry!” Beatrix urged. Young enough that none would think too ill of her, she lifted her skirts and darted across the drawbridge.

Annyn glanced around and found herself watched by the castle folk. What made her now care what any thought of her? As she lifted the hem of her own skirts, a shout pulled her regard to the training field. Garr was at its center, grunting and perspiring over a thick pel at which he swung his sword, his damp tunic molded to his chest and arms. He was not the only one at training, but she saw only him. And ached as she did not wish to.

“Lady Annyn! You are coming?”

Grateful her menses were past, the care of which would have slowed her, Annyn soon overtook Beatrix.

“There is Gaenor!” Beatrix pointed to a stand that boasted trinkets.

The two chased right and halted alongside her older sister.

“Do you think Mother would approve if I attach these to the ends of my girdle?” Gaenor showed them the tiny silver bells she cupped in her palm.

Annyn laughed. “Approve or not, do you wish all to know in advance of your arrival that you come?”

Gaenor wrinkled her nose. “I suppose not, but listen.” She shook them and they sprinkled the air with sweet notes.

Annyn tapped the lowermost bell. “Mayhap you can attach them to your horse’s bridle.”

“That I shall!” Gaenor looked to the stout, rosy-cheeked woman behind the table. “How much for the bells?”

“Three shillings, my lady. And a fine bargain at that.”

Gaenor opened her purse.

“Three?” Annyn placed a hand over Gaenor’s. “A fine bargain? Surely you jest, dear lady.”

The woman put her hands on her hips. “I do not. Them bells worth twice that. ’Tis a favor I do in selling them so cheap.”

Ignoring Gaenor’s mewl of protest, Annyn took the bells from her. “Of such favors we are not in need.” She set the bells on the table, caught Gaenor’s arm, and turned her away.

“But I want them,” the young woman cried.

“And you shall have them,” Annyn hissed.

“She shall?” Beatrix asked, hurrying after them.

“By the count of one...two...”

“How much ye willin’ to pay?” the woman called.

Annyn turned. “Would you not agree one shilling is fair?” And it was.

“One?!”

Annyn sighed. “Come, dear lady, tell us yea or nay, for there are ribbons and cloth and meat pies to buy.”

“Very well, one, but know that ye take from the mouths of my babes.”

Gaenor ran back, pressed the coin in the woman’s palm, and claimed her bauble.

“And for ye, my lady?” The vendor peered at Annyn. “Is there not something ye would like to steal from this poor old woman?”

Annyn scrutinized the offering and chose a ring. It was too large, intended for a man as it was, but she liked its design. She slid it easily onto her thumb and surveyed the miniature sword that wrapped fully around, blade tip meeting hilt. “Now this looks to be worth three shillings.”

“That?” Beatrix exclaimed. “But if the bells are not—”

“Hush, Beatrix,” Gaenor rasped and urged her sister toward the next stand.

“We are agreed on the price?” Annyn asked.

The woman nodded dumbly. “Aye, and a...fine bargain that.”

From the meager contents of her purse, Annyn withdrew the coins. “For your babes, dear lady.”

A smile spread across the woman’s face. “Bless ye, my lady.”

When Annyn turned away, her gaze once more fell upon the training field and the man who had every right to swing a sword, to defend family and home, to make choices, to be free. All denied her unless she escaped Lavonne when they left Stern. Unfortunately, it would be selfish to do so, for the Barony of Aillil and its people would be lost to Henry’s whim if she did not return. Like her or not, she was their lady.

Painfully resigned, Annyn strained above the noise of the market to catch the clang of sword on sword. It was there, but too hard to hold to. If only she could heft a sword one last time before being chained hand and foot to a woman’s duties.

“Lady Annyn!” Beatrix called.

As she hurried to where they awaited her, she considered the narrow band of silver on her thumb. Such a thing she had never worn, though her mother had left her several pieces of jewelry. It felt strange, and as she accompanied Gaenor and Beatrix about the market, she twisted the ring around and around. And longed for the training field.

Would she take this opportunity to escape? Garr wondered as he picked out the one whose laughter had reached him when he paused to quench his thirst. In that moment, he almost wished she would stay.

Annyn laughed again as a juggler bounced a ball nose to chin and back again. A few moments later, the man bowed and Annyn led the others in applauding his antics. Then she stepped to the platform, dug in her purse, and dropped coins in his palm.

For one who ought to be set on escape, she seemed unconcerned about having enough coin for the journey ahead. And coin she would need wherever she was going. Unless she was not going. After all, having known privilege her entire life, perhaps she had decided marriage to Lavonne was preferable to scraping out an existence that would surely be her lot if she fled Stern.

As with each time Garr thought of her wed to the miscreant, his insides twisted. Attempting to counter the discomfort, he swept up his sword and nodded to Squire Samuel.

“Harder!” Garr shouted as they crossed swords at the center of the enclosure. “Again!” Around the enclosure they went, exchanging blows that deepened the ache in Garr’s shoulder, but he did not pause. When Henry arrived, he intended to be fully able to defend his people and lands if necessary.

It took some minutes to defeat Samuel who had become greatly skilled at swords, but finally the squire stumbled and landed on his backside.

“You are much improved.” Garr cleared the sweat from his brow with the back of a hand. “Next time you shall do even better.”

Samuel rose and slapped at his derriere. “Aye, my lord.”

As Squire Warren ought to be recovered from their bout of a half hour past, Garr turned to where the others watched from atop the fence and was surprised to find the gathering of knights and squires had grown by three—Gaenor, Beatrix, and Annyn. Annyn who every day looked more the lady, though he avoided gazing upon her as much as possible.

Their eyes met, and in hers he saw what would be called a longing for the sword were she a man. But those days were past. Annyn in the disguise of Jame Braose was no more.

In searching out Squire Warren, Garr paused on Abel. He did not like the grin worn by his younger brother, the knowing in eyes that knew naught, the words he longed to speak.

“First, Squire Warren,” Garr called, “then you, Abel.” That put an end to his grin.

The squire hopped the fence, chose a sword from the dozen propped against a cart, and advanced on Garr.

Garr caught the squire’s blow above his head, sent his opponent’s blade running off the tip of his, then leveled his sword as if to part the young man’s head from his shoulders.

Warren countered with uncommon strength and speed, the clash of their swords sending a pang through his lord’s arm. Though the squire was more than capable at swords, this day he excelled beyond Garr’s expectations. But it was unlikely that Annyn’s presence was responsible, for still the young man resented the deceit worked on him. Gaenor, then? Beatrix?

Neither was pleasing, and Garr let his blade speak his displeasure with an upward thrust that sent Warren’s sword flying.

“You are finished for the day,” Garr said as the squire regained his footing. Though he ought to be finished himself, there was still much to regain that had been lost.

Becoming aware of a murmur at his back, he yanked at his tunic that clung shoulders to hips. Were he at Wulfen, he would remove it, but not at Stern, especially on market day. Now for Abel.

He turned, but it was Annyn who filled his eyes. Veil removed from shorn tresses, sword in hand, she advanced. This, then, the cause of the murmuring.

As for Abel, his face was turned aside to hide a smile. He could have stopped her.

Garr ground his teeth. What was so terrible about being a woman that Annyn could not remain one? Had no one ever told her of the boundary between the sexes?

Trying to appear calm, he lowered his sword and leaned his weight on the hilt. “Remove yourself from my training field, Lady Annyn.”

Still she came, much to the amusement of their audience.

She halted before Garr, pricked the compacted soil with her sword tip, and rested both hands on the hilt. A peculiar sight, especially with her sleeves trailing halfway down her skirts.

Before Garr could summon harsh words, a glint of silver shone from her left hand. Upon her thumb was a ring he had not seen before, one made for a man. Had she bought it for Lavonne—as a peace offering of sorts? Or had she purchased the trinket for herself?

“Cross swords with me, Lord Wulfrith.”

Feeling his breath blow hot through his nostrils, Garr bit, “I say again—”

“Surely you do not fear I will best you?” Her words made the others gasp. “After all, I am but a woman.”

A woman who refused to behave as one. “Aye, and women do not cross swords.”

Her eyebrows jumped. “Only when garbed as men, hmm?”

As those around them chuckled, Garr glared past her and rankled deeper to discover others were drawing near. And on the walls, men-at-arms leaned out from battlements to view the spectacle Annyn thought to make of them. If he did not put a quick end to this, all those at market would soon line the fences.

“Though you fooled,” he said, “a woman you are. Thus, you may no longer trespass upon the name of Wulfrith.” He jutted his chin toward the cart. “Return the sword.”

“Lesson ten, Lord Wulfrith.” She assumed her stance. “Let no man make your way for you.”

He felt every muscle tighten. Never had his lessons been turned back on him, and in that moment, he loathed every one of them. “I do not exchange blows with any but men, Lady Annyn.”

“No more, hmm? Pity, for you can scarce afford another injury.” She sighed. “Now for lesson three: act when told to act.” She swung her sword high.

When her blade caught sunlight, Garr reflexively brought his sword up to deflect her blow. “Enough!” he bellowed as she recovered her footing, but she fell upon him again.

“Lesson fifteen,” he growled, “do not place your head in the wolf’s mouth, Annyn Bretanne.” He put all of his shoulder behind his next swing and caught her blade near the hilt. Surprisingly, his injury did not overly protest. Not surprisingly, the blow tore the sword from her hand and made her stumble back.

Shouts went up from around the fences, further evidence that she had made them performers, not unlike the juggler. But no more.

However, Annyn was of a different mind. When she moved to retrieve her sword, he lunged, gripped her arm, and pulled her around. “You are done,” he rasped, “and, upon my word, the price you pay for this will not be small.”

She raised her chin. “Lesson seven, make not vows you cannot keep.”

Her words tripped fingers across his fury. If not that