by Tamara Leigh
Holding the high seat on the dais was Henry himself. However, it was not the vibrant man who carried Annyn's gaze time and again. It was the squire who sat at a lower table.
The talk of the hall was that, though destined for the monastery, the deaths of his brothers in the wars between Stephen and Henry had made the boy heir. Of a family strongly opposed to Henry’s claim on England, he had been captured by the duke’s army a sennight past while en route to Wulfen Castle. Such hopes his father must have that Wulfrith could turn him from a sickly pup into a wolf, but it would not come without much effort and pain. And now that he was to be held at Lillia, it might not come at all.
Annyn peered closer. He was slightly taller than she, who had risen to five feet three inches in the four years following Jonas's death, and his hair was nearly as dark as hers. There was not much to his build, as there was not much to hers.
“My lady,” a warmly familiar voice spoke at her elbow.
She met Rowan's gaze. Regardless of the years that aged his eyes, there was something more to them than she had ever seen. The man he would have sit on England’s throne had been let into Lillia. “Rowan?”
“The Duke requests your attendance.”
Henry would see her? During his three hours at Lillia, he had not acknowledged her though she directed the servants and had done her best to look the lady of the castle.
Bitter humor tugged at her. Lady of the Castle, and yet beneath her mother's chainse and bliaut—dragged on as Henry came into Lillia—she wore tunic and hose. And for it she perspired.
She tugged the bodice off her moist skin. “I am presentable?” she asked in a voice that was more husk than the scratch it had been four years earlier.
“As presentable as a boy turned lady can be.”
Wishing there was time to work her mess of hair into braids, she blew breath down her small-breasted chest. “Then to Henry I must go.” She started past Rowan but halted. “Pray, hasten abovestairs and tell my uncle I shall attend him shortly.”
Hoping Uncle Artur, who had been abed these past months, did not fret his failing heart over the happenings belowstairs, she traversed the hall. As with an increasing number of those who had long sided with Stephen, the intervening years were wrought with disenchantment for her uncle, though more for fear of the king that Stephen’s son, Eustace, would one day make.
She settled her gaze on Henry. Poise befitting a lady, she reminded herself, small steps, small smile, small gestures, small voice, small talk. While inside, her heart beat large.
She ought to have been born a man. No matter how she tried for Uncle, it was not in her to be a lady. Would it ever be? If Jonas had lived, perhaps, but his murder left little for the woman's body into which she had been given.
Lifting her skirts, she sidestepped the sots whose bellies sloshed with Uncle's wine and ale. As she ascended the dais, Henry paused over the rim of his goblet and regarded her with large grey eyes.
She curtsied. “My lord.” When she straightened, a faint smile lifted his freckled cheeks above his beard. He was handsome, though on other men such a square face and feverish red hair would be less pleasing.
“The lady Annyn.” He gestured to the bench beside him. “Sit.”
Realizing her skirts were still hitched to her ankles, Annyn dropped them and came around the table. As she lowered to the bench, Henry studied her with such intensity she feared he saw beneath her bliaut and chainse to the tunic, hose, and—
She gasped.
Wafting the scent of wine, Henry sat forward. “Something is amiss?”
Feigning a cough, she wiggled her toes beneath her skirts. She had forgotten to exchange her worn boots for slippers. Had anyone seen?
She tucked her feet beneath the bench, summoned an apologetic smile, and patted her neck. “A tickle, ’tis all.”
He eased back into the high seat. “You are not uncomely, Lady Annyn.”
Though his words were unexpected, she maintained an impassive expression. What response did he seek? She could agree she was not uncomely, but neither was she comely. Plain was the better word for one whose face was unremarkable beneath pale freckles, whose breasts were not much larger than apple halves, and the span between waist and hips was nearly unchanged.
“Why are you not wed?”
She flinched and immediately berated herself for failing to conceal her feelings. Jonas would have been disappointed.
“Be assured, Lady Annyn, though you are of an age, I shall find a fitting husband for you when I am king. One who will lord Aillil as it ought to be lorded.”
Though her anger was more for his plan to wed her away from the freedom she was allowed, neither did she like being spoken of as if she were an old woman at eight and ten. Old women did not swing swords, tilt at quintains, or hunt. And they certainly did not wear men's garments. Perhaps Henry would not make a good king after all.
He chuckled, and she realized she had revealed herself again. “Ho, you do not like that!”
Careful, he shall soon be your king. Still, she could not acquiesce as Uncle would have advised and Rowan would have desired. She retrieved a small smile befitting a lady. “Do you wish the truth, my lord, or a lie?”
Henry grinned. “That is all the answer I require, Annyn Bretanne. Now, where does your loyalty lie?”
She released her tight smile. “You have my fealty, my lord.”
“As I had your brother’s, eh?”
Feeling the color pull from her cheeks, she asked, “You knew of Jonas’s stand?”
Though he shrugged, she glimpsed in his eyes what looked like plotting. “A good king knows his subjects, Annyn Bretanne, and a good king I shall be.”
And no more would he speak of Jonas. She clenched her hands. “I am certain you shall, my lord.”
Henry grabbed a loaf of bread and wrenched off a bite. “What does your uncle think, Annyn Bretanne?”
It was curious, but he had not ordered Uncle Artur from his bed, nor gone abovestairs to confront the lord of the castle. It was as if Uncle was of no consequence. And perhaps he was not. Not only had he stood down from Henry, but he would not be much longer in this world. That last made her ache.
“Annyn Bretanne?”
Though she had never found her name offensive, it vexed that he was intent on speaking it in its entirety. She lowered her gaze. “Though I cannot speak for my uncle, is it not enough that he did not subject Castle Lillia to siege?”
Silence, and the longer it grew, the more fearsome it was felt.
Wondering where she erred, she looked up.
Henry's face was flushed. “’Tis not enough.”
She swallowed. “What would be enough, my lord?”
“From his own lips he shall renounce his allegiance to Stephen.”
And if he did not? “As you know, my uncle is infirm. If you ask this of him, I fear it will break a heart already broken in many places.”
“You would have me depart Aillil with its lord still firm to Stephen? I did not enter here merely to quench my thirst and hunger, Annyn Bretanne. I came to take this barony from Stephen.”
To whom it had not belonged for several years, though Uncle could not bring himself to foreswear the false king. Again, Annyn wondered if she had erred in supporting the duke, but that would mean Jonas had erred. And that was not possible.
“There is another way, Annyn Bretanne.”
“My lord?”
“Aye, and most satisfactory. You shall wed a man of my choosing.”
Realizing he did not refer to her marrying once he was king, but sooner, Annyn's booted feet stuttered out from beneath the bench.
“And for it, your uncle may hold to Stephen if that is what he would do. We are agreed?”
As if it were so simple. As if she had a choice. But though she hated it, marriage was inevitable. As Uncle’s heir, she must wed; as Henry’s subject, she must make an alliance with one of his own.
“Agreed. You shall send word when a suitable husb
and is found?”
“The bargain I make is that you wed on the morrow.”
She startled. “The morrow?”
His eyes sparkled, and she realized this proposal had not come upon him suddenly.
Perhaps none is worthy to wear the crown of England, she seethed before chastising herself for judging him solely on how his ascension affected her. For all that was told of Henry, and by his acts, he would make a worthy king—better than Stephen and far better than Stephen’s brutal son, Eustace.
“I shall have your answer now, Annyn Bretanne.”
She looked to the occupants of the hall, one of whom Henry would choose to make of her mere chattel—a possession, a servant who directed servants, a body for spilling a man’s lust, a womb for breeding. It was all she would become to one of these drunken sots. Worse, it meant her brother’s death went unavenged and Wulfrith would never know Jonas’s pain. She struggled but turned from the dark desire. She would not have Uncle Artur suffer further.
“I accept your proposal, my lord, but were I a man, such terms would not be acceptable.”
He laughed. “Were you a man, Annyn Bretanne, for naught would I put such terms to you.”
Under cover of the ridiculously long sleeves of her mother’s bliaut, she clasped her hands tighter and rebuked herself for speaking with a child’s tongue.
Henry reached for his goblet. “’Tis settled. On the morrow you shall wed.” He swept his gaze around the hall as if in search of the groom, and his eyes settled on one farther down the lord’s table. A baron, she believed, and young, mayhap a score and five.
Though she knew she ought to be grateful he was not decrepit—indeed, he was handsome—he appeared to love his ale, as evidenced by the weave of his head and the stain on his tunic. If there was one thing Annyn detested, it was an excess of drink. Her mother had suffered the weakness, and though Annyn had been quite young before Lady Elena’s passing, the raucous laughter often followed by wrenching tears was well remembered.
Henry grunted and drained his goblet. “I shall make my decision on the morrow. Good eve.”
Annyn stood. “Good eve, my lord.”
“Annyn Bretanne.”
“My lord?”
He thrust his goblet toward a serving wench. “Henceforth, there will be no more swordplay, no more tilting, no more hunting.”
He knew. Something inside her shriveled. Not yet wed and already she was bound. Nothing left to her but the tedious chores of ladies, of which she could do few. “Aye, my lord.”
“Too, my dear wife, Eleanor, would advise that slippers are the better choice beneath a lady’s skirts.”
She curled her fingers into her palms, her toes in her boots. “And she would be quite right, my lord. Is there anything else she would advise?”
“That is all.”
She knew she ought to remain in the hall to direct the servants, but she could not. She would attend Uncle Artur, then withdraw to her own chamber.
When she was halfway across the hall, Henry’s prisoner once more fell to her regard. The squire was slumped on an upturned hand, oblivious to the clamorous escort who had been taken with him. If not for his capture, it would be Wulfrith’s hall in which he sat, Wulfrith to whom he answered, Wulfrith—
She must think only of Uncle Artur.
Shortly, she entered the solar. It was aglow, the fire in the hearth painting the walls orange and yellow. Though there was no place in all of Lillia as warm and vibrant, the bargain struck with Henry numbed her to it.
She looked to where Uncle lay in the postered bed, then to Rowan who sat in the chair alongside. “He sleeps?”
Before he could answer, Uncle’s lids lifted. “Annyn.”
She hastened forward, sank onto the mattress edge, and kissed his brow. “I am here.”
“You...look the lady.”
As she so rarely did. “I have tried.”
He touched her sleeve. “I remember the last time your mother wore this gown. Such a beautiful woman.”
It was how all remembered Elena Bretanne. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, Annyn fell short of the woman who had borne her.
Uncle Artur sighed. “Aillil is Henry’s now.”
Though it was as Annyn wished, she felt little satisfaction. “’Tis.”
“My Jonas was right. A better king Henry will make.”
Annyn cupped his face. “Rest, Uncle.”
“A better baron Jonas would have made.”
If not for Wulfrith.
His lids trembled downward. “And a better husband I would have made...your mother.”
She startled and glanced at Rowan who also jerked with surprise.
“We loved,” her uncle breathed.
Annyn shook her head. “Uncle?”
Rowan issued a short, bitter laugh. “So that was the way of it.”
Annyn met the gaze of the one who had first been her father's knight, ever near to comfort away bumps and bruises regardless of whether they were accidental or meted out by his lord’s terrible temper.
She winced in remembrance of the bad humor that had not been spared their mother. Though Father Cornelius would have pronounced Annyn and Jonas evil, they were relieved upon the death of the one who had sired them. Shortly afterward, they had come with their mother to Lillia, and Rowan had brought them. There was none Annyn trusted more. All he had taught her: horses, hawking, the sword, the lance, the bow. Never would she know him as Jonas had known him, but he was a friend.
He squeezed his temples. “He was the one.”
Annyn stared at him. What pained him so? Aye, he had cared for her mother, but...
She sought backwards and pried at memories of her mother and Rowan. There was not much to draw upon, other than that Rowan had been ever near and kind. And how grateful her mother had been for his unfailing attendance. But why had Rowan cared so much? Had he more than cared? As, it seemed, her uncle had done?
She knelt before the knight. “Did you love her, Rowan?”
He dragged a hand down his face. “What man did not? Even your father, for all his cruelty, loved Elena.”
“Ah, Rowan.” She laid a hand to his jaw. “I did not know.”
“’Twas for none to know.”
“Not even my mother?”
“She knew, and for a time I believed she felt for me, but she did not.” Face darkening, he looked to Uncle. “It seems ’twas Artur she cared for.”
Annyn followed his gaze to where her uncle lay silent. She had been but six when her mother died, unaware of what went between men and women. Had Elena returned Artur’s love?
As Annyn stared at her uncle, longing for him to awaken that she might know her mother’s secret, she was struck by the utter rest upon his face.
She looked to his chest and waited for it to rise. It did not. She twisted around and pressed an ear to Uncle’s chest, but no matter how she strained, a heart that no longer beat could not be heard. She gasped and looked to Rowan. “He is gone.”
He stared.
Annyn sank back on her heels. Her mother lost to her, then Jonas, now Uncle. If not for Rowan, she would truly be alone. She hugged her arms to her. Though she told herself she would not cry, tears wet her cheeks.
She did not know how long she sat wrapped in misery, but finally Rowan laid a hand on her shoulder and said softly, “Aillil is yours now.”
What did it matter? Though she loved Aillil and its people, even if the latter shook their heads when she passed, she had none with whom to share it. And come the morrow, it would all be taken from her. “Nay. Aillil belongs to one of Henry’s men.”
Rowan’s eyebrows clashed. “Of what do you speak?”
Accursed tears! Good for naught but swelling one’s eyes. “I am to wed on the morrow.” She stood, crossed to the window, and unlatched the shutters. “I agreed to it that Henry would not force Uncle to renounce Stephen.”
Though Rowan rarely betrayed his emotions, she felt his anger. It surprised her, for thoug
h she knew he held her in affection, he was Henry’s man.
“Who would he have you wed?”
As the cool night air emptied the oppressive heat from her, she said, “Even he does not know. He shall decide on the morrow.”
“But your uncle is dead.”
“And you think that changes anything?” She gasped. It changed everything. She had agreed to Henry’s terms to spare her uncle pain, and pain he could no longer feel. But did she dare? If not for her ache, she might have smiled. Aye, Annyn Bretanne dared.
She turned to Rowan. “I shall leave Lillia.”
“Where will you go?”
To where she had longed to venture for four years. “Wulfen Castle.”
He drew a sharp breath. “We have spoken of this, Annyn. You must put aside your revenge. Naught good—”
“Will you take me? Or do I go alone?”
Never had she seen him struggle so, for if he agreed, he would betray his future king. Though she knew she should not ask it, she needed his help. “You also want Jonas avenged. Do you deny it?”
“I cannot.” His voice cracked. “But though I would have vengeance on Wulfrith and render it myself if I could get near him, what you intend could mean your death.”
Then it was fear for her that stayed him. She crossed to his side. “Do you think I will not be dead if forced to wed?”
“You speak of blood upon your hands.”
“The blood of my brother's murderer!” Regardless of whether it was Wulfrith who put the noose to Jonas or he’d had another do it, through him her brother had died. “Whether or not you aid me, I will do this.”
He scrabbled a hand over his bearded jaw. “How?”
“You will aid me?”
He slowly inclined his head.
Then she would have her revenge. “There is a squire in the hall who was traveling to Wulfen when he was captured by Henry,” she said.
“Jame Braose.”
Then he had also heard the talk. “I shall need his papers and to learn all there is to know of him.”
He understood what she intended, but rendered no more argument. “I shall take ale with him and his escort.”