The Unveiling (30 page)

Regardless of what fell to Drogo’s path, he had always pressed on.

Isobel touched Garr’s hand. “I was not a good wife. Pray though I did to get past my hatred, every time I looked at your father I saw the one who had murdered Robert. Had Drogo loved me, mayhap I could have healed, but he did not. I was young, pretty, of good size for breeding, and had all my teeth. That is what he bought, so I determined that was all he would have.”

She shook her head. “And now I grow old with regret. Regret that Robert was lost to me, regret that I did not move past that loss, regret that my hatred for your father caused him to take you from me young, regret that I refused his offers of peace. Now all that is left to me are daughters, and too soon they will also wed men they do not love.”

A tear rolled down her cheek. “But you, Garr, have been gifted with the rare opportunity to wed a woman unlike your mother. Lady Annyn—”

“Wed!” Garr stepped back so suddenly the birds in the tree took flight. “Has your mind gone astray, Mother?”

She rose. “She feels for you, and if you are truthful, you feel for her.” As he opened his mouth to deny it, she shook her head. “Wasted words. Lies.”

“You are wrong. Though I may want Annyn Bretanne in my bed, that is all.”

“Then, it seems, my mind
has
gone astray. But tell, what of when Henry comes to Stern? Do you think you can give Lady Annyn to be wed to that man—the same that Abel said was responsible for her bruised face?”

Garr forced himself to stand firm. “You heard what Henry requires of the Wulfriths, and one of his demands is that I deliver Annyn Bretanne. If I must choose between a woman whose deceit nearly cost me my life and endangered my family, the latter shall prevail.”

Isobel stepped near and brushed back the hair fallen over his brow, reminding him of the small boy who had known that touch. “Garr Wulfrith, son of Drogo, trainer of England’s worthiest knights, feared and respected warrior, do not let your distrust of women make you less than what you are.” She smiled. “There is only one weapon you must needs wield against Henry—your allegiance. And it should not be without cost to him.”

She dropped her hand to her side. “Now I must return to the donjon and set to the task of overseeing Lady Annyn’s gown.” She stepped from beneath the tree but, once returned to sunlight, looked around. “You will not give her to Lavonne.” She said it with the certainty of one who spoke of death as the only absolute in life, then she left him.

Garr stared after her. Annyn Bretanne’s vengeful foray into his life had opened too many graves. But though the man his father had made him longed to put aside his mother’s suffering tale, he could not. He had accepted that marriages were best made of alliances, love reserved for those foolish and weak of heart, but here before him was the pitiful result of such matches. And his mother was not alone in her folly, for Annyn’s mother had also gone the way of her heart and left casualties in her wake.

Garr growled. Had he been wrong? Had his father? And his father’s father? Was all the world wrong for impelling its children to make families with those for whom they did not care? But then, what would be the state of mankind ruled by the heart?

He shook his head. He would think on it no more. As he looked to the castle, he drew a breath that assailed him with the harsh scent of his labor. In one thing his mother was right. He needed a bath.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

A foul wind blew in the messenger, causing him to stumble as he entered the great hall behind two men-at-arms.

From the high table, Garr stared at Sir Drake—one of two men sent by Henry eleven days past to tell of the duke’s impending arrival. Why did he come again when there were yet three days before Henry was due? Three days in which Annyn might still make good her escape?

He glanced at where she sat with his mother and sisters before the hearth, the last of the day’s clouded light slanting through the upper windows to pool around her where she held the sleeve of her purple bliaut as she stared at the messenger.

Garr returned his attention to the villagers seated on benches before the dais. Their dispute, for which they sought intervention, would have to wait. “We shall return to this matter.” He swept a dismissing hand toward the doors.

The men murmured their agreement and rose.

Garr also stood, vaguely aware of Squire Warren stepping from behind the chair to draw nearer.

“Sir Drake,” Garr greeted, “What brings you once more to Stern?”

The man turned from the hearth where he had surely noted Annyn’s presence. “Tidings from Duke Henry.” He mounted the dais and pushed his mantle off one shoulder, then the other so that the garment draped down his back to show his full complement of weaponry.

Garr laid his palms to the table and leaned forward. “When do you intend to deliver these tidings, Sir Drake?”

A flush stole across the man’s cheeks. “Forthwith, my lord. I am to tell you that the future king of England shall arrive early.”

Garr heard Annyn draw the sharp breath he did not allow himself.

“If not this night,” Sir Drake continued, “then by early morn the duke will come before your walls and be well received.”

Well received. An order, doubtless spawned by Garr’s earlier message that granted Henry leave to come unto Stern Castle. “Shall he?”

“If you seek an alliance, he shall.”

Garr straightened and glanced at the windows that were filled with darkening thunderclouds. All day long rain had threatened to loose a torrent. This, then, what made Henry’s arrival uncertain.

Loose the rain, Lord,
Garr silently prayed. It was not for lack of a response from the earl, John Newark, that he did so. Indeed, within days of having sent the missive that advised an alliance with Henry, Newark had agreed. It was for Annyn he asked it.

Muddy this land, overrun its banks.
Was He listening?
Curse all!
The silent oath slipped from him and he immediately rebuked the blasphemy that would hardly turn God’s ear to him.

Lesson one,
his father’s words came across the years,
never allow anger to command your actions
.

Still, it turned his insides. Feeling backed into a corner, he struggled for control. Finally, he said, “Your tidings are well met, Sir Drake.”

The man inclined his head. “My Lord Wulfrith.”

What to do? If only those accursed clouds would open up. If only—

A pox on Henry!
he once more blasphemed.
A pox on Stephen and Eustace! A pox on this crippling war!
Fight the answer though he had done all these days, he knew what must be done to assure Annyn was not forced to wed Lavonne. There was no other way, especially now that Henry approached Stern.

“Well met, indeed,” he repeated. “We are pleased you have come to serve as witness for Duke Henry.”

As the man’s brow furrowed, Garr strode the length of the table.

“Brother?” Abel spoke low from where he had sat at table’s end this past hour, feet on the tabletop, though with Sir Drake’s entrance he had dropped them to the floor.

Garr met his brother’s questioning gaze. “Be ready.” He descended the dais.

“Of what do you speak, my lord?” demanded the knight.

He would know soon enough.

As Garr advanced on Annyn, she looked up, her pale eyes questioning, lips pressed, throat muscles straining to contain emotion.

Ignoring his mother’s beckoning gaze and his sisters’ murmurings, Garr halted before Annyn.

She fingered the purple bodice. “I—” Her voice caught, but when she found it again, it was flat as of one too weary to fight any longer. “I fear my bliaut is not yet finished.”

“A pity,” Garr said more harshly than intended. “I would have liked to see you wear it to speak vows.”

“Garr?” his mother said, forgetting that, publically, he was “Wulfrith.”

He waited for Annyn to react, but she kept her head lowered and a drop of glistening light fell onto the unfinished bliaut. The betraying tear darkened the cloth and spread outward.

Either she did not understand, or she found the prospect of marriage to him distasteful. Of course, considering what had nearly happened between them four days past, and for which he had spent hours on his knees, she could not be completely averse.

“What vows, Lord Wulfrith?” Sir Drake halted beside Garr.

“Those that Lady Annyn and I are to speak this eve.”

Her disbelieving eyes slammed into his. She had not understood, then.

“You jest, my lord,” Sir Drake exclaimed. “Lady Annyn’s betrothal was given to Baron Lavonne.”

Just as Isobel’s betrothal had been given to Drogo. The realization that what he intended would make him no better than the man who had tried to steal Isobel from Drogo, gave Garr pause. But only for a moment, for though his father had been a man incapable of showing love, he had never raised a hand to Isobel as Lavonne had done to Annyn. And would not do again.

As Garr stared at Annyn, she pressed her lips inward as if to keep from speaking.

Grateful she understood the urgency that she remain silent, he turned to the knight. “You are mistaken, Sir Drake. Inquiries have revealed that, in all of King Stephen’s England, no such betrothal was made.”

Anger suffused the man’s face. “Duke Henry, who will soon be your king, Lord Wulfrith, has decreed it.”

As Abel moved behind the knight, Garr said, “Be it so, Sir Drake, Henry is not yet king, and I am not yet his man. Thus, neither I, nor Lady Annyn, answer to him. And I have determined ours is a satisfactory union.”

“You cannot do this!”

“Of course I can. The bride is willing. Are you not, my lady?”

Annyn was hardly quick to answer, making him long to shake her, but at last she inclined her head. “The bride is willing.”

As Gaenor and Beatrix took up tittering, a thrill shot through Garr, but he damped it. Likely, she was willing only because this evil was not as evil as the other.

“Nor by this union shall any laws of consanguinity be broken,” he continued. “The lady and I share no relation to at least the ninth degree.” That he did not truly know, but what was one more untruth? “As for a priest, he awaits abovestairs.” Or so Garr prayed, for at this hour of late afternoon, the man might be out among the castle folk.

“What of the banns?” the knight foundered for argument. “They cannot have been read.”

“They were, and none has come forth to oppose the marriage.” An outrageous lie considering they had not been long enough at Stern for banns to be read the appointed three Sundays, but the wedding bed would be marked by consummation before any could prove otherwise. And therein lay the greatest obstacle—to speak vows and undo Annyn before Henry’s arrival.

Sir Drake shook his head. “If you think I am so great a fool to believe any of this, you are mistaken.”

Garr reached to Annyn. “’Tis time.”

Her gaze flitted to Sir Drake, but there was naught that the man could do but spew and sputter over what his arrival had set in motion.

Annyn passed the bliaut to Josse, placed her hand in Garr’s, and allowed him to draw her to her feet. The silver ring on her thumb winked at Garr as it had four days past, and now that he was so near, he saw the band was fashioned as a sword. Though a not-so-discreet inquiry put to Gaenor revealed it was but a trinket bought at market, jealousy had gripped Garr over the possibility it might end on Lavonne’s hand. Now it would not.

“We are ready,” he pronounced. Or nearly so, for he did not have a ring to give Annyn.

He looked to his mother and saw she had risen with his sisters. Isobel inclined her head, answering her son’s unspoken request, and turned to the stairs.

Garr drew Annyn to his side. Though he wished for a moment alone with her to ease her worry, they would talk once they were bound until death. “Come, Lady Annyn.”

As they started forward, Henry’s man placed himself in their path. Immediately, Abel and Warren flanked him, hands on daggers.

“This is outrageous, Lord Wulfrith!” Though Sir Drake’s voice was pitched too high for a man not to cringe, he did not seem to notice. “I vow, ’twill not be tolerated by the duke.”

“Fear not, Sir Knight, I shall deal with Henry. Now, if you wish, you may serve as witness to the ceremony.” He strode forward, forcing the man to step back to avoid being trod upon.

“I shall not be a party to this!” Sir Drake called as Garr and Annyn ascended the stairs.

Garr did not blame him, for his witness would only strengthen the validity of the marriage.

Squire Warren once more at his back, Garr said over his shoulder, “Hasten to the chapel and rouse the priest if he is there. Tell him what has happened and what is required of him.”

“Aye, my lord.” Warren took the stairs two at a time.

Once out of sight of those in the hall, Annyn pulled free of Garr and pressed her back to the wall. “We cannot do this. ’Tis all wrong.”

“We can and shall.” Garr laid his hands on her shoulders. “There is naught else for it.”

Annyn held his intense gaze for as long as she could, then looked down. After all she had done, why did he offer this? Why when it would bring Henry’s anger down upon his house? Might he care for her? Return something of what she felt for him, and over which she had agonized? But if so, he would not be so resentful, would he? And his resentment she had certainly felt when he told Sir Drake of his intention.
Naught else for it
, he had said.

Aye, he did it only out of a misplaced sense of obligation. Garr Wulfrith was, indeed, honorable, but such a sacrifice she could not ask of him, no matter how her heart cried that she accept.

“’Tis not necessary that you do this, especially as I do not wish to wed you.”
Lord, the lie!

His grey-green eyes darkened like the clouds gathering over Stern. “If you had only taken one of many opportunities given you to escape, it would not be necessary.” He pulled her from the wall, and all she could do as she pondered the unexpected revelation was clamber after him.