The Unveiling (Age of Faith)

by Tamara Leigh

  Annyn shook her head. “You were wrong about Jonas’s death, but no more wrong than I was in believing you murdered him—far less wrong than I who sought your death.”

  Though Garr longed to accept what she spoke, he struggled with all Drogo had taught him.

  She cupped his face between her hands. “’Tis over. No more will I allow my brother’s death to cast me in darkness. I want light, I want laughter, I want tomorrow. I want you, Garr Wulfrith.” She leaned in and put an ear to his chest. “Even when your heart whispers, it speaks most loud.” She peered up at him. “Will you say it, Garr? Though I feel it, I long to hear it.”

  He knew what she wanted—one last unveiling. Words for which he had received no training. A declaration of emotion that, until Annyn Bretanne, had been but something at which to scoff. It was true he loved her, but surely it would make him vulnerable to speak it. And a warrior—

  By faith! Despite having had a sword to hand since the age of four, he was first a man. A man who loved this woman. But before he could speak the words that shied from his tongue, Annyn lowered her gaze.

  “One day you will tell it to me.”

  Garr caught her chin. “I will not.” Putting his father behind him, letting himself feel what was real and true and good, he said, “This day I will tell you. I love you, Annyn Wulfrith. If you will have me, I will pass all my life with you.”

  Eyes sparkling, she touched a finger to his lips. “I will have you.”

  Though it was too soon to ask her to be one with him again, Garr touched his mouth to hers. A kiss will suffice, he told himself, but when she sighed into him, he pulled her nearer and deepened the kiss. Later he would go slowly. Later—

  He drew back. “Do you want this, Annyn? Mayhap ’tis too soon.”

  “I do want this.”

  “As do I.” He freed the belt of her robe and slid the garment off. It fell to the rushes, revealing the woman that Annyn was. Perfectly formed.

  “You do not mind that I am not comely?” she asked.

  “Not comely?”

  She averted her gaze. “’Twas not difficult for me to play the man.”

  Considering her upbringing, he was not surprised that she doubted her femininity. Forsooth, one did not have to look too near to know she was less than comfortable with the things of women. “A man you played, but a man I more than once bemoaned for being too pretty.”

  “You did?”

  He drew her to the table on which the basin sat and retrieved the mirror there. “Look.” He stepped to her back and lifted the silvered oval before her face. “There was but one thing you lacked, Annyn, and now you have it.”

  She searched her features, touched her mouth, nose, and cheeks, and saw what Garr saw. She was not and would never be Lady Elena, but she did not need to be now that she possessed that of which Garr spoke. “Love,” she said softly and met his gaze in the mirror.

  “Aye, love.” He pulled her around. “There is none more comely than my lady wife. And never will there be.” He returned the mirror to the table, swung her into his arms, and carried her to the bed where he made love to her.

  How much time passed before he turned with her onto his side, Annyn could not have said, but it was with obvious regret that he did so.

  “I must go to Henry.”

  She had forgotten about the duke who would be angered at having been kept waiting all these hours.

  Garr must have sensed her dismay, for he said, “All will be well, Annyn. Henry needs me nearly as much as the Wulfriths need him.”

  “And Stephen?”

  “If England is to ever again prosper, Stephen must surrender the crown. There is naught else for it.”

  “I am sorry.”

  “Do not be.” He kissed her brow. “It brought us together.”

  She threaded her gaze through his. “Am I worthy, my lord?”

  He pressed a hand to his chest. “So worthy, my love.”

  EPILOGUE

  Stern Castle, November 1153

  “I am summoned.” Garr looked up from the missive delivered minutes earlier.

  Praying the tidings were favorable, that at long last there would be an end to this war, Annyn crossed the solar to where he stood alongside the table. “And?”

  He let the missive roll back on itself and pulled her into his arms. “Stephen has agreed to negotiate.”

  She dropped her head back and met his gaze. “Then ’twill be over soon.”

  “Does the Lord will it.”

  She smiled. “Most assuredly He shall.” Of course, she had thought the same at summer’s end when word came of the death of Stephen’s son and heir, Eustace. The count having choked on an eel while dining at Bury St. Edmunds with his father, it was whispered that it was the Lord’s vengeance upon Eustace for plundering those abbey lands the week before.

  “I would have you go with me,” Garr said, “but ’tis best you do not.”

  Especially now. Hopeful, she slid a hand between them and splayed her fingers across her abdomen. “Where do you go?”

  He looked to the hand she laid upon herself. “The negotiations are to be held at Winchester. I leave on the morrow.”

  So soon? And for how long? He had spoiled her terribly since their marriage, rarely leaving her side. Though she had expected to see little of him once he returned to Wulfen to resume training boys to men—and where he had sent Rowan to replace Sir Merrick—he had not returned. Indeed, within a fortnight of their marriage he had determined to give the castle into Everard’s care that he might be husband to her and father to their children when they were so blessed.

  She caressed her abdomen. Though she knew the answer, she asked, “You really must go?”

  “I have forsworn my allegiance to Stephen, but he tells he will come only if I am present.” He tilted her head back and kissed her. “Upon my vow, I shall return anon.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Do not make vows you cannot keep—lesson seven, is it not?”

  “Aye, and I shall keep it.” He laid a hand atop hers on her belly. “Still your menses have not begun?”

  It was the same he asked at least twice a day since she had told him her flux was late. Unfortunately, there were yet no other signs to confirm her pregnancy, so it might not be at all. “They have not begun, but neither does there appear to be any swelling.”

  He laughed. “As my mother told, ’tis often months ere a woman’s belly boasts its prize.” He tucked a tress behind her ear, her hair having grown these past months such that it now fell past her shoulders. “Patience, Annyn. We shall know soon enough.”

  She drew her hand from her belly and laid it to his chest where his heart beat with hers. Aye, soon they would know. Soon they would be three, mayhap four.

  EXCERPT

  THE YIELDING

  Book Two in the Age of Faith series

  Available December 2012

  She had killed a man. Or so it was said.

  During the ten days since her awakening, Beatrix had tried every locked door within her memory. Some creaked open wide enough to allow her to peer inside such that she now remembered her flight from Stern Castle with Gaenor, Sir Ewen’s death, and Sir Simon’s face when he sought to violate her. Though she remembered little beyond the hands he laid to her, she was fairly certain he had not stolen her virtue. But there was that gap between her flight from Sir Ewen’s side to the fall...

  Suddenly light of head, she lowered herself to the chest at the foot of the bed and breathed deep until the feeling passed. Then, as she had done time and again, she struggled to fill the gap preceding her return to consciousness in the ravine when she had rolled the knight off her. But once again, the memory she needed to defend herself against the charge of murder was denied her. However, that was not all she needed. She required words to tell what had happened, words that too often teased her tongue, their absence making her seem a simpleton.

  Four days past, when she had first recalled Sir Simon’s attempt to ravish her, she
had begged an audience with Baron Lavonne. He made her wait two days and, when he finally appeared, it had been for naught. Like a moth straining to light, she had tried to voice the terrible memory, but the head injury had bound her tongue and incurred the baron’s impatience. That second visit to her chamber was his last.

  Thus, she would soon be brought before the sheriff, but even if she could tell what had happened, there seemed no outcome other than death—unless her family delivered her. Each day she set herself before the window to watch for them, certain they would come, but they did not. Why? The castle was not barricaded, the folk allowed to move freely within and without the walls. Surely she would not stand alone before the sheriff and her accusers?

  She touched a finger to her lips in anticipation of what she would say, but even when she thought the words through before speaking, her tongue and lips faltered as if she were empty of mind. She was not. Of course, one would not know it to be near when she opened her mouth.

  She felt the place where her hair had been cut away to stitch up her scalp. Though she might never again be as she was, she was alive thanks to the elusive Sir Michael D’Arci who had yet to appear though he had surely been apprised of her recovery.

  Dreading his arrival that the curt chamber maid who attended her had told would be this day, Beatrix stood and once more placed herself before the window. Shivering in the cool air that her removal of the oilcloth allowed within, she watched the lowering sun draw shadows across the castle walls. As always, her gaze was tempted to the wood and, leaning forward, she stared at the bordering trees and wished she could reach them. Of course, what then? She might once have been capable of finding her way back to Stern, but now...

  She lowered her gaze to the inner bailey. It bustled with those whose work for their lord was done for the day. Now they could return home, break hunger, and bed down for the morrow when they would again rise to serve their lord.

  As if the thought made the baron appear, his immense figure emerged from the stables. He was not alone. Beside him strode a man of obvious rank. Michael D’Arci? It had to be. And now he would ensure justice was done. His justice.

  Beatrix considered the dark-haired man. As he and the baron neared the donjon steps, the latter said something. Though his words aspired to Beatrix’s window high above, they arrived in unintelligible pieces. But there was no mistaking her name that fell from his lips, nor that it caused the dark-haired man to stiffen and look around.

  His revealed face made Beatrix’s breath stick. Even at a distance, she knew his countenance, for it was that of Sir Simon—albeit topped by black hair rather than blonde.

  She clenched her hands at the realization that soon she would stand before one whose resemblance to that miscreant would surely cause her words to fail. Though he was not as big a man as Baron Lavonne, from the dark upon his face, he might as well be a giant.

  He looked up, and though Beatrix knew she could not be seen among the shadows, she took a step back. The frown that crossed his face darkened it further. And as surely as she breathed, she knew he knew it was upon her chamber he looked.

  She turned, retrieved her psalter from the bedside table, and pressed it to her chest. Such relief she had felt upon discovering it the day of her awakening. Telling herself God’s word would sustain her, she opened the psalter and settled down to await Sir Simon’s vengeful kin.

  Hours passed, her supper was delivered, more hours passed, and still he did not come.

  When her lids grew heavy, she slid beneath the bed covers. “Lord,” she whispered, “you allowed me to survive a f-fall I should not have, but surely not for this. Pray, re-reveal to me what you would have me to do.”

  ‘Tis said you are a devil, Michael.

  Not in all things, but some—namely, women. But he had good reason. And now, more so.

  Michael returned to his memory of the lonely youth who had followed him to the roof of their father’s donjon years earlier. He saw the night breeze lift Simon’s fair hair and sweep it across his troubled face.

  Would that I could be like you, Michael.

  Had he known what it was like to be Michael D’Arci, a man unwelcome at most nobles’ tables, he would not have wished it so.

  Drawing breath past the bitterness, Michael opened his fists and began beating a rhythm on the window sill. He loathed waiting on anything or anyone, especially a murderess whose face ought to be set upon an angel.

  No fair maid will ever want me.

  And for that, Simon ought to have been grateful. Still, Michael had been pained by his brother’s plight, especially when he saw moonlight sparkling in the boy’s tears. Tears for fear he might never know a woman.

  Michael looked to the postered bed where Lady Beatrix Wulfrith’s still figure was played by the light of a dimming torch. Though her face was turned to the wall, denying him full view of her beauty, the slender curve of her neck was visible, as was the turn of an ear and the slope of a cheekbone swept by hair of palest gold. Deceptive beauty. No woman was to be underestimated, not even his stepmother who had been as a mother to him.

  I would be a man and mother would have me remain a boy, Simon’s voice found him again.

  The boy’s mother had loved him too well, refusing to see past her own heart to what was best for her son.

  Trying to force out the memory of Simon’s bent head, slumped shoulders, and the sobs that jerked the youth’s thin body, Michael returned his focus to the bed, something of a feat considering the amount of wine he had earlier consumed. Too much, as evidenced by his presence in the lady’s chamber when he had vowed he would wait until the morrow. But she had only been two doors down from the chamber he was given, and he had been unable to sleep. To resist the impulse to seek her, he had donned his mantle and walked the outer walls for an hour, but when he returned to the donjon and drew near her door...

  Would she awaken? It was as he wished, for he had waited too long to delve the guilty eyes of his brother’s murderer. If not for the delay in receiving tidings of her recovery, she would have been brought before the sheriff by now, but it had taken a sennight for Christian Lavonne’s men to locate Michael in London where he had gone to assist with an outbreak of smallpox. However, Simon would have his justice as Christian had promised—and so, too, would the old baron, Aldous.

  Recalling the two hours spent in the company of Christian’s father, tending the man’s aches and pains that should have ended his suffering long ago, Michael shook his head. For years he had urged Aldous to not dwell on Geoffrey’s death, to accept it and continue as best he could in his ravaged body, but it was as if the old man’s life hinged upon working revenge on the Wulfriths.

  With Simon’s death, Michael now understood Aldous’s pain. Indeed, this day the old baron had wagged a horribly bent finger at his physician and goaded him for finally knowing such terrible loss. The bile in Michael’s belly had stirred so violently he had been grateful when Christian appeared. Christian who allowed his father his acts of revenge but had not refused to take a Wulfrith bride despite Aldous cursing him for acceding to King Henry’s plan. Christian who was now the baron but had once been a man of God. Christian who was in many ways still a man of God but hid the threads of his former life behind an austere front. And among those threads was the notion of forgiveness.

  Remembering the supper and conversation he had shared with his lord, Michael tensed. Though Christian had promised justice, any mention of it this eve had caused the man to fall silent or speak elsewhere. Michael feared he wavered and suspected it was not only due to the tidings that King Henry still expected a union between the Wulfriths and Lavonnes but his training in the ways of the Church. Regardless, the baron would wed Gaenor Wulfrith as agreed. Of course, first she must be coaxed out of hiding.

  Though it was believed she was at Wulfen Castle, the Wulfrith stronghold dedicated to training young men into worthy knights, it could not be confirmed due to the impregnability of the castle. But eventually the Wulfriths would have to
yield her up, for King Henry would not long suffer their defiance. It was likely he did so now only because it was believed his edict had resulted in the death of Lady Beatrix. Though the Wulfriths were as much vassals to the king as any other baron, they were allies worthy of respect that King Henry afforded few. But if that respect precluded the dispensing of justice—

  Nay, his brother would have justice!

  You are the only one who has a care for me, Simon’s voice resounded through him again.

  Often it seemed he was the only one who cared. Unfortunately, too much time had passed between his visits home to do more than play at training his half-brother into a man. It had boded ill for Simon whose mother found excuse after excuse to avoid sending him to a neighboring barony for his knighthood training. Thus, when she was forced to relent, Simon had struggled to keep pace with what was expected of one his age. However, after a long, arduous journey toward knighthood, he had attained it, unaware his accomplishment would soon be stolen from him. By this woman.

  Michael increased the thrum of his fingers. Reckless and willful his brother might have been, but he could not have warranted such a death. Might the lady seek absolution from her crime? Might she say the murder was the result of a bent mind, as it was not uncommon for those of the nobility to claim in order to escape punishment? Might she put forth her head injury prevented her from properly defending herself at trial? The latter would likely serve her better, as there was proof she had suffered such a blow. Indeed, according to Baron Lavonne, her speech was affected, though he submitted it might be more pretense than impediment. What if she were absolved?

  Michael seethed over the still figure beneath the covers. Curse her! As his movement about the chamber and thrumming upon the sill had not moved her, mayhap he ought to shake her awake. But that would mean laying hands to her, and he did not trust himself. How was it she slept so soundly, without the slightest twitch or murmur? It was as if she feigned sleep.