The Unveiling (7 page)

Annyn heaved the pel atop the blaze, then wiped her hands on her tunic and turned to the corridor that, she presumed, led to the kitchen. But there were two corridors. Unfortunately, she had paid no attention to the squires and pages with their platters of viands, and, for the moment, none came or went.

She rubbed her sore flesh through the bindings. Which corridor would deliver her to the kitchen? She decided left, but as she entered it, a squire bearing steaming meat pies came at her.

“Wrong way!” he snapped.

She hugged the wall as he passed. Both corridors led to the kitchen, then? One for outgoing, one for incoming? She had never heard of such.

Shortly, Annyn entered the kitchen. Great cauldrons hung over fires, shelves of foodstuffs coursed the walls, barrels and vats stood about, a dozen tables were laden with viands, and working those tables were squires and pages.

“For what do ye come to my kitchen?” someone barked.

She easily located the corpulent man who stood to the right. Fists on hips, mouth pursed amid an orange-red beard, the cook stared at her.

“Lord Wulfrith sent me.”

“Like this?” He swept a hand down to indicate her manner of dress. “Ye’ll not dirty my food, ye won’t.”

Then they were of a mind, for the thought of being set to work, especially in this heat, did not bear. “I am to await Lord Wulfrith’s summons.”

“Then sit by the garden door and touch naught.”

As she started around him, her belly rumbled.

His lowering brow told he had heard. “You may partake of bread and milk, but first wash yourself.” He pointed to the back wall where a table held a large basin.

Bread and milk. She grimaced and, as she passed a table spread with tarts, was tempted. If not for the page who arranged the glistening sweets on a platter, she would have snatched one.

Annyn hooked her feet beneath the stool’s upper rung and propped her elbows on her knees and her chin in her cupped palms. How long since Wulfrith had sent her from the hall? An hour? Two? As she succumbed to the weight of her eyelids, a loud clatter fell upon her ears.

“You keep our lord waitin’,” the cook said as she squeezed him to focus.

Clumsily, she unhooked one foot and followed with the other. If not that the cook slapped a bloated hand to her arm, she would have taken the stool to the floor with her.

“Thank you,” she murmured.

He stepped back. “Be quick now.”

Yawning, she started past him.

“Are ye forgettin’ something?”

She followed his gaze to the pails at his feet, the source of the clamor that had denied her more than a ten-count of sleep.

“Go on, fill ’em and get ye to the lord’s solar.”

Fill them? For what? And why did he speak of the lord’s solar? She slid her gaze to the steaming cauldrons over the fires, and her insides twisted at the realization that she was to bear her enemy’s bath water.

This
was her punishment for disgracing Wulfrith’s hall? As a lady, though often in title only, she had never hauled bath water. Always it had been borne to her. But her hesitation went beyond the toil. To bathe meant one must disrobe, and that meant she would likely be pouring water into a tub filled with an unclothed man.

She drew a deep breath. Never had she seen a man full in the flesh, and she certainly did not wish her first glimpse of one to be of Wulfrith.

“He be waitin’, lad.”

She surveyed the kitchen. Except for the two of them, it was empty. “Surely ’tis not intended for me to do it alone?” Two, sometimes three servants had conveyed water for her bath, all the sooner to assure it arrived hot.

“Aye, two pails at a time.” The immense man scrubbed at his rosy nose.

Did Wulfrith seek to weary her spirit? “Then a chill bath he shall have,” she griped.

The cook’s eyebrows jumped. “And a long night ye shall have.”

Meaning if she dallied, she would be the one to suffer. She pulled the cap from her belt, set it on her head, and grasped the pails. Even empty, they were not light. Would she be able to lift them when they were filled?

She crossed to the nearest cauldron that spit and blew moist heat. Steeling herself, she lowered the first pail into the cauldron and winced as it sucked water to its depths. When it was filled, she had to throw her weight back to lift it free—foolish, for the boiling water splashed the back of one hand and wet her tunic. She cried out and released the pail.

“There!” the cook shouted. “What have ye done?”

Annyn waved her scalded hand and pulled at her tunic with the other.

He grabbed her wrist, hurried her to a table, and plunged her hand into a pitcher of milk. Though hardly cold, it was soothing.

“Foolish lad.” He pulled her hand out. “Mayhap ’twill not blister.”

Though flushed, her skin did not look as if it would shrivel or scar. But it stung.

He reached to the hem of her tunic. “Let me see yer chest.”

“Nay!” She jumped back. Was it suspicion that carved ruts in his face? “I...” She patted her chest. “I am fine.” And she was, the bindings having deflected most of the heat.

“Then get ye to the lord’s bath.” He lumbered opposite. “I’ll fill the pails, ye lug ’em.”

Annyn blinked. “Thank you.”

As she had sunk the first pail to the bottom of the cauldron, he retrieved another. Shortly, both were filled.

“Make haste, lad, and take care you do not slop more on ye.”

It hurt to close her hand, but she turned it and the other around the handles.

“Get yer arse beneath ye!”

She tucked and lifted with her legs. The strain was almost too much, but she unbent her knees.

Flinching with each slop of the pails, she traversed the kitchen. When she reached the threshold of the right-hand corridor, she was struck by the possibility that a score of stairs lay ahead. She looked over her shoulder. “The lord’s solar is abovestairs?”

The big man shook his head. “Abovestairs be where the knights sleep. Lord Wulfrith makes his solar in the chamber behind the dais.”

She was grateful, but how strange that Wulfrith placed himself near pages and squires when more privacy and comfort could be had higher up.

Upon gaining the hall, she saw that its occupants had bedded down for the night, muted torchlight the only movement, snores and dream mutterings the only sounds.

In the dim light, Annyn picked out a path that would not require her to weave among the many who made their beds on the floor. Unlike in Lillia’s hall, those who slept in Wulfen’s hall did so in orderly rows to the left and right of the dais. Fortunate, for if she had to lug boiling water among them, she might not be the only one scalded.

Shoulders aching, wrists burning, she refused the temptation of rest for fear she might not get her “arse” beneath her again.

Her ascension of the dais caused her knees to quake, but she made it. As she negotiated the length of table, she glanced at the curtain behind. Bare light filtered through, so either the curtain was thick, or little light shone within. She hoped for the latter—shadows in which to conceal herself and not be forced to look upon Wulfrith if he was, indeed, unclothed.

As she came around the table, she noted the sleeping figure who made his pallet just outside the solar—one of Wulfrith’s squires, no doubt, and there was an empty pallet beside his. She halted before the curtains. “My lord,” she called in her man’s voice, “I bear water for your bath.”

The curtains parted, causing light to tumble into the hall. However, it was not Wulfrith who stood before her, but the squire who had been at his lord’s back during the meal.

“Be quick about it, lazy urchin!” He threw the curtain wide.

Annyn felt her tongue unwind, but there was no stopping the words that spat off it. “Lazy? Who carries the water?”

“Braose!” Wulfrith thundered.

She returned the squire’s glower and stepped past him. At least the pails did not slop, she congratulated herself and glanced down. But then, they had done most of their slopping through the hall, as evidenced by the absence of water several fingers below the rims.

Wulfrith sat at a long table against the wall, head bent to quill and parchment, silver hair reflecting the light of three torches and a fat tallow candle, figure wrapped in a robe.

Relieved he did not look around, she scanned the solar.

It was neither large nor small, the postered and curtained bed placed center and back, a tapestry behind, a chest at its foot. To the right was a chair and small table, nearer right a brazier, and before the latter a tub. Thankfully, it was of a smaller size than what she had enjoyed at Lillia, though how a man of Wulfrith’s height and breadth found comfort in it, she did not know. Regardless, it would mean a dozen trips to the cauldrons. She traversed the solar and lowered the pails before the tub.

“The water grows cold,” the squire said, appearing at her side.

Annyn lifted the first pail. What did he mean cold? Still there was steam—if one squinted hard. Sucking her tongue to the roof of her mouth so it would not speak words she would regret, she emptied both pails into the tub.

“Make haste!” the squire ordered.

Each successive trip was more difficult than the last, her shoulders, arms, and legs protesting, her hand stinging. On her sixth return to the solar, she was appalled to feel the prick of tears.

Looking toward Wulfrith, she saw he was no longer at the table where he had not once looked up during her previous trips. A moment later, she faltered at the sight of bare shoulders above the rim of the tub and startled when she ran into Wulfrith’s impatient gaze.

“I wait, Squire Jame.”

Seeing his squire knelt alongside the tub soaping his lord’s back, she hurried forward and averted her eyes so she would not be made to look upon Wulfrith’s nakedness. She was pleased to discover that the water had risen considerably with his bulk, meaning two or three more trips ought to suffice.

“In my solar,” Wulfrith said as she poured water at his feet, “you will show respect by removing your cap.”

She set down the first pail and swept the cap from her head. Though she felt his gaze beckon, she kept her eyes down. “’Tis to be another lesson, my lord?”

“Does it need to be?”

“Nay, I shall remember.” She poured the second pail of water, but as she turned to go, his large fingers closed around her wrist.

She gasped, dropped the pail, and looked up. The sight of his chest rolled with muscle making her heart knock as if to be let out, she dragged her gaze higher.

He regarded the back of her hand. “You have burned yourself.”

Was that concern? Surely not.

He turned her palm up and pressed a thumb to its center. Though it had escaped the boiling water, his touch caused something curious to twist inside her.

“Squire Warren, go into my chest and bring my salve.”

“Aye, my lord.”

Though Annyn longed to wrench free, she felt like a hare trapped before a thicket too thick to grant refuge.

Wulfrith’s grey-green eyes returned to her. “You lack grace.”

Then she did not behave like a girl? Though pleased with her fit of Jame Braose, a part of her took offense. When the occasion warranted, she wore grace well enough. She pulled her hand free. “Of what use is grace to a man?”

He raised an eyebrow. “For one who ought to have been learned in respect, at least of the Lord, you know little of it, Braose.”

What had respect to do with grace? Before she could catch back Annyn Bretanne’s words, she said, “All I have learned of respect, my lord, is that it is earned.”

His eyebrows gathered.

Annyn, you fool!

“Lesson five,” he growled.

Another?

“Speak only when spoken to.”

“But you did speak to me, my lord.”

“I spoke, but a conversation I did not seek. There
is
a difference, and upon my vow to make you a man worthy to lord over Gaither, you shall learn it.”

“Aye, my lord.” She looked down, plucked at her bindings, and stilled. Had he seen?

“Squire Warren.”

The young man stepped from behind Annyn and handed her a small pot.

“Tend your hand,” Wulfrith ordered.

“Now?” She was too surprised to consider whether a response was appropriate following his latest lesson. From his lowering brow, it was not.

“You shall know pain at Wulfen, Braose, but pain that teaches and is earned.”

She lowered her gaze and was immensely grateful that the water lapping Wulfrith’s abdomen was fogged by soap. She averted her eyes. “What of your bath water?”

“We are not conversing, Braose!”

Silently, she berated herself. She did not lack wit—could read, write, and reckon. If not for her training with Rowan, she could even have kept Uncle’s books. However, in Wulfrith’s presence she struggled and fumbled as if slow-witted.

Surprisingly, the salve smelled pleasant and soothed when she smoothed it in. She refit the stopper and extended the pot to the squire where he again stood behind his lord. “I thank you.”

“Keep it until your hand is healed,” Wulfrith said.

She opened her mouth but closed it with the reminder that he did not seek to converse. She was learning.

She spread the strings of the purse on her belt, dropped the pot into it, and grabbed the pails. Only a few more trips—

“Your task is finished,” Wulfrith said, beginning to rise from the tub.

She jerked her face aside that she not be made to look upon him.

What had he said? Her task was done? Aye, but why when more water was needed? Surely not because of her hand. He was not so merciful. Perhaps he was merely tired. Or disliked baths.

Regardless, she was dismissed. Heartened by imaginings of a soft pallet, she turned away.

“Stay, Braose.”

Keeping her gaze down, she came back around. “My lord?”

“We must needs speak further.”

Didn’t he mean
he
must needs speak and she listen? What other lesson was there to learn at the middling of night? She ventured a sidelong glance and was relieved to find he had donned his robe.

“Sit.” He swept a hand toward the table.