The Unveiling (35 page)

“Stand back, my lady,” Sir Merrick entreated.

Annyn did as told.

The baron surveyed the shadow-ridden stall. The noose made him frown, then cluck his tongue. “For me, old friend?”

“By the sword or by the noose, this day you shall die.”

“Mayhap were I fool enough to come at the half hour, but see, I am here.” Lavonne sighed. “Surprise is a powerful weapon, Lady Annyn, a lesson taught to me by your dear husband.”

“Cur!” she spat.

“Ouch! Thee wounds!”

Sir Merrick chose that moment to lunge, sweeping his sword so near Lavonne’s face that, if the baron had a beard, it would have been shaved from him.

Lavonne countered, seemingly unhindered by the wound that Garr had done his arm at Wulfen. A pity it had not been his sword arm.

The swords crashed again, turning the horses in their stalls restless, causing Annyn’s hand to itch for a hilt as she watched her brother’s murderers—each set on ending the life of the other. She edged toward the threshold.

“Nay, my lady,” Lavonne scorned, “you stay.” He deflected a blow from Merrick’s sword, then knocked her to the far side of the stall. If not that she threw her hands up, she would have hit the wall headfirst.

Palms splintered, she turned to see Sir Merrick’s hose rent by Lavonne and his blood spill forth. But the injury to his lower thigh did not stop him, nor his rattling breath. He launched himself at Lavonne again.

Annyn considered the window. Surely someone would hear the meeting of swords? In the next instant, hope fled. The sound would not be heard above that of the swords being forged in the smithy. And for this, Sir Merrick had likely chosen this place to stand against Lavonne.

He stumbled against her, the wheeze of his breath and high color evidence he struggled to overcome some ailment. More, it told that he could not long hold against Lavonne whose sword slashed without cease. When next they met, blood was drawn from Merrick’s left arm.

The knight staggered against a side wall and Lavonne followed.

Knowing he would now put an end to Merrick, Annyn threw herself against Lavonne, causing him to lurch.

“Witch!” He thrust her off and she fell to the dirt floor. Forgetting the one whose death he had been near to dispensing, Lavonne swept his sword up and came for her.

Annyn scooted backwards.
Heavenly Father, deliver me. Be my help, my shield!

With a bellow, Merrick charged with his sword high in a two-handed grip.

The man who was to have been her husband halted, twisted his sword behind, and smiled as Merrick hurtled onto the blade.

“Nay!” Annyn cried.

“Weak.” Lavonne denounced and jerked his sword free.

Merrick landed at an awkward angle on the beaten dirt floor and, from the quiver of his chest, it was certain he would soon be dead.

Why Annyn should ache for the one who had aided in murdering her brother, why she should wish to go to him, she did not understand, but with Lavonne standing between them, it was not possible.

The baron drew a finger through the blood on his blade. “That is one,” he said, “and you, Lady Annyn, are two.”

Fear bounded through her. She did not want to die, especially now that she was loved by Garr.

Fortunately, Lavonne seemed in no hurry to render her his second murder of the day. With less than a foot separating them, he looked down on her as if she were a hare without hope for another day, then he dropped to his haunches. “I cannot tell how I anticipated our wedding night when I whispered”—he leaned near and touched his mouth to her ear—“’twas I who killed your brother.”

Wishing she had a belly full of food to retch upon him, Annyn said, “Why did you do it?”

He drew back. “For the same reason you believed Wulfrith killed him—betrayal.” His sour breath stung her nostrils. “In refusing to deliver the missive, he betrayed Henry for loyalty to a man who stood the fool’s side of this war.”

As she had known, her brother
had
realized the wrong from the right and, in the end, had not betrayed Garr.

“Too, I could not have him revealing I was Henry’s side, could I?”

“Was it Henry who ordered my brother’s death?”

Lavonne snorted. “There was no time to consult him, but I am sure he would have approved.”

Would he have? Lord, she prayed England’s king was not so hell bound.

“Now for two,” Lavonne reminded her of the fate she shared with Sir Merrick. He stood and beckoned with his crimson blade.

Did he intend to gut her as well? To part her head from her shoulders? She stole a glance at Sir Merrick’s sword that lay beneath his slack hand. “One last question I beg of you.”

Lavonne stepped over Sir Merrick, putting the knight’s body between them. “You think it will buy you a way past me, my lady?”

“I would not presume to better a warrior such as you, my lord. After all, you
were
my husband’s pupil.”

A reminder that splashed his cheeks with uncomely color.

“Did Henry know my brother sided with him?” It was as the duke had alluded at Castle Lillia when he claimed to have had Jonas’s loyalty, but how had he known?

Lavonne bared his teeth. “Once Jonas agreed to deliver the missive to Henry, I sent word to the duke.”

“As you also sent word of my brother’s death? How he died?”

A near drunken smile turned the baron’s lips. “I told him shame had caused Jonas Bretanne to hang himself upon being found with the missive.” He chuckled. “Some things are best held close, my lady.”

“Another of my husband’s lessons?”

“One of my own.” He looked to the fallen knight. “Pity I did not kill him years ago. I would have slept better.”

Could she gain Merrick’s sword before Lavonne brought his own down upon her? “Which is the reason you must now kill me.”

“Thou art most perceptive. Now for that hanging.”

Annyn shifted her regard to where the noose swayed, her thoughts to Sir Merrick’s sword. If she lunged right, she might just reach it.

“You will not like it any better if I have to drag you.”

Now he would kill her as he had killed Jonas, would—

You can do this,
Garr’s voice came to her.

She could do it.
Would
do it. As she lunged for the sword, Lavonne hurtled toward her. Gripping steel, she rolled, jumped to her feet, and swept her blade up to deflect his blow.

“Witch!” He spewed sour breath past the crossing of their swords.

“Murderer!” She thrust back and swung again.

This time it was he who deflected the blow. When their swords next met, the force caused her head veil to skew and block her vision. Blindly, she pushed off his blade, with her free hand tore the veil from her head, and just barely countered his next swing.

Around Merrick’s body they met, Lavonne cursing her for all things foul in this world until he laid a blow so hard to her blade that she fell against the wall. Thrusting off, she aimed for his exposed belly.

He retreated enough to spare his innards, but Annyn’s sword opened his tunic, scoring the skin beneath. He roared and swung wide.

Annyn sent his blade up off hers, but then he was on her again. Though he next sought to cut her legs from beneath her, it was the skirt of her bliaut and chainse that fell victim to his sword.

“Now you die!” He came again.

She spun away and her foot caught in her torn skirt. If not that she threw out her arms, she would have fallen on her sword.

Slamming his booted foot to her hand that held the hilt, Lavonne ground it into the dirt.

Annyn cried out as her fingers spasmed open, cried again when Lavonne took hold of her hair and dragged her across the stall. She screamed, kicked and clawed, and reached for Sir Merrick’s arm as she was pulled past, but to no avail.

In the corner of the stall, Lavonne halted, and there, above his wretched grin, hung the noose.

Fear denying her air as if the rope was already fit about her neck, she stared.

“I shall enjoy this.” Lavonne slid his sword into its scabbard. “Such fond memories.”

Annyn screamed and flailed as the noose neared, and then it was falling past her eyes and flopping to her shoulders. The horror of it stilled her long enough for Lavonne to retrieve the other end of the rope. As he began to take up the slack, she reached to the noose.
Dear Lord, help me!

The rope cinched tight, forcing her to her feet. And, bit by fearsome bit, he raised her to her toes.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Garr stared through Henry’s face and wondered at the fear in his breast. Though he was wary of Henry, this feeling was not caused by the man. Whence did it come?

“What do you say?” Henry asked for the answer Garr had yet to give.

As fear deepened, he pressed a fist to his chest. Was his heart failing?

“Brother?” Abel asked.

Where was Annyn? Had she followed his mother abovestairs?

“What ails you, Wulfrith?” Henry asked.

Garr looked to Abel. “Where is she?”

“Who?” Henry demanded.

“My wife! Where is my wife?”

Abel looked around. “She is not here—”

“I know she is not here!” Garr shoved his chair back. He started for the stairs, but something turned him away. How he knew it, he could not say, but she was not in the donjon. Ignoring his brother who called to him and Henry who demanded an explanation, Garr ran to the great doors.

The porter hastened to open them, barely managing to step out of the way as his lord thrust past.

The inner bailey that stretched before Garr was empty of Annyn. But there, before the inner gatehouse, was Rowan, his arms held by one of the men set to guard him, and gathered around him was a score of knights.

Annyn’s man shouted something as he strained for release.

“Pray, what is it?” Abel asked, coming up behind his brother.

“Annyn.” Garr took the steps two at a time to the bailey. “Back!” he bellowed as he ran toward the gatehouse.

The knights opened a path for him, and before he was even upon Rowan, he demanded, “Where is she?”

Relief flashed across the man’s face. “Gone to the outer bailey. She followed Sir Merrick there, but I do not know where. Your men would not allow me—”

“Release him!” Garr stepped forward, pulled the soldier’s sword, and thrust it at Rowan.

With a look of wonder, the man accepted it.

“Come with me!” Garr sped over the drawbridge.

In the center of the outer bailey that sounded with the cry of beaten steel and the pound of those who followed, he halted.

The granary? The mews? The stables? The millhouse?
Lord, let me not be too late. Not now that I love.

Holding the end rope taut enough to keep her on her toes, Lavonne spat, “If not that you first whored yourself on Wulfrith, and were you more comely, I would take you myself.”

Never had Annyn been so content with her appearance than she was at that moment. Both hands dragging on the noose about her neck in her struggle to catch a breath, she stared at him. Her lungs were rewarded for her efforts, but not enough to satisfy their straining.

Lavonne leaned near. “When you are dead, I shall have your lands. ’Tis the least Henry can give for the betrothal stolen from me.”

Movement, so slight she thought it was of her imagining, drew her regard past him. There it was again—larger. Though there was no more breath to be had, she looked back at Lavonne for fear he would follow her gaze.

“Finished with your prayers?” he said with a twisted grin.

Sir Merrick rose at his back, and Annyn did not have to look near upon him to know he was crimson-stained—nor that he was swordless and had no chance of returning his blade to hand before Lavonne turned on him.

Fearing he would be heard, Annyn pulled from her depths what little strength she had left and crammed a knee into Lavonne’s groin. A silent howl opened his mouth and his eyes wide as he lurched back. But rather than give up the rope, he leaned on it.

The noose snapped Annyn’s chin to her chest and swept the ground from beneath her. She clawed at the noose and sucked hard, but her throat would not open.
Lord, pray, not like this!

Then she saw Sir Merrick fall upon Lavonne’s back and heard the men’s grunts and shouts as they crashed to the ground.

Annyn fell back to earth. Landing hard on her hands and knees, she rolled to the side and found air in the noose’s ease. As she threw off the vile rope, she gulped her lungs full.

Knowing every second that passed drew her nearer the noose again, she brought the loathsome baron to focus and saw he straddled Sir Merrick who struggled beneath him. A moment later, Lavonne drew back his arm to deliver a death blow.

“Nay!” She scrambled to her feet.

But still Merrick bled again. A dagger protruding from his chest, he settled his darkening gaze to Annyn and mouthed, “Forgive me.”

She stared, hurting for this man who had aided in murdering her brother.

“Fool!” Lavonne shouted and heaved the dagger free.

Reminded that her own death was near, Annyn whipped her head around. There lay Merrick’s sword that Lavonne had ground from her hand.

Act! ’Tis your only chance.

She grabbed the sword before Lavonne could rise from Merrick. As she charged toward him, his hand went to his sword. However, before he could wrap his fingers around the hilt, she thrust the blade tip to his chest.

He stilled and stared at it, then raised his eyes to where she stood over him—eyes that mirrored her own disbelief at what she had done. “I fear you have me, Lady Annyn,” he spoke as one might comment on a blade of grass. “But can you do it?”

She could not, though not so long ago she had believed she could take the life of so foul a being. But she would not have him know that.

With a jab of the sword that surely pricked him through his tunic, she said, “Four long years I have lived for this day. Aye, miscreant, I can.”

“Yet you do not. Why, when there is no more to be told of your brother’s unfortunate death?” He laughed. “Nay, Annyn Bretanne, you cannot. You may play at swords, but you are no warrior.”