TAMARA LEIGH NOVELS - Book One in the Age of Faith series
Chapter 7
Swords, pels, and more pels. The morning droned on until Annyn was certain Wulfen was but another name for hell. If not for her woman’s body and that she would not be staying, she might indeed be a man at the end of her time here—a formidable one.
Shoulders bent, she entered the hall amid the others and sighed at the smell of Cook’s efforts for the nooning meal. Sideboards were crowded with various dishes that put a haze upon the air, and the tables were laid with crisp, white cloths.
“Hands!” a page called.
Impatient to stuff up the hole in her belly, Annyn tensely awaited her turn with the pages who held basins of water and towels to bathe away the filth of the training field. Finally, the tepid water was poured over her fingers and her hands wiped dry. She turned toward the tables and there, before her, stood Wulfrith’s second squire, Samuel.
“You are to pour wine at the lord’s table.” He thrust a pitcher at her.
Annyn stared. If she did not eat soon, she might collapse, and it was no exaggeration, for twice in past years it had happened when she had gone too many hours without sustenance.
She moistened her lips, only to cringe at the feminine show of tongue. Had the squire noticed? Nay, he was too busy frowning over her absent response.
She cleared her throat with a manly grunt. “Surely I am to be allowed to eat first?”
“After you pour. At the half hour, another shall relieve you so you may eat.”
Such generosity! Accepting the pitcher, she clenched the handle so tightly that had it not been fashioned of pewter it might have snapped.
She advanced on the high table where Wulfrith sat, gaze impatient, the stem of his goblet caught between his fingers. As she ascended the dais, she ticked through the lessons and found one that served.
“Lesson three, Braose,” Wulfrith said.
She inclined her head. “Act when told to act. Apologies, my lord.” Wretch!
He thrust his goblet forward, and she filled it to the rim—a mistake, though it was too late to remedy.
His shoulders rose with waning patience. “A finger’s width below the rim, Braose.”
“Aye, my lord.” She moved to the man beside him, talk on the training field having told that he and the other were Wulfrith’s brothers, Sir Everard and Sir Abel.
Light from the upper windows shining on Sir Everard’s shaved pate, the tight-mouthed knight bent his ear to something his younger brother said.
Annyn filled his goblet to a finger below the rim, then Sir Abel’s goblet.
“Better, Squire,” the younger murmured.
Annyn looked at him, but his dark head was once more turned to Everard. At least the Wulfriths were not all uncivilized.
Feeling another’s gaze, she looked to the squire who stood at Sir Abel’s back. Charles Shefield inclined his head.
Stiffly, Annyn acknowledged him in kind. Somehow, she must avoid him.
Next was Sir Merrick. As if she did not obstruct his sight, he stared through her as she poured. He was a strange one, offering little encouragement on the training field, though what he had spoken seemed genuine. It was as if he dwelt more inside himself than out and liked it well enough to stay there.
Annyn moved on to those who sat on the other side of Wulfrith. As she poured, squires brought viands to the table, the smell causing her stomach to gurgle. Never had she been so hungry.
Let the half hour be of good speed, she sent up a prayer. However, as testament to the deaf ear God turned to her, the minutes dragged and her hunger pangs increased.
“Squire!” Wulfrith called.
As she hastened to replenish his drink, her head began to unwind. Ah, nay. Not here!
Wulfrith’s face warped and gathered darkness around it.
Annyn slapped a hand to the table to steady herself and gulped air, but it was in vain. She heard the pitcher topple a moment before darkness swept over her.
It was not the first time a young man had collapsed, but something about the horror in Jame’s eyes struck Garr deep. Ignoring the wine that poured into his lap, he stood and skirted the dais as a murmur rose from the tables. Silencing it with the slice of a hand, he dropped to a knee beside Braose.
The young man breathed, his chest rising in spurts and his face nearly as white as the tablecloths.
Garr smacked Braose’s cheek. “Braose!” Had hunger felled him? Exhaustion? Mayhap he suffered the same ailment of breath that—
Braose gasped, but did not open his eyes.
“To your meals!” Garr reproached when the murmurings began again. The humiliation Braose would suffer was great enough without adding to it.
The young man coughed and dragged another breath.
Why did he have such difficulty breathing? Garr reached to the hem of the young man’s tunic and began to draw it up.
Braose sat up so suddenly his head clipped Garr’s jaw.
“By faith!” Garr barked.
The young man clapped a hand to his head, the other to his tunic. “Apologies, m-my lord.”
Garr stood. Though Braose could not be sufficiently recovered, if he was to salvage his dignity, he must rise on his own. “Gain your feet, Squire.”
Braose’s eyes widened when he saw the stain darkening Garr’s tunic. “My lord, I am sorry. I—”
“Rise!”
Fear recasting Braose’s features, he reached to the table and pulled himself up. His face, waxen moments before, flushed. “I know, my lord.” He gripped the table’s edge. “Not worthy.”
It was not what Garr intended to speak, but he nodded. Ignoring the impulse to send Braose from the hall, as it would only add to his shame, he said, “Clear the wine and refill the pitcher.”
Surprise flickered in the squire’s gaze as if he had expected severe punishment. Still, Garr was allowed to see no more than that and, again, was bothered by the depth he could not delve. Secrets would be revealed if ever he saw beyond the veil the young man cast over his eyes. And he would.
“Aye, my lord.” Braose reached to the pitcher.
Garr strode around the table and tossed back the curtain of his solar where Squire Warren waited with a fresh tunic.
Though Garr could have quickly returned to the high seat, he lingered in order to give Braose the time needed to set the table aright. And it was aright when Garr returned.
Regaining his seat, he reached across the fresh tablecloth and lifted his goblet. It was filled as bid. As he quenched his thirst, he watched Braose at the far end of the dais. The boy was pale, but appeared recovered. Less than a quarter hour more and he could sit down to meal. Hopefully, he would endure and his faint would be sooner forgotten.
“I say he shall be sent from Wulfen ere the fortnight is done,” Everard spoke at Garr’s shoulder.
Garr considered his brother who had been birthed two years after him. “Why do you say that?”
“He is a long time from a man. Too long.”
Abel turned his head to the conversation. “Methinks you are wrong. Forsooth, I wager it.”
Everard looked to the youngest. “I accept,” he said in a taut voice.
Abel looked to Garr. “What do you think?”
What did he think? It was rare he did not know the outcome of those sent to him, but the young man was elusive. Though there was much to recommend him, the little priest did not seem to have the heart of a man. And yet neither did he have the heart of one promised to the Church. “I do not know yet, but he is determined.”
Abel’s eyebrows jutted. “What do you mean you do not know?”
“Naught that will help you determine the odds of wagering.”
Abel shot a grin at Everard. “Still I will wager you.”
“And I shall empty your purse.”
Garr turned from their negotiations and again settled on Braose. Who would win? Everard or Abel?
Feeling Wulfrith’s gaze, Annyn looked down the table. Did he require more wine? Nay, his goblet was set before him, meaning he likely pondered what had happened, as had she when consciousness returned and she had felt his slap. Her heart had lurched to find him above her. And nearly burst when he drew up her tunic.
By the grace of God, though why God would aid her she did not know, she had not been revealed. By the grace of Wulfrith, though why one so cruel had not beat her and sent her from the hall she could not fathom, she had been allowed to gather her scattered pride. If she looked deeper on it, she feared it might be concern Wulfrith had shown her. And that did not fit.
A young squire rose from a lower table and gained Annyn’s side. Grateful, she relinquished the pitcher and descended the dais. As she dropped to a bench, a trencher was brought to her. Never had food so pleased.
Impossible. And even if possible, for what?
Annyn slid her tongue over the backs of her teeth as she watched Sir Merrick lead the horse around the enclosure. As the animal tossed its great head and snorted, Sir Merrick halted at the center of the enclosure. “Who shall be first?”
Stand a bareback horse? Not she. It was not natural.
“Braose!”
Mercy! “My lord?”
He waved her forward. “First you.”
“I have not done it before.”
“For that reason you shall be first.”
Squire Bryant, who had glared at her throughout the morning and now the afternoon, leaned near. “Coward.”
It was not the first ill remark he had made since her collapse in the hall, but it was the first spoken directly to her. She had ignored the laughter and sly glances roused by his words, but no more.
She considered the chapped flesh of his upper lip before casting aside a twinge of sympathy. “This coward shall stay aloft longer than this”—she poked a finger to his chest—“leach.”
His color rose, but before he could retort, Sir Merrick called, “You keep me waiting, Braose.”
Annyn made strides of her steps as she crossed the enclosure. She could do this, just as she had done several years ago when Uncle had placed a chess piece atop her head and made her walk around the hall until she could do it without toppling the ivory queen.
Her chest tightened at one of many memories that was all she had left of the man. How many times around had it taken to prove she could move with a woman’s grace? Twenty? Thirty? More. But she had earned Uncle’s approval, and thereafter been reproved when she came to the hall without that same grace that Wulfrith said she did not possess.
She halted before Sir Merrick where he held the reins. “I am ready, my lord.”
“Then mount.”
“I should remove my boots?”
“Nay.”
She was not to have the benefit of gripping with her toes. She stepped past him and faltered. No saddle, thus, no pommel. How was she to gain the horse’s back? There was only the mane, but she had never used such. Hoping it would not pain the horse, she gathered a handful, put her other hand to the animal’s back, and boosted herself atop. The horse did not seem to mind.
Annyn sighed, though her relief was cut short by the large figure who entered the enclosure.
Would Wulfrith be so available when it came time to sow her dagger?
He strode opposite where the squires awaited their turn, put a foot on the lower rung of the fence, draped an arm over the top rung, and awaited her humiliation.
Hoping to redeem herself for what had happened in the hall, she looked to Sir Merrick.
“Put your knees to him,” he said.
She braced her hands to the horse’s shoulders and pulled one knee up, then the other.
“Now your feet.”
She slowly raised a knee, positioned her foot on the horse’s back, then the other.
“Now stand.”
She splayed her fingers on the horse’s shoulders, but as she lifted a hand, the animal shifted. Gripping him, she waited for him to settle, then tried again. She lifted one hand, the other, and tucked her backside. Holding her breath, she slowly straightened.
Find your center. She felt her arms out to shoulder level, tilted them up to steady herself, then down, until she stood erect. Threading breath between her lips, she looked to Wulfrith.
His eyebrows were raised as if he considered it a miracle she had made it this far—as if to say she would go no further. But she would prove him and Squire Bryant wrong.
“You are steady?” Sir Merrick asked.
“Aye, my lord.”
He stepped ahead of the horse and urged the animal forward.
Annyn flapped an arm up, the other down, the former down, the latter up. Though the soles of her boots were between her and the horse, she clenched her toes. Any moment now, she would fall and land hard on her pride for all to chortle over. And Wulfrith would find her unworthy.
Reminding herself of the poise she had learned from her uncle, she bent her knees slightly to offset the jarring gait, loosened her hips to better move with the horse, and slowly drew her outstretched arms nearer. It seemed to work, though still she felt as if she would plummet. How she would love to look upon Wulfrith’s face, his arched eyebrow met with the other in wonder. Surely Squire Bryant was also astonished.
With a snort, the horse surged forward, threatening to ride out from under her and causing her to once more thrust out her arms.
Sir Merrick led the animal around the enclosure once...twice…and like a miracle poured from God’s palm, Annyn remained aloft. On the third time around, she smiled. She had done it! Regardless of what the remainder of the day held, her chin would ride high.
The horse halted, and Annyn gripped air that slipped through her fingers. Realizing there was only one way to avoid the ground, she threw her hands out, opened her legs, and slammed to the horse’s back with a leg on either side. Though jolted hard enough to snap her teeth on her tongue, she landed upright. Blood in her mouth, tears wetting her eyes, she looked to Wulfrith.
Garr stared. How had Braose done it? Though Garr had been fairly certain the young man would lose the horse’s back in setting off around the enclosure, and quite certain of it when Sir Merrick increased the pace, Braose had held as if it was not the first time he had attempted the exercise. It was unusual for one of little or no training to exhibit such deftness—such grace—but more curious was that Braose was not bent over and clutching his manhood. His eyes were moist, but that was all. Indeed, the slight turn of his lips bespoke satisfaction. Mayhap he had not hit so hard or had taken the brunt to his backside.
“Well done, Braose!” Sir Merrick conferred rare praise.
The squire looked to him. “I thank you, my lord, but may I pose a question?”
“You may.”
Braose threw a leg over the horse and dropped to the ground. “Of what use to stand upon a moving horse?”
The knight turned to the others. “Squire Bryant!”
“My lord?”
“Why do we endeavor to stand upon a moving horse?”
As Garr watched, the young man slid a tongue over his top lip, a nervous gesture that caused the lip to be perpetually chapped and scabbed. “For control and balance, my lord, that in battle one can maneuver a horse with naught but the knees.”
“What else?”
The tongue again. Though Squire Bryant, who had been at Wulfen for nearly a year, affected mettle and daring, he was still fearful. But by the end of his training, that would be gone. Already, much of it was.
“That when engaged in foot battle, one knows well his balance in order to better stand the ground.”
Sir Merrick looked to Braose. “Your question is answered.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
Garr pushed off the fence and followed Braose to where he placed himself back from the others. “Well done.”
Eyes sparkling, Braose said, “You are surprised, my lord?”
“Aye, ’twould seem you are gifted with grace after all.”
The young man averted his gaze. “Grace is required to walk the House of the Lord without disturbing others at prayer.”
“Ah.” Garr had not considered that. Still, the explanation was lacking.
He eyed Squire Bryant who had gained his feet on the horse. He did not possess the poise of Braose, as evidenced by his fall shortly thereafter. Nor did he possess the good fortune, for his attempt to land astride the same as Braose had done ended on a howl of pain. Clutching himself, he slid from the horse’s back.
When Garr looked back at Braose, he saw the young man gripped his bottom lip between even teeth.
“Withdraw, Squire,” Sir Merrick clipped, then called, “Squire Mark!”
Garr leaned near Braose. “Do you think Squire Mark will be able to stay atop?”
Braose slid his lip out from between his teeth. “I do so hope, my lord.”
“If not this day, then the next,” Garr said, “and if not that, soon thereafter. All knighted at Wulfen stand the horse’s back at no less than a trot.”
Braose’s eyes grew large. “A trot, my lord?”
“Aye.”
The young man considered Squire Mark whose knees were on the horse’s back. “Can you do it, my lord?” He looked back at Garr, challenge shining from his eyes. However, the window into the young man’s mind closed before it could be breached.
Garr crossed his arms over his chest. “I do not ask of any what I cannot do myself.”
“Then all are measured by you?”
The puck! He goaded as if an equal. A reminder of lesson two, that Braose should never question him, rose to Garr’s tongue, but he withheld it.
“Though ’tis true all men are different,” he said, “each endowed with distinct gifts of which they are capable of attaining their own level of mastery, still they are men. Or shall be.”
Braose shifted his weight.
“Men are providers,” Garr continued. “They are defenders. Thus, each must attain the highest level possible for himself. As you and the others are sound of body and firm of mind, ’tis required that you pull yourselves up, clawing and scratching if needs be, to attain your fullest. This exercise and others will train you to manhood that will make you worthy of being called a man. But if you do not make it past the fortnight, you need not worry on it.”
Braose’s head came up. “I shall make it past the fortnight.”
“Mayhap.” Garr looked to Squire Mark. Though it was a struggle for the young man to remain upright, he fared well and dismounted a few moments later. With an open-mouthed grin and pride in his stride, he crossed to where the others awaited their turns.
Squire Merrick scanned their ranks and lit on Garr. “You would like to demonstrate, my lord?”
For this he often came to the enclosure, though this time Braose had drawn him. It was usual for Garr to stay near those newly arrived at Wulfen to determine whether or not they would remain, but the young man continued to unsettle him like a riddle aching to be answered.
Shortly, Garr’s booted feet were firm upon the horse’s back, the reins held loosely in his right hand. Nodding Sir Merrick aside, he set the horse to motion.
Annyn stared with the others. Before Wulfrith was fully around, he had the horse at a trot. How was it possible for so large a man to become one with a horse? Astride, aye, but standing? Were he not so hated, he would have her respect.
She looked from his silvered head to his broad shoulders, his tapered back to his hips, his muscled calves to his balanced feet. Through bone and sinew he was a warrior. Skilled in death, but slow to die. A man who saw things others did not. A man who missed little.
Reminded of her drop to the horse’s back, she clenched her hands. Though a woman, still there should have been discomfort—minor, compared to a man’s—but the hose stuffed in her braies had provided a relatively soft landing. Not until Squire Bryant had himself landed astride and bent to the pain had she realized her error. Excepting her bitten tongue that had caused tears to rush her eyes, she had shown nothing. Hope though she did that Wulfrith had not noticed, she would be a fool to believe it. She must leave Wulfen soon, meaning the deed must be done sooner.
She closed her eyes against the sight of the big man who could overpower her with one hand, but he rose behind her lids. Telling herself he was better outside her mind than in, she opened her eyes wide.
When Wulfrith dismounted and turned his attention to a group of older squires who had donned armor for sword practice, Annyn was grateful and watched as the others took their turns on the horse’s back.
A half hour later, Sir Merrick shouted, “To swords!”
Again? It was not easy to be a man.
As she followed the others across the field, Sir Merrick drew alongside her. “You learn quickly, Braose.”
Praise? “I would not wish to find ill favor with you, Sire.”
He looked sidelong at her and again she wondered where she had seen his face. “As for Squire Bryant, he and the others will push you, but it is the same for all. ’Tis how men are made.”
Which was the reason they were so uncivilized. Though Annyn had often wished she had been born male, in that moment she was glad she had not been. That thought was followed by another. How civilized was she to come to Wulfen with a dagger bound to her thigh?
It was different where vengeance was due, she told herself.
Nay, Annyn, Jonas’s voice drifted to her. Vengeance belongs to God.
“Methinks you shall do fine, Braose.” Sir Merrick clapped Annyn on the back, lengthened his stride, and left her behind.
Perspiration from the exercise causing her bindings to cling and chafe, she tugged at them as she followed the knight. However, as she passed the armored squires, her gaze met Wulfrith’s.
Lowering her arms to her sides, she cursed her foolishness. If she was not careful, the bindings would reveal her. On that thought, she set her mind to what lay ahead. Would this be the night? Before dawn, might she be away from Wulfen? Of course, if she was caught...
She would not think on that. Regardless of the consequences, it would be done.
It could not be done. Not this night.
Annyn lowered the tray to the table before which Wulfrith sat and glanced at Squire Warren who stood over his lord’s shoulder.
Nay, not this night. Not only was it exceedingly late and she exceedingly tired, but Wulfrith and his squire were exceedingly awake.
Though a part of her sank, another part was relieved. Fatigue, she explained it, the demands of the day causing her arms and legs to quake and lids to spasm for want of closing. In the morning, she would be ten-fold sore.
She lifted the goblet of wine from the tray and was grateful for the finger’s width below the rim that offset her trembling hands. Setting the goblet before Wulfrith, she asked, “Is there anything else you require, my lord?”
“Nay.” He did not look up from his ledgers. “Take your rest.”
Discomfort twinging her ribs, she picked at the bindings and reached for the tray.
“Lesson eleven,” Wulfrith growled.
Annyn met his gaze. “My lord?”
“Cleanliness. When did you last bathe?”
Did she smell? She lowered her hand to her side. “I...”
“Have you fleas?”
Repugnant though the thought was, she would have embraced the filthy vermin over the woman’s body that threatened to reveal her. “Nay, my lord, ’tis merely an itch I suffer.”
He swept his gaze down her. “See to it.”
“I shall, my lord.” She reached again for the tray.
His hand gripped her forearm, causing nettles to prick her skin. “Now.”
Dread wound through her.
He jutted his chin toward the table near his bed. “You may use my basin.”
“Your basin?” The moment the words squeaked from her she regretted them. Not only did they hardly compare to the voice she had affected these past two days, but surprise swept away much of the husk that was hers. The woman was showing.
And Wulfrith was looking straight at her with a questioning brow.
Did he see Annyn Bretanne? She put a hand to her neck and gruffly cleared her throat. “I would not impose, my lord.”
The intensity with which he regarded her caused her toes to cramp in her boots. “You impose with your scratching. A few minutes at the basin will make it no worse.”
Did he intend for her to bare herself? A male among males was not likely to balk over the removal of his tunic, but for her it would be ruinous.
“Do it now,” Wulfrith’s voice rose, “else I shall do it for you.”
Annyn crossed to the basin. There, she glanced over her shoulder and saw Wulfrith’s back was to her and his head bent toward his ledger. Squire Warren remained unmoving near his lord.
Would either look around? No matter. She would simply reach under her tunic and wipe at her bound chest. And the sooner done, the sooner she could leave.
An ache spreading across the backs of her eyes, she dipped a hand towel in the cool water. Another glance over her shoulder assuring her that all was well, she raised the hem of her tunic and wiped her underarms, then made a pretense of scrubbing her bound chest.
“What is lesson seven?” Wulfrith asked.
Annyn stilled. Was it about making vows? If so, what had it to do with bathing?
“Lesson seven,” Squire Warren said, “is make no assumptions, my lord.”
Then it was to his first squire that he put the question. It seemed she was not the only one forced to recite lessons. More surprising was the realization that the lessons were different for each. Wulfrith had to be of good intellect to remember the multitude of lessons and the sequence for each squire to whom they were issued.
Annyn wet the towel again. As she wiped her face, a scent wafted to her that made her pause. It smelled of earth and something not entirely unpleasant, though she would guess it tasted of salt.
“Find the error,” Wulfrith said.
It was his scent. He had used the towel before her. The realization inciting another stirring, Annyn drew a sharp breath.
“I shall, my lord,” Squire Warren said.
At the sound of the ledger being pushed across the table, followed by the scrape of a chair, Annyn glanced over her shoulder. Though Wulfrith leaned back in his chair, his attention remained on the ledger.
She thrust up her tunic sleeves and wiped her arms. Deciding that would suffice, she folded the towel and laid it alongside the basin, then crossed the room and retrieved the tray.
“Modesty is a virtue honorable in a priest, Braose,” Wulfrith said, “and women, but unbecoming in a warrior.”
Though Annyn knew she ought to be relieved that her discreet bathing was attributed to Braose’s priesthood training, she was struck by the realization that each moment with Wulfrith put greater distance between her and revenge—that all she did might prove for naught. Especially as it seemed nothing got past him.
She gripped the tray tightly and met his gaze. “Have you another lesson for me, my lord?” Inwardly, she winced at the scorn she was unable to keep from her voice.
He delved her face and, too late, she looked away.
“Whoever loves instruction, loves knowledge,” he said, voice so level it sent a tremor of fear through her. “He who hates correction is brutish. And a fool, Squire Jame.”
It was the same verse Father Cornelius had often used during his attempts to instruct Annyn in the behavior expected of Christian women. How was it Wulfrith knew the words?
“Proverbs,” she breathed, knowing such a response was expected from a young man who had been given to the Church.
“Aye.”
Fearful Wulfrith might ask her to number the verse, she said again, “What other lesson do you have for me, my lord?”
With eyes that continued to seek inside her, he stared. And somehow she managed to not look away.
“Lesson twelve, a warrior is bold, not modest. Though it is good for you to know scripture, Braose, the Church is no longer your destiny.”
“I shall endeavor to remember that, my lord.”
He inclined his head. “Take your leave.”
She hurried from the solar to the dim hall that was settled by sleeping men. When she finally lay down on her pallet, fatigue lay down with her—as did worry. How was she to get to Wulfrith? When? Before the fortnight was gone, the deed must be done, for thereafter her menses would begin, and that she could not risk. There were twelve days remaining, but surely in all that time...
There would be an opportunity. She could wait.
