The Unveiling (Age of Faith)

by Tamara Leigh

  That her son had put a dagger through it?

  The lady closed the door.

  Josse flung the tunic onto the chair and grimaced over the bindings. “I shall have to unwind you.” When Annyn’s chest was finally bared, she exclaimed, “Oh, my lady, see what you have done!”

  Annyn’s flesh was angry, especially where the upper and lower edges of the bindings had rubbed. But she hardly felt it, she was so cold. Looking to the bath that wafted steam and the scent of roses, she reached to her braies.

  Josse pushed her hands aside. “’Tis for me to do.”

  When Annyn finally settled into the tub, she moaned as the water gave its heat to her. Closing her eyes, she reveled in a pleasure that had only ever seemed a chore. She hardly felt the hands rubbing soap into her skin, the water streaming over her head, the fingers scrubbing her scalp, but too soon the bath cooled.

  As Josse ushered her into a towel, Lady Isobel reappeared with a bright blue bliaut, white chainse, head veil, and hose and slippers.

  Strangely, Annyn was not disappointed that she would once more don lady’s clothes. More than ever, including when she was a very young girl and had still dreamed of being the beauty her mother was, she longed to look the lady. For what reason, she did not care to admit.

  Lady Isobel considered Annyn’s scrubbed face and bare shoulders above the towel. “As expected, you are pretty.”

  Truly? The nearest she had come to such a compliment was when Duke Henry had condescended to pronounce her “not uncomely.” “Thank you, Lady Isobel.”

  The woman eyed Annyn’s arms. “The Baron Lavonne is also responsible for these bruises?”

  Then she knew it was he who had struck her face, likely told by Abel who would have learned it from his brother. “He was angered by what I said to him.”

  Lady Isobel put her head to the side. “Angrier than you made my son?”

  It took Annyn a moment to decipher the woman’s message that her son was not a beast. But Annyn already knew that.

  Lady Isobel sighed and looked to Josse. “We must needs make haste. Lord Wulfrith grows impatient.”

  Josse lifted the armful from her mistress. “Come, Lady Annyn.” She stepped to the bed and laid out the garments.

  It felt strange to be dressed by a maid, for Annyn had not liked the close attentions of the woman that Uncle had given in service to her at Castle Lillia—the tittering over her choice of clothes, the muttering over the grime caused by her training with Rowan.

  “It has been four days since you arrived at Stern,” Lady Isobel spoke from the chair Annyn had earlier occupied.

  It seemed twice as many. Wishing she had a towel with which to wipe her nose and that she could shake the chill that had returned to her, Annyn sniffed and looked up from the bliaut Josse had pulled over her head.

  “And yet,” Lady Isobel said, “you have not asked how my son fares.”

  Annyn’s heart jerked. He was recovering, was he not? “I assumed that, as he sent for me, he must be healing.” She caught her breath as Josse pulled in the side laces of the bliaut that fit a bit too snug. “He is, is he not?”

  “Aye, he heals.”

  Thank You, Lord.

  “Lady Gaenor’s gown is a wee tight.” Josse stepped back to assess Annyn. “But it will do.”

  Who was Lady Gaenor? Annyn looked from Josse to Lady Isobel, but neither enlightened her. Whoever the woman was, and for whatever reason she kept clothes at Stern, Lady Gaenor was tall. Even with slippers, the bliaut’s skirt would trail—not only in back as was intended, but in front as was not. If Annyn was not careful, she would go sprawling. But at least the sleeves falling from her wrists did not sweep the floor as her mother’s had—a style no longer in fashion.

  “Very good, Josse,” Lady Isobel said. “Now her hair, and be quick.”

  Josse put her head this way and that to determine what could be done. In the end, the only thing for it was to brush it out, drape the veil over it, and fit a circlet of silver. “There now. None will know your hair is shorn, my lady.”

  “You may leave us,” Lady Isobel said.

  The maid curtsied and met Annyn’s gaze. “Now you look the lady.” Her mouth no longer suppressing its smile, she withdrew.

  Lady Isobel stepped before Annyn. “Are you ready to stand before Wulfrith?”

  Again struck by her use of his surname as if he was hardly known to her, Annyn asked, “Was your son not given a Christian name, my lady?”

  “Of course, but as it has always been, when the Wulfrith heir takes his place as baron, from that day forward he is known as Wulfrith and his Christian name used only by intimates, and then never in public. ’Tis a matter of respect, especially suited for those who train at Wulfen.”

  As much as Annyn longed to know his name, she was not an intimate. Or was she? She touched her lips, remembered his kiss, and told herself the shiver that shook her was only a chill. Nay, surely those few moments in his arms did not qualify her as an intimate. He had meant nothing by it.

  “Do not fret,” Lady Isobel said, “for methinks he shall soon enough tell you the name his father gave him.”

  How did she know?

  Wulfrith’s mother stepped back and circled Annyn. “Aye,” she said, “you shall make a passable wife for my son.”

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  “Wife? What do you say, Lady Isobel?”

  The woman clasped her pale hands against her black skirts. “What you heard, Lady Annyn.”

  “I do not understand. I am your son’s enemy. I tried to—”

  “But you did not.”

  How did she know that when not even Wulfrith knew she had turned from revenge?

  “Thus, you are no longer his enemy.” Lady Isobel crossed to the chest and lifted the lid. “And that”—she turned with a kerchief in hand—“is what we must convince my son.”

  Annyn did not know what to say. Regardless that it was Rowan who had sent the arrow through Wulfrith, she was to blame. “I do not understand that you would wish me for a daughter. And even if ’tis so, surely you know it is not possible.”

  The lady extended the kerchief. “I am mistaken in believing your heart has turned to my son?”

  In that she was not completely wrong, but it was not as the lady believed. It could not be. “You are wrong, my lady.” Annyn accepted the kerchief and dabbed her nose. “As I now know your son could not have murdered my brother, I regret what happened. But ’tis only regret I feel for the terrible wrong done him. Naught else.”

  Lady Isobel’s gaze narrowed. “Even if he cared for you?”

  She nearly laughed. “Truly, Lady Isobel, after all that has happened, the last thing your son feels for me is care.”

  The lady turned on her heel. “We shall see. Come.”

  Insides aflutter, Annyn stared after her.

  Finding herself alone at the door, Lady Isobel said over her shoulder, “As you surely know, he does not like to be kept waiting.”

  As Annyn stepped into the corridor, her gaze clashed with Squire Warren’s where he stood erect outside the second door. His brow furrowed as he stared at her, but a moment later recognition flew across his face. Then disbelief.

  Was she so transformed? Could a bath and bliaut effect such?

  He recovered, as evidenced by eyes that were no more kind than Squire Samuel’s or Charles’s when she had been brought from the tower.

  “My lady,” he greeted Wulfrith’s mother.

  “Squire Warren. Wulfrith is alone?”

  “Nay, Lady Gaenor and Lady Beatrix yet attend him.”

  Gaenor, to whom belonged the bliaut Annyn wore. Something painful sank through Annyn, something Rowan would not like.

  “You may announce us,” Lady Isobel said.

  Squire Warren turned and knocked.

  “Enter!”

  Wulfrith’s voice, strong and sure as if he had not suffered these past days, made Annyn’s heart jump. Telling herself it was time to put aside pride and plead
for Rowan, she pressed her shoulders back.

  Squire Warren pushed the door inward. “My lord, your lady mother calls and brings with her Jame—er, Lady Annyn Bretanne.”

  Silence.

  Annyn looked to Lady Isobel, but the woman’s eyes were forward. Would Wulfrith not see her?

  “Bid them enter.”

  A chill coursed Annyn, but it was more than the cold she had yet to fully warm away. Praying she would not shiver when she stood before Wulfrith, hoping Lady Gaenor was not terribly beautiful, Annyn followed Lady Isobel into the solar.

  Garr was unprepared for the woman who entered behind his mother, who sought his gaze with those same eyes that had looked through his dreams at him. Though he had kissed her, even acknowledged she was pretty, Annyn Bretanne clothed and presented as a lady made a dry pit of his mouth. And caused his resentment to root deeper.

  The transformation to lady was what had delayed her. What was his mother thinking? Here was the one who sought his death, who was responsible for an injury that could lame him for the remainder of his life, and yet she dressed Annyn in finest as if she were not a prisoner.

  “She is the one?” Beatrix whispered where she sat to his left. “What ill befell her face?”

  Her observation jolted Garr, for he had not noticed the bruise. Though it was more yellow than the purple it had been when last he had looked upon her, it remained distinct. But he had looked past it.

  Gaenor shifted beside him, and when he glanced at her he saw she also stared. However, she held her tongue as her sister did not know how to do.

  Though Isobel drew alongside the bed, Annyn halted at the center of the room, looked to Garr’s sisters where they sat on either side of him, then gave her stiff gaze to Garr.

  Stiff because of his partly bared chest, he realized, remembering how she had avoided looking upon his body when she was disguised as a squire. For that, he nearly drew the coverlet higher. But she ought to be ill at ease.

  Gaenor gasped. “She wears my bliaut! That vile creature wears my bliaut!”

  It seemed she did not know how to hold her tongue.

  “Aye, Daughter,” Lady Isobel said, “it is the same you were to wear to receive Lord Harrod who offers for you. Pity you cannot do so lacking a proper gown, hmm?”

  That cooled Gaenor. Still, it was obvious she resented the woman in their midst. And neither was Beatrix pleased, though her pique was tempered by youthful curiosity.

  Garr waved to the door where Squire Warren lingered. “Out! All of you!” He narrowed his gaze on Annyn. “Except you.”

  Gripping a kerchief, she remained unmoving as Gaenor and Beatrix exited the chamber ahead of their mother.

  “Mother!” Garr called.

  She looked around.

  “We shall speak on this.”

  She inclined her head and closed the door.

  Silence swelled between Garr and Annyn when their eyes met again.

  Finally, she stepped forward. “I would speak to you of Rowan. He—”

  “—is to know no mercy, just as he knows no honor.”

  She halted at the foot of the bed. “Jonas was as a son to him. All these years he has believed, as I did, that ’twas you who killed him.”

  As she had done? No longer did? Telling himself he did not care what she thought, he sat forward, causing the coverlet to fall to his waist. “For the last time”—he winced at the pain that lanced his shoulder—“I say your brother was not killed. Shame was his end.”

  “You are wrong. I—” She snatched the kerchief to her mouth, turned her head, and coughed into it.

  Was she ill? When she looked back, Garr saw the whites of her eyes were red and her cheeks flushed. And her cough had been nearer a bark.

  She wiped her nose. “Upon my word, you are wrong.”

  He should not have allowed Abel to hold her in the tower. As his mother had warned, she was a lady. Of course, no lady he had known could have endured what Annyn had at Wulfen.

  She came around the bed. “Pray, Lord Wulfrith—”

  “I will not argue it.”

  “But he is ill.”

  And she was not? It bothered that she should care so much for the man, and again he wondered if her relationship with Rowan was one of lost innocence. True, her mouth had seemed untried, but that did not mean the rest of her was.

  He drew a breath and caught the scent of roses. Shot with a desire to breathe more deeply of her, he berated himself. “’Tis for yourself you ought to plead.”

  She stepped nearer—within reach. “Then you would have him die there?”

  “If that is what the Lord wills.”

  Anger brightened her eyes. “The Lord did not place him in that...abyss of inhumanity.”

  Once more, Garr turned his aching hand around an imaginary sword. “He did not, just as He did not make your Rowan loose an arrow on me!” Lord, why did he allow this conversation?

  “That I have already explained. I can say no more on it.”

  “Then do not.”

  Her eyes sparkled. “Was it truly from you that my brother learned revenge belonged to God? Impossible, for you are without heart, Wulfrith who does not even bear a Christian name—with good reason I am sure.”

  Garr knew he should let her retaliation pass, but the first lesson taught him refused to hold with this woman. Arm protesting, he clamped a hand around her wrist, dragged her forward, and slapped her hand to his bared chest. “I have a heart, Annyn Bretanne,” he bit inches from her face, “though your Rowan would have had it be otherwise.”

  He heard her sharply indrawn breath, felt its trembling release on his face. In her eyes that he should not be able to read, he saw she remembered the last time they had been so near. As if no ill stood between them, as if her beauty were unsurpassed, as if she were warm and willing to lie down for him, his body stirred to the beat of his heart against her palm.

  “Aye”—she slipped a tongue to her lips to moisten them—“but of such a heart one should not boast, Wulfrith.”

  Garr released her. “I am done with you, Annyn Bretanne.”

  She straightened. “For how long?”

  “For however long it pleases me.”

  “And then?”

  “Then you shall see. Squire Warren!”

  The door swung inward and the young man stepped inside.

  “The lady is to be allowed the reach of the donjon, and only the donjon. This task I give you and Squire Samuel that you may redeem yourselves. Other than the garderobe, she goes nowhere without attendance.”

  Dismay flickered in the squire’s eyes. “’Twill be done, my lord.”

  “If she escapes,” Garr continued, “your time at Wulfen and Squire Samuel’s will be done.” He looked to where Annyn stood alongside the bed. “Take your leave and do not trouble my men overly much.”

  She smiled tightly. “I would not think to.”

  It vexed Garr that it was the same his mother had replied when he had earlier warned her against testing him, especially as she had then done so.

  Annyn crossed the solar and stepped into the corridor.

  “Be of good care,” Garr warned Warren.

  “I assuredly shall, my lord.” He closed the door.

  Garr sank back against the pillows and squeezed his shoulder. Had he torn the stitches when he seized Annyn? He looked to the bandages. God willing, there would be no seepage, for if he was to recover before Henry descended upon Stern, he could not waste even a day.

  Annyn leaned back against the wall for fear she might crumble before Squire Warren. He would like that, but even if it was his due, she would not yield. She pushed off.

  “Come.” He stepped past her.

  Where? Of course, did it matter when her audience with Wulfrith had only gained her scorn? Though she, who had set to motion all that transpired, was once more made a lady, Rowan weakened in that horrible cell. And it seemed there was nothing she could do.

  “Lady Annyn!”

  She met th
e squire’s impatient gaze.

  “Lady Isobel said you are to take the nooning meal with her, and it has begun.”

  Though Annyn tried to ease the scratch in her throat by swallowing hard, it did not aid. As she followed the squire to the stairs, she coughed into the kerchief and knew she sounded nearly as bad as Rowan.

  The mood of the hall altered with her arrival as all pondered and judged her. Still, she did not falter as Squire Warren guided her to the high table where Lady Isobel was seated with her daughters. And farther down the table sat Sir Merrick who allowed her no more than a brooding glance before looking elsewhere.

  What was it about him? What did he know? When might she speak with him?

  “Sit beside me, Lady Annyn,” bid the lady of the castle.

  Skirting the table, Annyn looked to Gaenor and Beatrix whose eyes bored through her, then lowered to the bench beside Lady Isobel.

  The woman leaned near. “Worry not. God shall deal with my son.”

  “To what end?”

  “Methinks that depends on you.” Wulfrith’s mother dipped her spoon into the steaming trencher, the contents of which would have made Annyn’s mouth moist were she not struck by the realization that the lady might be a valuable ally.

  Though Annyn was not allowed to leave the donjon, there was nothing to prevent Lady Isobel from doing so. But how to convince her to aid the one who had nearly killed her son? For whatever reason she had pardoned Annyn—an incredible stretch—surely it would not extend to Rowan. Still, it was his only hope.

  Ignoring Gaenor and Beatrix who continued to watch her from the other side of their mother, Annyn scooped stew from the trencher that had appeared before her. For the first time in days, the food she spooned into her mouth was hot, but though it warmed a path to her belly, her guilt that Rowan was not here to savor it bade her to lower her spoon.

  “Lady Isobel,” she spoke low, “if I could speak to you about Sir Rowan?”

  The woman’s eyes narrowed. “You press my generosity too far.”

  Of course she did. “Apologies, my lady.” Annyn rolled the spoon’s handle between thumb and forefinger while the woman continued to glare at her. Finally, Lady Isobel returned to her meal, but Annyn could not.