The Unveiling (Age of Faith)

by Tamara Leigh

  “I will allow it.”

  A sad smile creasing Rowan’s mouth, he looked to the priest. “I give this woman to be married to this man.”

  Father Mendel joined Annyn and Garr’s hands. “Now you will pledge your troth. This, say after me: I, Garr Wulfrith, take thee, Annyn Bretanne, to be my wedded wife.”

  Garr repeated it, and all that followed.

  The priest turned to Annyn. “This, say after me...”

  She repeated, “I, Annyn Bretanne, take thee, Garr Wulfrith, to be my wedded husband...to have and to hold, for fairer for fouler...for better for worse, for richer for poorer...in sickness and in health...”

  “...to be meek and obedient in bed and at board,” Father Mendel continued.

  Nor had “meek and obedient” been part of Garr’s vows. But in this man’s world it would not be.

  Garr squeezed her hand, urging her on, and she repeated the vow and all those that followed.

  At the end of it, Father Mendel extended the Holy book, but no sooner did Garr lay his mother’s ring atop it than a thunderclap sounded that elicited shrieks from Gaenor and Beatrix. Soon rain would be upon them.

  Not until Garr’s thumb caressed the back of Annyn’s hand did she realize how tightly she gripped him. She smiled at the kind light in his eyes.

  “We should continue?” the priest asked, again hopeful.

  “Without delay,” Garr answered.

  Father Mendel spoke over the ring, then handed it to Garr. “Place it on her fourth finger.”

  He lifted her left hand, slid the ring on, and met her gaze. “With this ring I thee wed—” The sound of rain pummeling the roof halted him.

  “’Tis not too late to think better of this,” Father Mendel whispered.

  Garr’s jaw convulsed. “With my body I thee honor, with my body I thee worship.”

  Desperately, Annyn wished they could be more than words.

  “In the name of the Father,” he ended, “and of the Son, and of the Holy Ghost, Amen.”

  Then it was her turn to speak the words that included no mention or passing of a ring to the man who would be her husband, and she found herself wondering why it was that only the bride wore a wedding ring. To mark her as a man’s possession? However, as tempted as she was to slide her worthless sword ring off her thumb and onto Garr’s hand, she suppressed the impulse and finished the vows required of her.

  “Kneel,” the priest said.

  They lowered to their knees, and he begged that the blessing of God be given them. “Those whom God hath joined together, let no man put asunder.” Then, to those gathered, he proclaimed the marriage legal and valid and pronounced them man and wife.

  “Now we shall take Holy communion.” All followed him into the chapel where he instructed Annyn and Garr to kneel before the lord’s table. What followed was a blur, excepting the man at Annyn’s side and the sound of rain thrown against the walls.

  When it was time to prostrate themselves in prayer, a pall was stretched over them with Abel, Squires Warren, Samuel, and Charles each holding a corner.

  As the priest droned above, Annyn ventured a look at Garr. His face was pressed to the floor, eyes prayerfully closed. Feeling his reverence, she wondered if he concurred with Father Mendel that their marriage be blessed—that the yoke of peace and love be upon them.

  His eyes opened and met hers, then he covered her hand with his and smiled—tightly, but a smile nonetheless. And the things it did to her!

  As he looked into her face, Garr felt a tug. It is well, he had said, and he realized it was. As deeply as he had resented the unexpected turn of Duke Henry’s arrival, as angry as it had made him, this was meant to be. He wanted Annyn Bretanne—now, Annyn Wulfrith. And he had wanted her for longer than this day, just as his mother had known. Determined to make this marriage as unlike his parents’ marriage as the earth was the heavens, he turned his face to the floor again.

  At long last, the mass was done and Father Mendel beckoned Garr forward to receive the kiss of peace. Once done, Garr returned to Annyn. “I will not make it long,” he murmured and drew her into his arms. He pressed his mouth to hers, but when he started to pull back, she leaned into him and returned his kiss.

  “Now we celebrate!” Abel landed a blow to his brother’s back.

  Inwardly bemoaning the sweetness lost to him, Garr lifted his head. “First, Rowan,” he said, glancing at the man who stood at the chapel doors, the men-at-arms holding watch over him.

  Abel grimaced.

  “As for the celebration,” Garr continued, “have a goblet of wine in honor of the bride and groom.” Not that there had been time to prepare a banquet as was customary on so joyous an occasion.

  Abel frowned. “You intend to forego the celebration?”

  As Garr ushered Annyn from the chapel, he felt her gaze. True, the rain would likely keep Duke Henry from Stern throughout the night, but he would chance nothing. “And what man would not when a marriage bed awaits?” He stepped onto the stairs.

  Above the excited chatter, he heard Annyn’s sharply indrawn breath.

  But she was not the only one to attend the discourse, as Father Mendel let be known where he trailed Garr. “What do you say?” he demanded.

  Garr paused two steps down and looked to the man who was nearly at eye level where he stood on the landing above. “My bride and I are most eager to settle our marriage bed.”

  He did not need to see Annyn to know her disquiet. The air resounded with it—and the murmurs of those who had halted below and above to catch the priest’s response.

  Father Mendel turned the red of an apple. “Unheard of!”

  Garr shrugged. “Until this day.”

  “This is most improper.”

  “Why?”

  “I...” The priest’s jowls quivered. “The marriage bed has not been blessed!”

  Though Garr pitied the man for all that had been asked of one as proper as Father Mendel, he arched an eyebrow. “Then bless it as is your duty.” He turned to his mother. “I ask that you accompany my lady wife to the solar and see she is properly put to bed.”

  Isobel nodded while Gaenor and Beatrix giggled behind their hands.

  Garr stepped down, setting the wedding party to motion again. At the next landing, his mother and sisters stepped into the corridor to await Annyn.

  Without a word, Annyn swept past him and started for the solar.

  “Garr?” his mother said softly, halting his descent to the hall where he would speak with Abel about Rowan.

  “Mother?”

  She glanced down her bliaut. “You are pleased?”

  He smiled. “Never have I seen you look lovelier.”

  The maddeningly reserved Isobel Wulfrith blushed. “It hardly flatters.”

  He leaned forward. “Look again in the mirror, Mother.” When he kissed her cheek as he had rarely done for a score or more years, it surprised him as much as it did her. Scowling at the heat that warmed his neck, he left her and the priest to make their way to the solar.

  Abel awaited him at the bottom of the stairs. “And all said you were incapable of love,” he jeered.

  Love? All, whoever all were, were not wrong. He felt for Annyn, but as his father had told, only fool men loved. “’Twas done to keep her from Lavonne.”

  “Only obligation, then?”

  “Naught else.”

  “You are certain?”

  “Naught else!”

  Abel grinned. “You protest too much, Brother.”

  “And you have a fierce imagination, little Brother.” Garr started toward a sideboard where wine was set out, but he remembered Rowan. A scan of the hall revealed the man was at a lower table.

  Garr turned back, but rather than rebuke Abel as intended, he said, “Sir Rowan may make his bed in the donjon, though he is to have a guard on him at all times.”

  Abel grinned.

  Garr glowered at him, then crossed to the sideboard. Five minutes, he told himself, then I shall go
to my wife.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  “She refuses to remove her chainse,” Father Mendel griped as Garr entered the solar.

  Garr looked to the bed, alongside which Isobel and his sisters stood. Annyn sat propped against the headboard, white chainse visible above the sheet and coverlet drawn up beneath her arms. Though she surely knew he had come, she stared at the wall opposite.

  “Fear not, Father, I shall shed it for her.”

  “Humph,” the man grunted.

  Eager to clear the solar, the goblet of wine adding to the quickening of his heart, Garr pulled off his tunic and tossed it on the chest.

  As his mother and sisters turned their backs, Annyn dropped her chin to stare at her hands. When he swept back the bedclothes and slid in beside her, she startled, and again when his thigh settled against hers.

  The priest stepped forward. “This,” he said with a stern countenance, “we shall do proper.”

  Thus, Garr’s longing for his wife had to wait through five blessings. At long last, cool holy water was sprinkled over them.

  “Peace upon you.” Father Mendel stepped from the bed and extinguished the torches, leaving only the glow of the brazier and the candles on a nearby table to light the solar. Then Isobel, Gaenor, and Beatrix preceded him from the solar, the latter stealing a last glimpse of the marriage bed before the door closed.

  No sooner did Garr turn to the woman he had made his wife than she scrambled off the bed.

  Garr groaned.

  Halfway across the solar, Annyn swung around. “I have yet to catch my breath.”

  And receiving his body unto hers would not help toward that end.

  She pushed a hand through her hair, then lowered her hand to stare at her ring. “But two hours past I was to be given to Lavonne, now I am wed to you.”

  “Is it so bad, Annyn?”

  She shook her head. “Sudden would be the better word.” She took a step toward the bed, pivoted away, and came back around. “What is this matter of unclothing one’s self before the priest?”

  It seemed none had told her what to expect on her wedding night. But then, her mother had died when Annyn was young and, it seemed, Rowan and her uncle had been content to raise her among the things of men. The good tidings was that she did not cling to her chainse as a barrier between them. At least, he hoped it was not also that. “It is ceremony, Annyn.”

  “So Father Mendel told. But why?”

  Could they not have this conversation later? “Consummation,” Garr said, a bit too harsh, “the fulfillment of marriage. For how can a man and woman lay together unclothed and not know one another?”

  Her eyes were large in the flickering light.

  Garr reached out a hand. “You want this as I do, Annyn, as we have denied ourselves. We are husband and wife now, and it is good that we lie together.”

  She hugged her arms over her chest. “Is it merely lust you feel for me?”

  Was it? Nay, he determined, but delved no further. He felt for Annyn as it was good for a man to feel for his wife. That should suffice. He tossed the covers off and dropped his legs over the mattress edge. “Come near and I will show you what I feel for you, Annyn Bretanne now Annyn Wulfrith.”

  She did not look away. Indeed, after the initial flush of embarrassment, she peered closer at him. “You are well made, Husband,” she breathed, only to gasp when her gaze fell to his shoulder. “There will be scarring?”

  “But one more scar among many. Now I would see you.”

  She bit her lip, lowered her gaze, and stared at her wedding ring. “Am I now a possession, Garr?”

  He frowned. “If you are asking if you belong to me, you do.”

  Her eyes flicked to his. “And what of you? Do you belong to me?”

  Where was she heading with this? Or was she heading anywhere at all? Perhaps such talk was merely a means of avoiding the marriage bed. If so, that would not do with Henry closing in on them.

  “I am as much your husband as you are my wife,” he said, struggling to keep impatience from his tone.

  She nodded slowly. “And yet there is no sign that you belong to me, is there?”

  He momentarily closed his eyes, and when he opened them, he did so with a sigh. “Pray, Annyn, speak. I know you are well capable of doing so.”

  She drew a deep breath, crossed to the bed, and pulled the sword ring from her thumb. “As I wear your ring, would you wear mine?”

  Garr eyed it and mused that, not so long ago, he had silently rejoiced that it would never ride upon Lavonne’s hand. “I have never heard of such—a wedding ring for a man.”

  “Will you wear it?”

  What would Drogo have—?

  He did not care what the ruthless warrior would have said or felt about a man who proclaimed himself as wed to his wife as she was to him. He raised his left hand. “I will.”

  Annyn looked momentarily surprised, then she smiled. With effort, she worked the ring over his large, resistant knuckle and settled it at the base of his finger. Continuing to hold his hand, she met his gaze. “I know it is but a market trinket and hardly fit for pledging one’s life to another, but—”

  “I count myself fortunate that it graces my hand and no other’s,” Garr interrupted.

  “Truly?”

  “Truly.” He looked down her and up again. “Now, wife, will you let me see you? All of you?”

  She released his hand and, to his relief, tugged her chainse off over her head and dropped it to the floor. “Do I disappoint?” she asked, though not coyly. After so many years of playing the boy, she needed to be made to feel a woman.

  “Nay, you please.” He drew her to him and slid his arms around her waist. “We will go slowly,” he vowed and eased her onto the bed.

  “Why?”

  He groaned. Too much she had missed growing up among men. “A woman’s first time brings pain.”

  Her gaze flickered. “And the next time?”

  He brushed his mouth across hers. “Pleasure, Annyn. I promise.”

  Later, as they lay amid the shadows of night, Annyn gloried in her husband, a man she loved as had been denied her mother. A man who loved her, she realized. Now if only he would speak it.

  When he rolled to the side, the loss of his body against hers was staggering, but then he turned her toward him and pulled her near.

  Annyn pressed her cheek to his chest. It took more courage than she would have guessed to ask the question of her heart, but the sound of his deepening breath spurred her. “What is it you feel for me, Garr?”

  “Did I not show you?”

  She pushed up on an elbow and sought the sparkle of his eyes. “I would know its name.”

  “Mayhap it has no name.”

  “Mine has a name. Would you have me tell it?”

  He did not answer.

  “Very well.” She leaned down and, against his lips, said, “I love you, Garr Wulfrith.”

  After a long moment, he said, “It is good that a wife feel such for her husband. It makes for a more pleasant union.”

  The distance his words put between them causing her to ache, Annyn lifted her head. Might she be wrong about his feelings?

  “Let us sleep.” He lowered his lids.

  Annyn stared at his shadowed face—so handsome, though once she had told herself it was without appeal. As if a sculptor had one hundred times over formed his every feature, he was more handsome than any man she had looked upon. And he had chosen her.

  She turned away, but as she stretched out beside him, he drew her back into the curve of his body.

  “It is well, Annyn,” he whispered into her hair. “Let us be content in that.”

  She could not. If it was true he did not love her, she would find a way to change that.

  “You do not snore, Husband,” Annyn mused, eyebrows gathered as she considered something on the chest at the foot of the bed before which she stood.

  How had she known he had awakened? During these past few minutes in t
he earliest hour of morning, he had watched her move about the dim solar, lingering over the tapestries, frowning at the fine linen curtains gathered back from the bed, turning the ring that proclaimed her his wife, tempting him as she paced in nothing save the coverlet beneath which they had met last eve.

  He sat up. “I am pleased to hear I do not snore. Did you think I might?”

  She reached to the clothes he had discarded atop the chest, lifted his belt, and removed the misericorde awarded him upon his knighting, the same he had passed to Jonas only to have it returned by this woman who now professed to love him.

  Love... As disturbing as her words of the night past were, and though he could not speak them himself, it felt as if they occupied every empty space within him—and even those he had not thought empty.

  Annyn turned the misericorde. “You snored the night I came to render this unto you.”

  “That is because I wished you to believe I slept.”

  Her gaze flew to his. “You knew?”

  “Only that someone had come within.”

  “But you let me... You did naught until I was upon you!”

  He arched an eyebrow. “Lesson sixteen, lady wife, guard well one’s knowledge of one’s opponent.”

  She swept up a hand. “Pray, no more. I am no longer a squire in need of lessons.”

  “Aye, but now you are my wife, and for that there are also lessons.”

  Her lips tilted. “Far different, I expect.”

  “In some things.”

  “Tell.”

  Wanting her as he had not wanted any woman, he crooked a finger. “Come nearer and I will show you.”

  Blushing, she lowered her gaze to the dagger she had yet to set aside, and her humor cleared. “I would have you know that I could not do it.”

  “What?”

  “The night I came to your chamber, I could not do that which brought me to Wulfen.”

  Could not kill him? But she had—

  “I did not understand it then, but I must have known you could not have killed Jonas. You were not such a man, and surely no man can so greatly change.”