TAMARA LEIGH NOVELS - Book One in the Age of Faith series
Chapter 11
Garr glanced at Annyn where she rode alongside him. She was silent, as she had been throughout the ride, as she had been the two hours she had sat in the chair in his solar staring into the dim.
Though he had intended to sleep that he might be rested for the long ride to Stern, he had watched her from the shadows drawn around his bed. Throughout, her only movement had been the one time she tested the ropes that bound her to the chair. Though his judgment of her may have gone astray, he did know how to tie a knot.
He looked to the sun that was now perched past noon. The horses could not go much farther without being watered and rested, which meant leaving the open countryside for the wood. He did not like it, for there was the possibility they did not travel alone. Of course, considering Lavonne’s injury, he and his men had likely removed themselves from Wulfrith lands. And the Bretanne woman’s man, Rowan? He numbered only one. There was naught he could do against a dozen well-trained men. Still, Garr would be a fool not to wield caution.
He captured Abel’s gaze and nodded toward the wood. They veered left, and Annyn Bretanne heeded the change of course as if she made the determination herself.
When they slowed to enter the wood, they drew their swords. The vigilance of each man tangibly felt, they guided their horses to the stream.
Garr dismounted. “Sir William, Sir Merrick, Squire Samuel,” he called, “stand guard.”
As they turned to search out stations that would afford the best vantage, Squire Warren appeared at Garr’s side. The young man did not look away, but Garr knew he was shamed—as was Squire Samuel—not only for Annyn Bretanne’s breach of the solar, but that she had escaped. The shame was earned, though Garr knew it was more his blame than theirs. He had not better prepared them, but that would be remedied.
He passed the reins to Squire Warren and strode around his destrier, only to find the Bretanne woman had already dismounted. As if he were not an obstacle in her path, she pulled the reins over her mount’s head and brushed past Garr to lead the horse to the stream.
Wondering what thoughts occupied her, Garr stared after her. Did she hope Rowan would deliver her?
“She troubles you, this sister of Jonas Bretanne,” Abel said as he came alongside.
Garr scowled. “She is a troublesome woman.”
“That is all?”
It was not, which was the reason she was so troublesome. “That is all.” Garr returned his attention to where she stood before the stream that yesterday’s rain caused to overflow the banks.
“You have told her the truth of Jonas’s death?”
Garr pressed the heel of his palm to his sword hilt and kneaded it. That day at Lincolnshire, Abel and Everard had been there, and both had aided in making Jonas’s death appear honorable. “She knows all she needs to know.”
“Are you sure it is enough?”
Not for Annyn Bretanne, but it was for the best. “Aye.”
“She is unlike any woman I have met,” Abel murmured, then grumbled, “She lightened my purse a goodly amount.”
He spoke of the wager paid before their departure this morn. Regardless that Braose was revealed to be Annyn Bretanne, Everard would not let it keep him from collecting on his bet.
“I have warned you against wagering him,” Garr said. “He rarely loses.”
“And then only to you.”
“Which is the reason he no longer wagers me. You ought to learn from that, Abel.”
He grimaced. “Then what pleasure would be afforded me?”
Garr knew to what he referred—the long stretches without a woman that suited neither Abel’s lusty bent, nor Everard’s, the civility of the hall, the discipline. But they were Wulfriths, and this was their destiny. Once wed, the administration of the lands they were given would regularly take them from Wulfen, but still they would return to train boys to men.
“What pleasure?” Garr mused. “The pleasure of being the master of your coin.” He stepped past.
“I thank you for that,” Abel called, then slyly added, “and your consideration of the Lady Annyn that granted me two hours of sleep I had thought were to be denied me.”
That last pricked. Abel liked to think he understood people better than they understood themselves. But if that were so, he would not wager Everard.
At the sound of Wulfrith’s approach, Annyn hugged her short mantle nearer and stared harder up through the trees.
He halted at her back, causing her to stiffen though she tried to appear unmoved. “You require something, Wulfrith?” Just as she no longer affected a deeper pitch, neither did she afford him the title she had so loathed.
“I ponder what you are thinking, Annyn Bretanne.”
She turned. Though she knew his use of her full name—meant to deny her title—was a small thing, it reminded her too much of her audience with Henry when he had played her as a wooden soldier, moving and controlling her as he pleased. Resentment warming her bruised face, she said, “I am thinking I would have you cease calling me that.”
He peered at her through narrowed lids. “Surely you do not ask that I call you Jame Braose?”
She glared. “I ask that you not call me by my full name. I do not like it.”
“You would have me call you Lady Annyn?”
It did sound strange on his lips, especially considering this past sennight, that she continued to wear men’s clothing, and that she denied him his own title, but it was as she had always been called. “I do not doubt ’tis as displeasing to you as the drone of Annyn Bretanne is to me, but it is what I prefer.”
“Very well. Now tell me, Lady Annyn, what are you thinking?”
Of the tree from which Jonas was hung, of the lie Lavonne had told that had denied her rest before leaving Wulfen, of what Wulfrith would say if she confronted him with it. He would say nothing, she concluded. He would simply name Jonas’s death “dishonorable” as he had done on the night past.
“I was thinking which evil I would choose given the opportunity—the ill end you have planned for me or marriage to Lavonne.”
His dark eyebrows rose. “And?”
“I fear one may be as bad as the other.”
“That does not speak well of Lavonne.”
She drew a hand from beneath the mantle and touched her cheek. “Nor does this.”
A muscle twinged near his eye. It angered him. Regardless of his statement that striking a woman was something men should not do, she had yet to understand why he should care that the baron had struck her. After all, her attempt to kill Wulfrith made her more his enemy than Lavonne.
“Come.” He turned away.
Alarm leapt through her. Now he would mete out punishment? “Where?”
He looked over his shoulder. “You have been hours astride, Lady Annyn. ’Twill be night ere our journey’s end.”
Relieved her punishment was not at hand, grateful he was not more blunt about the need to relieve herself, she inclined her head. “Of course, but I can see to my own needs.”
“You cannot.”
He thought she would run. And he was right. Somewhere Rowan lay in wait, though how she was to take advantage of that with Wulfrith over her shoulder, she did not know. As she followed him away from the others, she met Squire Charles’s hard stare. She had made a fool of his lord. Thus, she had made a fool of his squire. And he resented it. If she could apologize, she would.
Wulfrith’s hand fell to his sword hilt as they left the others behind to pass deeper into the wood. “There.” He nodded to a thicket.
Though it offered adequate privacy, Annyn was warmed by embarrassment. Averting her face, she hastened behind the cover.
When she emerged, he was scanning the wood. Did he sense Rowan? If he was near, a better chance of aiding her escape was not likely to appear. But that realization gave rise to fear. Though Rowan was skilled in arms, he was not the warrior Wulfrith was. A contest between the two men would likely see Rowan dead.
Annyn quickened her step to Wulfrith’s side. “Still you have not said what is to be my punishment,” she attempted to draw his regard.
“I have not.”
“I ask again, is it to be the same as my brother’s?”
He gave her the regard she sought, though she would have preferred to be spared its wrath. “I did not hang him, Annyn Bretanne.”
She ignored the loss of title. “Then who did?”
He did not answer.
“This morn you said his death was dishonorable. I would know how dishonorable, and do not dare tell me he hung himself!”
His grey-green eyes narrowed. “I do dare, Annyn Bretanne.”
He lied. Four years of anger, hatred, and helplessness flooding her, she struggled to keep her hands at her sides, but one broke free. She drew it back and landed a slap to his cheek.
Color suffusing his face, he regarded her with eyes so chill she feared he would strike her as Lavonne had done.
With a sharp breath, she turned to run, but he seized her shoulder and dragged her back around.
“I have suffered your claws, Annyn Bretanne, your teeth, and now your hand. I have endured your trespass, your lies, your attempt on my life, and your false accusations. But no more.”
With his great hands pinning her body to his, never had he seemed so large, nor more a beast. Fear threatening to overwhelm her, she summoned defiance, but it did not answer. A tremor betrayed her, then another.
Why did he wait? Why did he not beat her and be done with it?
His nostrils flared with a deep breath. “Though I wished to spare you and your uncle the truth of your brother’s death, and for that I lied, I shall tell you all that we may speak of it no more.”
He was not going to strike her? Of course he was not.
“Though I know you do not wish to believe it, your brother did hang himself.”
“He would not!”
He jerked her shoulders. “At Lincolnshire, I received a missive from Stephen that laid out plans of attack against Henry.”
The same as Lavonne had told.
“It was discovered missing. All those who were known to be sympathetic to Henry were searched, though not Jonas until he was the only one who remained. As my First Squire, I trusted him and was certain he would not betray though we stood on different sides. I was wrong. The missive was found in his pack.”
Something inside Annyn teetered. Though she did not wish to believe it, a voice within said it was possible. But even if Jonas had betrayed, it was not possible he had hung himself.
“He admitted to taking the missive,” Wulfrith continued, “but said that afterward he realized he could not betray me.”
It sounded like Jonas—reckless, yet true of heart. Was it Jonas?
“Though more severe punishment was warranted, I determined the shame of being returned to your uncle would suffice.” The rest of Wulfrith’s anger seemed to empty as something else rushed in to fill him. “And there again I misjudged. I believed him to be stronger and never considered he would take his life.”
Though Annyn longed to deny that Jonas had died by his own hand, she knew Wulfrith was not done with the telling. And she would hear all of it.
“For that you may fault me with his death, but do not name it murder. I would not have had him die.”
“Jonas did not hang himself.”
“You were not there. You do not know his shame.”
She put her chin higher. “I knew my brother and would wager my very breath he would not end his own life.”
“Then you would also lie dead.”
A memory of Jonas laid on the high table ached through Annyn. The rope burns around his neck, the wound at the center of his chest... “’Twas you who put the arrow through him?”
His eyes momentarily closed. “It was a dagger. I did it to spare your family.”
All these years of not knowing the truth and now... Still she did not know all of it, for nothing Wulfrith could say would convince her Jonas had hung himself. He had been murdered. But not by Wulfrith.
Her breath caught as she finally acknowledged the truth she had refused to accept though it had been presented time and again. Wulfrith could not have murdered her brother. Another had made it appear Jonas had taken his own life.
As she stared into Wulfrith’s eyes, she awakened to another truth. Something had happened that should not have. She had come to feel for this man. And being so near him now caused those emotions to deepen. But it went beyond the senses, beyond this strange awareness of him. It was as if she was leaving behind the girl who had lived for revenge and turning toward the woman who had denied her that revenge—a woman she did not know.
She dropped her chin. Dear God, who am I? Where was Annyn Bretanne who had seethed alongside Duke Henry nearly a fortnight past?
“I am sorry I could not spare you the truth, Annyn,” Wulfrith spoke low, his familiar use of her name causing her to shudder. He released her shoulders and urged her chin up.
Hating that he saw her tears, despising the first that fell, she pressed her lips together.
“More,” he said, softer still, “I am sorry I did not foresee what your brother would do.” His gaze followed the tear’s path to the corner of her mouth. He laid a thumb to it and swept it beneath her lower lip.
That so simple a touch could loose such flutterings was more than frightening, but though Annyn knew she should pull free, she could not.
Wulfrith sought her gaze again and, for those few moments, it was as if the world stopped, as if all behind and before them had never been and would never be. There were two—naught else in all this vastness—and as they stood in that great alone, awareness breathed between them. Then his head lowered.
His mouth covered her untried lips, asking something of her that she struggled to understand. What was it? And why did he kiss her? With her shorn hair and men’s clothes that concealed all evidence of femininity, she was hardly pretty. More, she had sought his death.
He deepened the kiss and, when she did not respond, turned his arms around her and drew her up to her toes.
Ignoring the voice that protested what she allowed, she parted her lips.
Wulfrith groaned.
Hearing the breath pant from her as if from a distance, she slid her hands up his chest. The muscles beneath were thick, and she wanted—
What did she want?
Wulfrith drew a hand up her side, but the tunic and bindings denied his seeking. And reminded her that Jonas was the reason she was here.
Shame washing over her, Annyn pulled her head back. “Do not!”
Realization darkened his eyes and firmed the mouth that had covered hers.
“Unhand me!”
He unwound his arms from her only to grip her where Lavonne had bruised her.
When she winced, he placed his hands on her shoulders. “Forgive me, I should not have done that.”
Nor should she have allowed it. She was no better than the chamber maids who let the castle guard toss up their skirts. “Release me!”
“Aye!” a startlingly familiar voice shouted. “Release her!”
Annyn whipped her head around.
Rowan stood alongside a tree, arrow nocked and ready to fly.
Rebuking himself for his desire for a woman no man ought to want, Garr tightened his hold on her. Not that he would use her as a shield. A man did not take cover behind a woman.
“I say again, release her!”
Annyn met Garr’s gaze. Though one could not be certain with women, he thought there was pleading in her eyes. “Do not shed blood over me. ’Tis better spent elsewhere.”
Who had watch over this part of the wood? Where was the man whose incompetence permitted Rowan to creep near?
God in His heavens! First his squires allowed Annyn Bretanne to seek a dagger to him, now this. It seemed his father had been right—as long as Garr allowed God so prominent a place in his training of young men, they would not attain the worthiness of those trained by previous generations of Wulfriths. But God was all Garr had taken of his mother from Stern Castle, and only because He was not something Drogo could lay a hand to. How his father would scorn his oldest son were he alive.
“Wulfrith!” Rowan barked.
Garr considered the bow. If the arrow were loosed, it would clear Annyn and strike him high in the chest and to the right.
“I beg you,” she whispered.
He looked into her face, and in that moment knew the answer he had sought since discovering she was a woman. He would let her go. His lie had given her a reason to seek his death, and for that no punishment was due.
Whether Drogo had made Heaven or been banished below, he was surely shaking his head, for he would never have spared the Bretannes the shame of Jonas’s death. Indeed, he would have lifted it up for all to know how great the regard for receiving knighthood at Wulfen. And the consequence of betrayal.
Garr released Annyn.
“It is done?” she whispered. “You will not seek revenge?”
He wondered that his hands had never felt so empty. But this was the best end to Annyn. “Vengeance is not mine. It belongs to God.” One of the hardest lessons a man must learn. “Aye, Lady Annyn, I yield to Him above.”
As if what he said was a revelation, she stared. But then, considering what she had come to Wulfen to do, perhaps it was a revelation.
“You?” she breathed. “’Twas you who taught Jonas that?”
Garr frowned. “It is as I aspire to teach all who seek knighthood.”
“I—”
“Make haste, Annyn!” Rowan shouted.
Annyn? Not Lady Annyn? Garr would have sworn she was untried, that no man before him had tasted her. Had he been wrong? Was he right in first believing she and Rowan were lovers?
She held his gaze a moment longer, then turned and ran.
The best end, Garr told himself again. However, as she neared Rowan, he caught the bow’s movement and saw the arrow was now centered on his chest. He lunged to the left and reached for his sword, but before he could pull it, the arrow burned a path through his flesh and staggered him back.
He looked to his blood-splattered sleeve and the shaft piercing his sword arm, then jerked his gaze to Annyn.
She stood beside Rowan, eyes large in her face, but the words she spoke to her man fell beyond Garr’s reach.
Rowan reached for another arrow. “That which we came to do,” he snarled as he fit the string.
Arm protesting, Garr swept his sword from its sheath and started toward them.
A shout to his left—Sir Merrick?—tore across the wood.
Annyn grabbed Rowan’s arm. “We must go!”
The man narrowed his eyes on her bruised face, then turned his seething gaze one last time to Garr before fleeing with her.
Blood coursing the back of his hand to coat his sword hilt, Garr gave chase. The two stayed out of reach, winding the trees and jumping debris, unhindered by the pain that slowed their pursuer. Then, ahead, was the horse that awaited its lord’s return.
Rowan mounted, reached a hand to Annyn, and swung her up behind. With a jab of the spurs, their departure scattered leaves before Garr.
“God’s blood!” he shouted. He glared at the sky, then again at the arrow piercing the shoulder of his sword arm. Not God’s blood, but his, and too much of it. He snapped the arrow shaft near its entrance, then looked to where Annyn and Rowan had disappeared. Nay, it was not the end.
“My lord,” Sir Merrick called, nearly breathless as he reached Garr’s side.
Garr swung around. “What happened to your watch?”
Brow furrowing at the sight of Garr’s wound, the knight said, “Apologies, my lord. I fear I lost my breath.”
It was several years since the man had experienced such trouble, though Garr had glimpsed instances of its effects since Annyn’s arrival. Still, Merrick had failed, but that would be dealt with later. What was needed now was a horse.
As he stepped past Merrick, Abel arrived. He reined in and dropped to the ground. “Bloody rood! She did this to you?”
“Her man, Rowan.” Garr sheathed his sword, pushed past Abel, and put a foot in the stirrup of his brother’s mount. As he swung into the saddle, four more of his men halted their horses alongside.
“Whose watch?” Abel demanded.
Garr looked to Squire Warren. “Give me your bow and quiver.”
The young man hurriedly passed them to his lord.
“Your wound must be tended,” Abel protested.
Garr jabbed his heels to the horse.
“Do not give your life for her!”
The woods sped past in a blur of greens, browns, and bits of blue sky, but Garr could not have said if it was the horse’s speed that melded the colors or his straining consciousness.
Blood wet him shoulder to fingers, and though he knew the wound should be tended, his anger—that which his father had many times warned would send him young to the grave—would not be quieted. He would have Annyn and her Rowan.
Shortly, he glimpsed white among the green of the wood. There they rode, the tunic he had given Annyn visible beneath the short mantle flying from her shoulders.
As he pushed the horse harder, his consciousness dipped. Grinding his teeth, he drew deep breaths and pushed on. Though his men could bring them down, he would do it himself and return ten-fold the wrong done him.
Topping a rise, he reined in, all the while keeping his prey in sight as they rushed the wood below.
“My lord?” one of his knights asked as he halted his horse alongside.
Garr nocked an arrow, lifted the bow, and grunted as he forced his arm to pull the string as it cried it could not do. But it did, and trembled for it. He sighted Rowan.
And if his quaking muscles caused him to strike Annyn?
Then he would nock another arrow!
With a growl, he swung the bow ahead of his quarry and released. Without pausing to see if he made his mark, he pulled another arrow and let it fly. There was no time for a third. Fortunately, both buried themselves deep in the chosen tree. Would their combined strength—one tight alongside the other—suffice?
A moment later, the protruding shafts caught Rowan high in the chest and knocked him and Annyn off the horse’s backside.
“Never have I seen such!” one of his men exclaimed.
Garr lowered the bow and eyed the two where they sprawled. Consciousness receding, turning his breath shallow, he nudged the horse forward and down the rise. He wanted to see their faces, for them to see his and know the dire mistake made in seeking his death. His consideration to allow them to escape was no more, but both understood revenge—except where it was and was not warranted. That Garr understood.
With his approach, Annyn roused, sprang to her knees, and bent over her man. “Rowan!” She shook his shoulders.
He was not dead. Garr was sure of it. Had he wished an immediate death, he would have aimed higher on the tree so the arrows would collapse Rowan’s throat. The breath was merely knocked from him.
As Garr neared, Rowan convulsed and wheezed. Annyn murmured something, looked up, and slowly straightened.
Though, previously, Garr had only glimpsed her fear, it now filled her eyes. Never had he read a woman more clearly. But then, never had one elicited more emotion from him. Gesturing for his men to halt their advance, he continued to where Annyn stood.
She looked to his shoulder. If not that she had tried to murder him, he might have said it was concern on her bruised face.
Garr stiffened to counter the sway that threatened to unhorse him. As he had earlier warned Lavonne to tend his wound, so must he. An instant later, he was struck by the bitter irony that he and the baron should both suffer injury over this woman. However, Garr had not sought to harm her. Too, his injury was more serious than Lavonne’s. His sword arm was nearly all that he was, and if he left it much longer, it might mean his death. He should never have touched her.
“Again I have you, Annyn Bretanne, and now your man, Rowan.” He glanced at the knight who was struggling to sit upright. “I shall take pleasure in meting out judgment.”
She stepped toward him. “I am to blame. Rowan did not wish me to come to Wulfen.”
Darkness dragged at Garr. “Did he not? ’Twas he who put an arrow through me though I yielded what he asked. Your man is without honor, Annyn Bretanne—unworthy, and for that he shall pay in kind.”
“Murderer!” Rowan spat, a hand to his chest where he had crossed the arrow’s path. As he bent forward and coughed, Annyn dropped to her knees alongside him.
Garr stared at the two and struggled to pull himself out of the grey light that was expanding to black. He had given too much blood.
Hearing Abel’s shout, he looked to the blur riding toward him. It seemed his brother had taken another’s horse—his destrier, Garr realized as he slid sideways and crashed to the floor of the wood.
All he could think as he lay bleeding was what his father had said of women—that they turned a man from his purpose and made him vulnerable. And so he bled out his life for one taste of a woman no man should want. And still he tasted her.
Annyn stared at where Wulfrith lay with eyes closed, face devoid of color, and the sleeve of his tunic bled through.
Vengeance is not yours, she heard the lesson she knew Jonas had taken from Wulfrith. And here was the reason vengeance belonged to God. With a cry strangled by the din that rose from Wulfrith’s men, she scrambled around to his side. “Wulfrith!” Lord, what is his Christian name?
He was still, as if no longer of this world.
“Stand back!” Sir Abel shouted.
She pressed a hand to Wulfrith’s chest, seeking the beat of his heart. It was there.
Feeling Rowan’s hard, accusing gaze, she looked to Wulfrith’s wound. The blood must be stanched. She swept up the hem of the tunic he had given her and tore a strip from it.
Dear Lord, do not let him die, she silently pleaded as she reached to his shoulder. Deliver him. I ask it in Your holy name.
When she had first come to Wulfen, never would she have believed such a prayer would cross her heart. Nor would Rowan have believed it. When he had shot Garr and she had cried out, his eyes had looked through her as if she were no longer known to him.
Hardly had Annyn begun to wrap Wulfrith’s wound than she was dragged upright.
“I said stand back!” Sir Abel bit. Gone was the good humor that had set him apart from his older brothers. Before her now was a distant, hard-hearted Wulfrith. But then, his brother had been injured, perhaps mortally. And she was to blame.
He shoved her back. “If he dies, so shall both of you.” He dropped down beside his brother. “Squire Charles, Squire Warren, I give these two into your care to be bound and kept full in your sight until we arrive at Stern.”
“Aye, my lord.”
For the first time, Annyn looked to those gathered around. Wrath stared at her—hatred for what had been done to their lord.
As Squire Charles advanced with a rope, Rowan rose and glared at her. “Never would I have believed you would betray,” he rasped.
She cringed at his condemnation. She could not blame him, though, for she would feel the same if she had not known Wulfrith as she had this day. “This I know.” She turned to Squire Charles.
He despised her, and as she could not fault Rowan, neither could she fault this young man. She put her wrists together. While he bound her, so tightly she would surely lose feeling, Squire Warren seized Rowan’s sword and dagger.
Annyn turned and watched as Abel wrapped his brother’s wound with the linen of her tunic. Would Wulfrith make it to Stern? How many leagues?
The pound of hooves announced the arrival of the remainder of Wulfrith’s men, and at their head was Sir Merrick. He drew near, looked upon Wulfrith, then met Annyn’s gaze. But the anger she expected was not there. Sorrow, regret, and something else, but not anger.
Why? What set him apart from those who looked at her as if they longed to do to her as Lavonne had done? Merrick was loyal to Wulfrith, she did not doubt, and yet it was as if he was divided. By what? Between whom? And what did it have to do with her?
She frowned. Perhaps it had nothing to do with her and all to do with Jonas. He had squired with her brother. Her breath caught. Could it have been he—
Nay, but perhaps he knew who.
