The Unveiling (2 page)

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 supported. And surely he had not been alone in that. Regardless of whose claim to the throne one supported, nobles vied to place their sons at Wulfen Castle. True, Wulfrith was Stephen's man, but it was said there was none better to train knights who would one day lord. If not for this silver-haired Lucifer and his thieving king, Jonas would be alive.

“He died an honorable death, Lady Annyn.”

She took a step toward Wulfrith. “’Twas for Stephen he died. Tell me, Lord Wulfrith, what has that man to do with honor?”

As anger flared in his eyes, Uncle Artur groaned. Though Uncle also sided with Stephen, he had been aware of his nephew's allegiance to Henry. This, then—his hope of turning Jonas to Stephen—among his reasons for sending his nephew to Wulfrith.

Amid the murmuring and grunting of those in the hall, Annyn looked to Wulfrith's scored flesh and wished the furrows proved deep enough to mark him forever. And of Stephen who had pressed Uncle to send Jonas to Wulfrith? Whose wrongful claim to England had made the battle that took Jonas's life?

“Again, were I a man, I would kill your beloved Stephen.”

While his men responded with raised voices, out of the darkness of his accursed soul, Wulfrith stared at her.

“Annyn!” Uncle strangled. “You do not know of what you speak.”

“But I do.” She turned her back on him and gently swept the hair off her brother's brow.

“Pray, Lord Wulfrith,” her uncle beseeched, “do not listen—”

“Fear not. What has been spoken shall not pass from here.”

Annyn looked over her shoulder. “My uncle is most grateful for such generosity from the man who bequeathed a grave to his heir.”

Wulfrith's lower lip thinned with the upper, and his men objected more loudly, but it was Uncle Artur's face that stayed her. His torment pushed past the child in her and forced her to recognize it was not Wulfrith who staggered beneath her bitter words. It was this man she loved as a father.

She swallowed her tears. She would not further lose control of her emotions. After all, she was four and ten winters aged—a woman, though her uncle defended her as a girl. If not for his indulgence, she might now be wed, perhaps even with child.

She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. When she lifted her lids, Wulfrith's harsh gaze awaited hers. “We wish to be alone,” she said.

He inclined his head and looked to Uncle. “Lord Bretanne.”

“Lord Wulfrith. Godspeed.”

Despising the baron’s ample shoulders and long-reaching legs, Annyn stared after him until he and his men passed through the door held by the porter.

“You should not have spoken as you did,” Uncle said, though the steel in his voice would forge no sword.

Jonas's death had aged him, had stolen the breadth of shoulders on which he had borne her as a young girl.

Pressing her own shoulders back, she stood as tall as her four feet and some inches would stretch. “I know I have shamed you, and I shall endeavor to earn your forgiveness.”

He mounted the dais and put an arm around her. “All is forgiven.” He turned her to Jonas.

As she looked at her brother, a sob climbed up her throat. Reminding herself she was no longer a girl, she swallowed it.

“An honorable death.”

Uncle’s whispered words struck nearly as hard as when Wulfrith had spoken them. Though she struggled to hold back the child who incited words to her lips, she could not.

“Honorable! Not even eight and ten and he lies dead from serving a man who was more his enemy than—”

“Enough!” Uncle dropped his arm from her.

“Can you deny Jonas would be alive if not for Stephen's war?”

Anger met weariness on his brow. “Nay, as neither can I deny he would yet breathe if Henry, that whelp of Maude's, did not seek England for his own.” He reached past her, ungirded Jonas’s belt, and swept up his tunic. “Look!”

She did not want to, longed to run back to the wood, but that was the girl in her. Jaw aching at the force with which she ground her teeth, she dragged her gaze to the hideous wound at the center of her brother’s chest.

“What do you see?” Uncle asked.

“A wound.”

“And whose army do you think shot the arrow that put it there?”