by Tamara Leigh
Aye, and wished she did not. She lifted herself out of the chair.
“I pray you will not hate me too long,” Rowan choked. “That one day you will forgive me.”
She looked to Wulfrith who watched her. Was that pity in his eyes? Whatever it was, it made her long for his anger.
“Annyn?”
She returned her gaze to Rowan whom she should hate, but could not if she were to hold to God who was all that might keep her tattered raft from sinking. “I am done with hating, Rowan. There is no good in it. Only pain.” And what pain! She stepped around the bed.
“You will come again?”
At the doorway where Wulfrith stood, she looked around and glimpsed Rowan’s distress at realizing his confession had an audience of two. “Methinks it best that I do not.” She turned back before she was made to further suffer Rowan’s pain. Finding Wulfrith had stepped aside, she averted her gaze and crossed the threshold.
The guard was no longer outside the room, and she guessed Wulfrith had sent him away when Rowan’s tale began. Grateful, she stepped onto the stairs and began her descent that seemed to mirror the descent of her soul.
Garr stared after her. Curse Rowan! However, when he looked to the man, Rowan’s shame and misery pulled at him, especially now that Garr understood the reason he had taken the arrow. Any father would want punishment given to the one believed to have murdered his child.
Grudgingly, Garr inclined his head. “This shall go no further.”
Rowan stared.
Garr closed the door and strode to the stairs. Just down from the second landing, he nearly trod on Annyn where she sat tight against the wall. She surely knew she was no longer alone, but she gave no indication of it.
Garr lowered himself onto the step beside her. “Annyn?”
She clasped her hands tighter.
He knew she suffered, and he told himself he should not concern himself, but he could not walk away. He caught her chin and urged her face around. Though she lowered her gaze, he glimpsed pain that carved him up like a pig to slaughter. How could this woman, whom he had longest known as a man, do such to him? It was not for a warrior to be so affected.
“Your wounds will heal,” he heard himself say.
When she looked up, there were tears as he had known there would be. “As your wounds heal?”
The injury done him by Rowan was not all to which she referred. Indeed, it was as if she saw through him to the young boy torn between mother and father, and he was struck by the realization that they shared a past of being born to a loveless marriage. But then, marriages were first made of alliance. Few were made of love.
“Eventually,” he said, “all wounds that do not kill, heal, though the scarring may be unsightly.”
She caught her bottom lip between those neat white teeth that had marked him all those days ago. “I have wronged you. Still I say my brother was murdered, but I know ’twas not you who did it.”
From her own lips, the words he had not known he longed to hear.
“For that, and the injury done you, I am sorry, but I will not burden you by asking for your forgiveness after all that has happened.”
As she could not forgive Rowan, so she believed Garr would be unable to forgive her. He leaned nearer. “What will you ask of me, Annyn?”
“But one thing. Nay, two.”
“Tell me.”
She searched his eyes. “Release me.”
He should have known. “And the other thing?” he asked too gruffly.
“And Rowan as well.”
Then she forgave the man for what he had done to her mother? “Why Rowan?” Though he now knew she and the knight were not intimate, still it gripped him that she cared for the man.
She smiled bitterly. “You hold him for something of my doing. As for his sins, they are of the past, and for them he should not be held accountable to you.”
She could not have spoken truer, though it surprised Garr that at least a portion of the vengeance that had set her to taking his life did not now turn to Rowan. But then, she had said she was done hating. “If I give you what you ask, you will leave here with Rowan?”
“Nay, I will go alone.”
Because she was alone. These past weeks had nearly broken her. Now the only things left to her were Duke Henry’s anger and marriage to Lavonne. And Garr did not need to know her better to realize that not even for the comfort of home and privilege of the nobility would she give herself to them. “Where would you go?”
“I do not know.”
He would give her coin and an escort to see her safe to wherever she chose to flee, he determined. Their quarrel was done.
“Will you grant me this, Wulfrith?”
It was near his lips to agree, but he could not say it, not with her skin so soft beneath his calloused fingers. “I shall think on it.”
The glimmer in her eyes extinguished. “Then still you will revenge yourself upon me?”
“Nay, Annyn. The tale has been full told, and though you do not ask for my forgiveness, I give it and accept responsibility for the lie that began it.”
“Then why will you not release me?”
“Lesson fourteen—be slow to make decisions of great import.”
Indignation flared in her eyes, proof that all she had learned this day had not broken her. She pulled her chin from his grasp and began to rise. “I am no longer your pupil, Lord Wulfrith. There is naught else you can teach me that I need to know.”
Better she was angry than beset—at least, that was what Garr told himself to excuse what he did next. He stood, caught her arm, and pressed her back against the stairwell wall. “Is there not?”
She jerked her head back, causing the circlet to slip from her head veil and ring stair to stair on its descent. “Let me go!”
He had heard that before and made the mistake of yielding, which had seen an arrow put through him. He looked to her mouth and remembered it as if it were only yesterday he had first tasted its sweetness. “Is that what you truly wish, Annyn? For me to let you go?”
Her gaze wavered.
Garr drew the skewed veil from her hair, pushed a hand through the silken black strands, and gripped the back of her head. The moment his lips touched hers, she shuddered and gave her breath to him.
He tilted his head to more fully possess her, and beneath the urging of his mouth, she parted her lips and whispered, “Wulfrith.”
It was not what he wished to hear. He wanted her to call him as no woman he had known had called him. “I am Garr,” he said.
“Garr,” she whispered, then slid her hands up his chest, wound them around his neck, and urged him nearer with a desperation that should have given him pause. He wanted her more than he could remember wanting any woman, even his first who had cost him—
Opening his eyes, he saw Annyn’s lashes were moist with tears. And cursed himself for taking advantage of her battered emotions. She was no harlot. She was a lady, albeit unlike any he had met. And certainly he had never touched any lady as he now touched Annyn, having always slaked his need on those whose profession it was to pleasure a man.
When she finally opened her eyes, he raised a hand to her bruised cheek and gently swept the moisture from it. “You are right, you ought to be alone,” he acceded what he had denied her when she had believed Rowan was dead.
He pulled her hands from his neck, stepped back, and stiffly bowed. “Once more, I apologize for my behavior. It seems I have been too long without a woman.”
He could not have said anything more hurtful. Pained by what she perceived was regret at having lowered himself to one as undesirable as she, Annyn swung her palm against his cheek. “Then find yourself one and do not touch me again.”
Jaw convulsing, Garr said, “As you wish, my lady.”
Choking down the knot in her throat, she turned and somehow made it to the base of the tower without putting her heels over her head.
As she started for the doorway, the jailer stepped out of
the shadows and offered the circlet that had fixed her veil in place—the same veil that now lay somewhere upon the stairs. “Yours, my lady?”
Embarrassment warming her for what he must think—nay, what he knew—had happened, she snatched the circlet and hastened outside.
As she traversed the bailey to the donjon, Rowan’s sins, beget by her mother and uncle’s sin of cuckoldry, drove a pike through her. Though her mother had often been distant, absorbed by something not understood until now, and she had been unable to hide her favoring of Jonas, Annyn had loved her. No arms comforted more, no words soothed better. But the lie Elena had lived, the deceit...
It hurt a deep path through Annyn. Was all the world made of such people? Were there none who lived a straight course? Who spoke true?
Not that she was one to judge, Annyn chastened herself for the guile she had worked at Wulfen. Indeed, it seemed she was spun of the same thread as those whose falsehoods now burdened her. Yet, at that moment, what she would not do to crawl into her mother’s lap and bury her face against Elena’s breasts.
Rising above the memory of the last time those elegant arms fit around her, Annyn’s gaze fell to the horses before the steps, the reins of which were held by a single squire.
She faltered, causing the dirt to cloud up around her skirts. Someone had come to Stern, meaning she must go past them to gain her chamber.
Scrubbing the back of a hand across her cheeks as she neared the steps, she wondered whence the tears had come when Garr—Wulfrith!—had kissed her. Her tumultuous emotions that had first mourned Rowan? Her revulsion for him shortly thereafter? The benevolence of Wulfrith’s forgiveness? Her frustration when he had put another lesson to her? The passion, desire, turning and churning of once more knowing his touch?
All these things and more, though the tears that now threatened were for his rejection. Her mother’s daughter she might be, but none would know it to look upon her.
Hearing Garr call to his men, Annyn quickly ascended the steps. However, he must have taken them two at a time, for no sooner did she step past the porter than he appeared at her side.
“Your veil.” He thrust the material at her.
She accepted it, but did not settle it atop her head. It was too late, for she had already fallen beneath the regard of most in the hall, including Lady Isobel, her daughters, Sir Merrick, and Squires Warren, Samuel, and Charles.
Garr lengthened his stride, distancing himself from her as he crossed to the dais before which two men stood.
“Here now,” Abel sad, stepping past the men, “the Baron Wulfrith is returned.”
Who were they? Dreading the answer, Annyn halted before an alcove and tightly gripped the circlet and veil.
“My lord,” the tallest of the visitors said when Wulfrith stood before them, “I am Sir Christienne, come with Sir Drake to deliver tidings from Duke Henry.”
Annyn hardly dared breathe.
“Sir Christienne,” Garr acknowledged, “Sir Drake, what are these tidings?”
No offer of drink, nor of a seat to ease the ache of their long ride. Doubtless, they noticed the lack of hospitality. But then, until Garr decided which side he would join, they were the enemy.
“Duke Henry shall arrive at Stern in a fortnight,” Sir Drake answered. “He bids us to tell you there are three things he requires.”
“First?” Garr clipped.
“Your allegiance, my lord.”
“Next?”
“Sir Rowan, who is to bound up as a traitor for aiding Lady Annyn Bretanne in her flight from Castle Lillia.”
Annyn clenched the circlet so tight the metal gave. In spite of Rowan’s confession that had so reviled, she would not have him suffer more. She looked to where Garr stood with his back to her.
“Last?” he prompted.
“That you deliver Lady Annyn Bretanne who has been given to be Baron Lavonne’s betrothed.”
Though Annyn was not surprised, she felt as if a dagger rent her innards. Garr had said he would think on letting her go, but in that moment she knew he would not. Those who held against Henry’s rule would lose everything once he came to power.
Ignoring Lady Isobel’s gaze, Annyn awaited Garr’s acquiescence.
“Tell Duke Henry that the Baron Wulfrith grants him leave to come unto Stern Castle.”
Annyn caught her breath at so bold a message to one who would soon be his overlord. His king.
Sir Christienne stepped forward. “That is the message you would have us deliver, my lord?”
“Exactly as spoken.”
Finally, the knight said, “Aye, my lord. Now what do you say to the Duke’s demands?”
“That I shall give answer myself when he arrives.”
“But my lord, Duke Henry would know—”
“Exactly as spoken, Sir Christienne!”
The man inclined his head. “As spoken, my lord.”
Garr motioned to a serving wench who hovered near a sideboard. “Ale for these men that they might refresh themselves ere their return journey a quarter hour hence.”
Annyn startled. A quarter hour? That was all he gave? Of course it was. They had served their purpose and he was done with them.
She stared at Garr’s profile, but as the memory of his kiss sought her out, she retreated to the stairs. Halfway up, she realized she was not alone and, looking around, saw that Squire Warren followed.
With a self-satisfied smile, he raised an eyebrow that told how Garr had learned she had gone missing. Had she fooled Warren, he would not be so light of mouth. “What was it that revealed me?” she asked.
He pointed to the hem of her bliaut. “Though Josse is not a lady, she would not allow her ankles to show.”
But Annyn Betanne, who had pretended to be a man, had no such qualms. Worse, on the stairway she had allowed Garr—
How was it that having known and thought of him all these years as “Wulfrith” she so suddenly accepted his Christian name? Because of a kiss he would have given any harlot?
“Too”—Squire Warren glanced at her bodice—“her...uh, Josse bounces when she walks.
As the hose could not do. She smiled tightly. “Most observant, Squire Warren. I am pleased that some good came of my having outwitted you and Squire Samuel at Wulfen.”
As his humor paled, Annyn turned up the stairs. It was time to return Josse’s bliaut.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
She would no longer hide in her chamber. Knees sore from kneeling amid the rushes, hands cramped from clasping them hard before her, throat tight from all the words she had given to God’s ear, she gripped the bed post and pulled herself up.
She glanced heavenward. “I lay it at your feet, Lord. At least, I shall try.” Pained that her faith was not stronger, she crossed the chamber. When she opened the door, Squire Samuel frowned over her.
“There is something you require, my lady?”
She smoothed the bodice of Gaenor’s bliaut that fit better than Josse’s and tried not to think on the maid’s indignation that had awaited her upon her return to the chamber. “Aye, you may see me to the hall for supper.”
“A tray is to be brought to you.”
Though tempted to turn back, she stepped past him. “You are coming?”
He muttered something and followed.
Conversation was at its height when Annyn entered the great hall, but when attention turned to her, a hush fell.
Advancing on the high table where Garr reigned, she briefly met his narrowed gaze before searching out a place for herself. A bit of bench was between Beatrix and Sir Merrick, but as she settled between the two, Beatrix scooted nearer her sister. And not likely out of kindness.
Keeping her chin up, Annyn clasped her hands on the table edge to await the arrival of her trencher.
“You may share mine,” Sir Merrick offered. He pushed it between them and motioned to a serving wench.
Once more bothered by the feeling he knew something of Jonas’s death, she said, “I thank yo
u.”
As the din of the hall was slow to resume, she looked to the nearest of the lower tables and met the stare of a man there. He shifted his gaze to the trencher he shared with another. That man also looked away, and the next. By the time the serving wench delivered a spoon to Annyn and a goblet of wine, nearly all feigned an interest in something or someone else.
“You are much improved, my lady?” Sir Merrick asked as she scooted her spoon around the trencher.
She nabbed a piece of venison. “I am. How do you fare, Sir Merrick?”
“Well.”
And yet the deep shadows beneath his eyes told otherwise. As he searched out the trencher, she wondered how best to broach the subject of Jonas. Straight on. “Did you kindly regard my brother, Sir Merrick?”
His spoon paused above the trencher.
“Ah, you did not.” Hopefully, that would move him.
He lowered his spoon. “Aye, I did. We squired together under Lord Wulfrith.”
She forced herself to dip her spoon again. “Then you were at Lincolnshire with him.”
“Why do you ask, Lady Annyn?”
She met his gaze. “That I might know how he died.”
He returned his attention to the trencher.
“Do you know, Sir Merrick?”
“Lord Wulfrith did not do it,” he finally spoke.
She laid a hand on his arm. “Nor did Jonas.”
“In that you are right.”
He knew! She waited for the rest, to finally learn who had murdered her brother, but he resumed his search of the trencher.
Annyn gripped his arm. “Will you tell me?”
“I cannot tell what I do not know, Lady Annyn.”
“But you said—”
“I did, but that is all I have to tell.” He took another bite of stew before returning his gaze to her. “As Lord Wulfrith is not one to murder, neither was your brother one to take his own life. One need not have been present at the hanging to know that.”
There had to be more.
He looked past her and frowned. “Lord Wulfrith does not like your hand upon me, my lady. Pray, spare me his jealousy and remove it.”
Annyn looked into Garr’s fierce eyes where he sat half a dozen up from her. Was it jealousy that shone from him? Jealousy when he did not want her?