The Unveiling (11 page)

“Well done, Braose!” Sir Merrick conferred rare praise.

The squire looked to him. “I thank you, my lord, but may I pose a question?”

“You may.”

Braose threw a leg over the horse and dropped to the ground. “Of what use to stand upon a moving horse?”

The knight turned to the others. “Squire Bryant!”

“My lord?”

“Why do we endeavor to stand upon a moving horse?”

As Garr watched, the young man slid a tongue over his top lip, a nervous gesture that caused the lip to be perpetually chapped and scabbed. “For control and balance, my lord, that in battle one can maneuver a horse with naught but the knees.”

“What else?”

The tongue again. Though Squire Bryant, who had been at Wulfen for nearly a year, affected mettle and daring, he was still fearful. But by the end of his training, that would be gone. Already, much of it was.

“That when engaged in foot battle, one knows well his balance in order to better stand the ground.”

Sir Merrick looked to Braose. “Your question is answered.”

“Thank you, my lord.”

Garr pushed off the fence and followed Braose to where he placed himself back from the others. “Well done.”

Eyes sparkling, Braose said, “You are surprised, my lord?”

“Aye, ’twould seem you are gifted with grace after all.”

The young man averted his gaze. “Grace is required to walk the House of the Lord without disturbing others at prayer.”

“Ah.” Garr had not considered that. Still, the explanation was lacking.

He eyed Squire Bryant who had gained his feet on the horse. He did not possess the poise of Braose, as evidenced by his fall shortly thereafter. Nor did he possess the good fortune, for his attempt to land astride the same as Braose had done ended on a howl of pain. Clutching himself, he slid from the horse’s back.

When Garr looked back at Braose, he saw the young man gripped his bottom lip between even teeth.

“Withdraw, Squire,” Sir Merrick clipped, then called, “Squire Mark!”

Garr leaned near Braose. “Do you think Squire Mark will be able to stay atop?”

Braose slid his lip out from between his teeth. “I do so hope, my lord.”

“If not this day, then the next,” Garr said, “and if not that, soon thereafter. All knighted at Wulfen stand the horse’s back at no less than a trot.”

Braose’s eyes grew large. “A trot, my lord?”

“Aye.”

The young man considered Squire Mark whose knees were on the horse’s back. “Can you do it, my lord?” He looked back at Garr, challenge shining from his eyes. However, the window into the young man’s mind closed before it could be breached.

Garr crossed his arms over his chest. “I do not ask of any what I cannot do myself.”

“Then all are measured by you?”

The puck! He goaded as if an equal. A reminder of lesson two, that Braose should never question him, rose to Garr’s tongue, but he withheld it.

“Though ’tis true all men are different,” he said, “each endowed with distinct gifts of which they are capable of attaining their own level of mastery, still they are men. Or shall be.”

Braose shifted his weight.

“Men are providers,” Garr continued. “They are defenders. Thus, each must attain the highest level possible for himself. As you and the others are sound of body and firm of mind, ’tis required that you pull yourselves up, clawing and scratching if needs be, to attain your fullest. This exercise and others will train you to manhood that will make you worthy of being called a man. But if you do not make it past the fortnight, you need not worry on it.”

Braose’s head came up. “I shall make it past the fortnight.”

“Mayhap.” Garr looked to Squire Mark. Though it was a struggle for the young man to remain upright, he fared well and dismounted a few moments later. With an open-mouthed grin and pride in his stride, he crossed to where the others awaited their turns.

Squire Merrick scanned their ranks and lit on Garr. “You would like to demonstrate, my lord?”

For this he often came to the enclosure, though this time Braose had drawn him. It was usual for Garr to stay near those newly arrived at Wulfen to determine whether or not they would remain, but the young man continued to unsettle him like a riddle aching to be answered.

Shortly, Garr’s booted feet were firm upon the horse’s back, the reins held loosely in his right hand. Nodding Sir Merrick aside, he set the horse to motion.

Annyn stared with the others. Before Wulfrith was fully around, he had the horse at a trot. How was it possible for so large a man to become one with a horse? Astride, aye, but standing? Were he not so hated, he would have her respect.

She looked from his silvered head to his broad shoulders, his tapered back to his hips, his muscled calves to his balanced feet. Through bone and sinew he was a warrior. Skilled in death, but slow to die. A man who saw things others did not. A man who missed little.

Reminded of her drop to the horse’s back, she clenched her hands. Though a woman, still there should have been discomfort—minor, compared to a man’s—but the hose stuffed in her braies had provided a relatively soft landing. Not until Squire Bryant had himself landed astride and bent to the pain had she realized her error. Excepting her bitten tongue that had caused tears to rush her eyes, she had shown nothing. Hope though she did that Wulfrith had not noticed, she would be a fool to believe it. She must leave Wulfen soon, meaning the deed must be done sooner.

She closed her eyes against the sight of the big man who could overpower her with one hand, but he rose behind her lids. Telling herself he was better outside her mind than in, she opened her eyes wide.

When Wulfrith dismounted and turned his attention to a group of older squires who had donned armor for sword practice, Annyn was grateful and watched as the others took their turns on the horse’s back.

A half hour later, Sir Merrick shouted, “To swords!”

Again? It was not easy to be a man.

As she followed the others across the field, Sir Merrick drew alongside her. “You learn quickly, Braose.”

Praise? “I would not wish to find ill favor with you, Sire.”

He looked sidelong at her and again she wondered where she had seen his face. “As for Squire Bryant, he and the others will push you, but it is the same for all. ’Tis how men are made.”

Which was the reason they were so uncivilized. Though Annyn had often wished she had been born male, in that moment she was glad she had not been. That thought was followed by another. How civilized was
she
to come to Wulfen with a dagger bound to her thigh?

It was different where vengeance was due, she told herself.

Nay, Annyn,
Jonas’s voice drifted to her.
Vengeance belongs to God.

“Methinks you shall do fine, Braose.” Sir Merrick clapped Annyn on the back, lengthened his stride, and left her behind.

Perspiration from the exercise causing her bindings to cling and chafe, she tugged at them as she followed the knight. However, as she passed the armored squires, her gaze met Wulfrith’s.

Lowering her arms to her sides, she cursed her foolishness. If she was not careful, the bindings would reveal her. On that thought, she set her mind to what lay ahead. Would this be the night? Before dawn, might she be away from Wulfen? Of course, if she was caught...

She would not think on that. Regardless of the consequences, it would be done.

It could not be done. Not this night.

Annyn lowered the tray to the table before which Wulfrith sat and glanced at Squire Warren who stood over his lord’s shoulder.

Nay, not this night. Not only was it exceedingly late and she exceedingly tired, but Wulfrith and his squire were exceedingly awake.

Though a part of her sank, another part was relieved. Fatigue, she explained it, the demands of the day causing her arms and legs to quake and lids to spasm for want of closing. In the morning, she would be ten-fold sore.

She lifted the goblet of wine from the tray and was grateful for the finger’s width below the rim that offset her trembling hands. Setting the goblet before Wulfrith, she asked, “Is there anything else you require, my lord?”

“Nay.” He did not look up from his ledgers. “Take your rest.”

Discomfort twinging her ribs, she picked at the bindings and reached for the tray.

“Lesson eleven,” Wulfrith growled.

Annyn met his gaze. “My lord?”

“Cleanliness. When did you last bathe?”

Did she smell? She lowered her hand to her side. “I...”

“Have you fleas?”

Repugnant though the thought was, she would have embraced the filthy vermin over the woman’s body that threatened to reveal her. “Nay, my lord, ’tis merely an itch I suffer.”

He swept his gaze down her. “See to it.”

“I shall, my lord.” She reached again for the tray.

His hand gripped her forearm, causing nettles to prick her skin. “Now.”

Dread wound through her.

He jutted his chin toward the table near his bed. “You may use my basin.”

“Your basin?” The moment the words squeaked from her she regretted them. Not only did they hardly compare to the voice she had affected these past two days, but surprise swept away much of the husk that was hers. The woman was showing.

And Wulfrith was looking straight at her with a questioning brow.

Did he see Annyn Bretanne? She put a hand to her neck and gruffly cleared her throat. “I would not impose, my lord.”

The intensity with which he regarded her caused her toes to cramp in her boots. “You impose with your scratching. A few minutes at the basin will make it no worse.”

Did he intend for her to bare herself? A male among males was not likely to balk over the removal of his tunic, but for her it would be ruinous.

“Do it now,” Wulfrith’s voice rose, “else I shall do it for you.”

Annyn crossed to the basin. There, she glanced over her shoulder and saw Wulfrith’s back was to her and his head bent toward his ledger. Squire Warren remained unmoving near his lord.

Would either look around? No matter. She would simply reach under her tunic and wipe at her bound chest. And the sooner done, the sooner she could leave.

An ache spreading across the backs of her eyes, she dipped a hand towel in the cool water. Another glance over her shoulder assuring her that all was well, she raised the hem of her tunic and wiped her underarms, then made a pretense of scrubbing her bound chest.

“What is lesson seven?” Wulfrith asked.

Annyn stilled. Was it about making vows? If so, what had it to do with bathing?

“Lesson seven,” Squire Warren said, “is make no assumptions, my lord.”

Then it was to his first squire that he put the question. It seemed she was not the only one forced to recite lessons. More surprising was the realization that the lessons were different for each. Wulfrith had to be of good intellect to remember the multitude of lessons and the sequence for each squire to whom they were issued.

Annyn wet the towel again. As she wiped her face, a scent wafted to her that made her pause. It smelled of earth and something not entirely unpleasant, though she would guess it tasted of salt.

“Find the error,” Wulfrith said.

It was
his
scent. He had used the towel before her. The realization inciting another stirring, Annyn drew a sharp breath.

“I shall, my lord,” Squire Warren said.

At the sound of the ledger being pushed across the table, followed by the scrape of a chair, Annyn glanced over her shoulder. Though Wulfrith leaned back in his chair, his attention remained on the ledger.

She thrust up her tunic sleeves and wiped her arms. Deciding that would suffice, she folded the towel and laid it alongside the basin, then crossed the room and retrieved the tray.

“Modesty is a virtue honorable in a priest, Braose,” Wulfrith said, “and women, but unbecoming in a warrior.”

Though Annyn knew she ought to be relieved that her discreet bathing was attributed to Braose’s priesthood training, she was struck by the realization that each moment with Wulfrith put greater distance between her and revenge—that all she did might prove for naught. Especially as it seemed nothing got past him.

She gripped the tray tightly and met his gaze. “Have you another lesson for me, my lord?” Inwardly, she winced at the scorn she was unable to keep from her voice.

He delved her face and, too late, she looked away.

“Whoever loves instruction, loves knowledge,” he said, voice so level it sent a tremor of fear through her. “He who hates correction is brutish. And a fool, Squire Jame.”

It was the same verse Father Cornelius had often used during his attempts to instruct Annyn in the behavior expected of Christian women. How was it Wulfrith knew the words?

“Proverbs,” she breathed, knowing such a response was expected from a young man who had been given to the Church.

“Aye.”

Fearful Wulfrith might ask her to number the verse, she said again, “What other lesson do you have for me, my lord?”

With eyes that continued to seek inside her, he stared. And somehow she managed to not look away.

“Lesson twelve, a warrior is bold, not modest. Though it is good for you to know scripture, Braose, the Church is no longer your destiny.”

“I shall endeavor to remember that, my lord.”

He inclined his head. “Take your leave.”

She hurried from the solar to the dim hall that was settled by sleeping men. When she finally lay down on her pallet, fatigue lay down with her—as did worry. How was she to get to Wulfrith? When? Before the fortnight was gone, the deed must be done, for thereafter her menses would begin, and that she could not risk. There were twelve days remaining, but surely in all that time...

There would be an opportunity. She could wait.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Still she waited. A sennight at Wulfen and naught but fierce training that made her first days seem facile. If it was not Wulfrith wanting more from her, it was Sir Merrick, if not Sir Merrick, Wulfrith’s squires. The burden was unlike any she had carried, and she often cursed Rowan for not better preparing her. He had treated her too well.