by Tamara Leigh
“We will use that,” he said. “Anger makes a man strong.”
As it was said to make him strong?
“You but need to learn when to use it and to what degree, little priest.”
His reminder of who Jame Braose was cooled her expression of hatred.
“Now the pel.” He turned.
The pel? And what else?
As Annyn rose, she saw the field had emptied. Gauging by the lowering sun, the supper hour neared. And she was alone with Wulfrith—of certain advantage were she capable of working vengeance without stealth.
“Braose!”
Muttering beneath her breath, she tramped after him.
He stood before a wooden post set in the ground. “Your sword.” He extended the one he held.
Her fingers brushed his as she turned them around the hilt, and she felt her blood rush. How curious hate was—
The tip of the sword hit the ground, and she stared down the blade’s length before realizing she had been given a blade twice the weight of others. Though she knew such swords were used to develop muscles and grow one accustomed to wielding weapons, Rowan had never pressed her to swing one.
“Are you hungry, Braose?”
Dare she hope he might forego this exercise? “Indeed I am...my lord.”
“Then the sooner you take the pel to ground, the sooner you may fill your belly.”
All the way to ground? Though she supposed she ought to be grateful the post was not thick, she hated Wulfrith more.
She took a step back, closed her other hand over the hilt, and heaved the sword up. It was not the pel she struck once...twice...a dozen times. It was the image she summoned of Wulfrith. She hacked until her arms trembled. And still the post was not halfway felled.
Throat raw from labored breath, she lowered the sword.
“You have much anger for one promised to the church,” Wulfrith mused.
She looked to where he leaned against the fence. How was she to respond? As Jame Braose. “Were your own destiny snatched from you, you would also be angered.”
He arched an eyebrow. “So I would.” He strode from the fence and advanced on her. “Finish with the pel and come to the hall. You will pour wine at table this eve.”
When was she to eat?
She thought he meant to pass behind her, but he paused at her back, leaned in, and said, “I promise you, Jame Braose, we will turn that anger of yours to good.”
His warm breath on her skin made her shiver. Her good, not his.
She heard his footsteps retreat. When she was fairly sure he was gone, she looked over her shoulder. Only she remained on the training field, and somewhere out there, Rowan.
With a grunt, she raised the sword and swung. The blade bit, causing the wooden post to shudder and chips to fly. If it was a pel Wulfrith wanted, a pel she would give him.
Across the darkening of day, Garr looked down from the battlements to the young man on the training field. Though Braose’s arms and shoulders surely raged, he continued to swing the weighted sword.
He was not as expected. Though years from a man’s body, he was not fragile and fought well for one who had received little training in arms. And the anger that colored his eyes!
It reminded Garr of the anger he himself had known as a boy. But Braose’s seemed to go beyond his loss of the church. Indeed, it was as if directed at Garr himself. Because Garr stood Stephen’s side and the little priest turned heir had gone to Henry’s side? That the young man’s father had not told in the missive sent two months past beseeching that his son be accepted at Wulfen.
As for Jame’s impertinence, he dared mightily when it had been told he was acquiescent. As for face, he was nearly pretty, his skin smooth and unblemished and lacking any evidence that a beard might soon sprout.
There was something else about him that bothered. Though Garr was trained to the eyes, that well of emotion more telling than men’s lips, something dwelt in the young man’s hate that could not be read. But soon enough he would come to it, Garr hoped, for his reading of men’s eyes had failed him once. Only by God’s grace had it not cost hundreds of lives.
He shoved a hand through his hair. Though nothing was certain in life, there was merit in going to the eyes to truly know a person—rather, a man, for could one truly know a woman? And would one wish to?
Bothersome creatures, his father, Drogo, had often said. But they were useful, for without them there would be naught, Garr conceded no more than his father and grandfather had done. Still, truth be known, he had never come nearer a woman than through the ease of his loins, and only with harlots.
At the age of four, Drogo had taken him from Stern Castle to begin his training at Wulfen. It had been the same for the two brothers that followed, never knowing much of their mother or sisters beyond the once, sometimes twice-a-year visits. Women were a bad influence, Drogo had told. They weakened a man’s heart when it needed to be strong. Thus, as it had been for the generations before Garr—men who knew women only for the lusting and getting of heirs—so it would be for the generations to follow.
Garr looked one last time at Jame Braose. Whatever it was about the young man, he would discover it. Silently cursing that he was late to prayer, he swung away.
When the irony of his blaspheming struck, he raised his eyes. “Forgive me, Lord.” Such was the difficulty of even putting one’s thoughts to women. Always they turned a man from his purpose.
CHAPTER FIVE
Hot and sticky from her bindings out, gait unbalanced by the pel beneath her arm, Annyn stepped into the great hall.
She paused at the sight that did not greet her: slopping tankards, overturned benches, filth-strewn rushes, facedown drunkards, dogs warring over bones. There were none of these things that ought to abound in a place absent of women.
Squires and pages moved quietly among the tables as they served peers and superiors. As for the manners of those who partook of the meal, spoons did not drip above trenchers and food did not color the beards of those whose faces were of an age to bear whiskers. Voices were tempered, and, unlike Annyn, all those within wore freshly laundered tunics and hose and their heads were bare of caps.
It was hard to believe these were the same ones who had labored on the training field. Hard to believe this was of Wulfrith’s doing. But they were and it was. Unless she had sweated herself into a hallucination, Wulfrith’s hall was refined, though Uncle had always said—
She pushed past the pang of loss. He had said that, without women, men were an uncivilized lot destined to run with the beasts. But the same could not be said of those in Wulfrith’s hall.
A prick in her side, she pinched the bindings through her tunic before remembering Rowan’s warning. Lowering her arm, she settled her gaze on Wulfrith who filled the lord’s chair—a squire over his shoulder, a knight seated to his left, a priest seated to his right.
A priest at Wulfen? Certain as she had been that Wulfen was the devil’s lair, she had not considered it would boast a man of God. But then, it was at Wulfen that Jonas had found his faith. From this man?
The splintered pel nicking her through her tunic, she regretted her impetuous decision to deliver its remains to Wulfrith. She would be on show for all, not just the one she had expected to find amid disarray.
She glanced over her shoulder at the squire who stood as porter before the doors. His face had reflected surprise when he saw her burden. Now his eyes danced.
“Squire Jame,” the dread voice put an end to retreat, “what do you bring into my hall?”
Why could Wulfrith not have been blind a few moments longer?
She pulled the cap from her head and shoved it beneath her belt. Though she felt watched by all, it was Wulfrith’s gaze that drew hers. Standing taller, thighs and calves aching as much from her feud with the pel as her traversing of the hall, she ascended the dais.
A movement over Wulfrith’s shoulder drew her attention to the squire at his back. The young man’s presence signifi
ed he held the coveted position of First Squire, the same as Jonas before his murder.
The pain of his passing never far, she looked to Wulfrith. “My lord, the pel has been taken to ground.” She stepped forward and unloaded her burden. It rolled over the tablecloth and settled against a platter of viands.
Displeasure darkening his eyes, Wulfrith lowered his goblet and clasped his hands before him. “Your word would have sufficed.”
“But you hardly know me, my lord.” And never you shall. “For what would you believe a stranger?”
“For what?” he snapped. “That my fine table not be fouled.”
Longing for the cover of her cap, she said, “Apologies, my lord. ’Twas not meant to offend.” Liar.
His lids narrowed in agreement with her silent slur. “Your completion of the task is noted.”
Annyn hefted the pel.
“Set it on the fire, then take yourself to the kitchen and remain there ’til I send for you.”
No doubt, her presence offended—a shriveled apple among polished. But better the kitchen than here. Still, she had to ask, “You would not have me pour wine?”
His nostrils flared. Though she had sought to move him toward anger, she was stung with apprehension.
“And imperil my good health?” His voice was too level for comfort.
’Tis your own doing, Annyn berated herself. Not only would such conduct make her time at Wulfen more difficult, but it could become a barrier between her and revenge. She must get nearer Wulfrith, and inciting him was not the means to do so.
“I shall await your summons, my lord.”
As she turned, her eyes met those of the knight beside him who was also tended by a squire—as were all the knights seated at the high table. The man bore a resemblance to Wulfrith. A relation?
With somber grey-green eyes, cleft chin, and tightly compressed lips, he had to be, though he was somewhat younger and the color of his hair could not be known as it was scraped from his scalp. Surprisingly, the next knight also bore a resemblance, though his hair was dark brown and showed no bit of silver. In contrast to the man beside him, his eyes sparkled as he struggled to maintain the stern set of his face.
Brothers? She did not remember it being said that Wulfrith had any.
Tightening her grip on the pel, she considered the next man. Though she expected him also to bear a likeness, he was well removed with a narrow face and sleepy green eyes. Still, he was strangely familiar, and that familiarity shoveled fear through her.
Where had she seen him? Might he recognize her? If so, it did not show in the eyes that swept her before returning to his trencher.
She stepped from the dais and met the stares of squires, pages, and knights as she lugged the pel across the hall. They watched her progress, countenances reflecting disapproval tempered by amusement. How they must long to laugh, but they kept their humor to their eyes and twitching mouths.
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 ca
rved 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.