TAMARA LEIGH NOVELS - Book One in the Age of Faith series
Chapter 8
Still she waited. A sennight at Wulfen and naught but fierce training that made her first days seem facile. If it was not Wulfrith wanting more from her, it was Sir Merrick, if not Sir Merrick, Wulfrith’s squires. The burden was unlike any she had carried, and she often cursed Rowan for not better preparing her. He had treated her too well.
Nearly as trying was Charles Shefield, the squire who had known Jame’s brother. Any spare moment Annyn had, rare though it was, she spent avoiding him. He spoke of too many things on which she could not converse, asked too many questions she could not answer. What a fool she had been to claim that Jame’s brother had spoken of him!
“There!” Sir Merrick rasped, bringing her back to the wood. “You see it?”
She peered through the mists. Aye, and a fine deer it was. Having silently chanted throughout the hunt that she could do this, Annyn raised her bow. “I see it.” She swallowed against the sore throat that worsened with each day of straining her voice toward a man’s.
The horse shifted beneath her, sending a whisper of warning through the trees that caused the deer to lift its antlered head.
“Slowly,” Sir Merrick hissed.
She glanced at where he sat his horse alongside hers.
“’Tis yours, Braose. Bring it to ground.”
Grateful it was he who instructed her and not Wulfrith who watched with the others a short distance away, she drew the string to her cheek.
Sight, Jonas came to her, causing chill bumps to course her flesh. Steady.
She sighted the deer down her arrow shaft, held steady.
That’s it, Annyn.
“Aye,” she breathed, but still she held when the release of her arrow was all that stood between life and death.
Release!
“Now!” Sir Merrick rasped.
She clenched her teeth, but wavered at the moment of release. The arrow flew through the wood, gusting the air that was all it would pierce this day.
“Not worthy!” Wulfrith shouted as the deer bounded away.
Cur! Seething as a derisive murmur rose from the dozen squires in his midst, Annyn lowered her bow.
Though disappointment was on Sir Merrick’s brow, no condemnation shone from his eyes. Hard though he pushed her, these past days had shown her that he was not the beast Wulfrith was. Indeed, were things different she might like him.
“We shall try again on the morrow,” he said.
As they had tried again this day after Annyn missed her mark two days past. She slid the bow over her head and settled it on her opposite shoulder.
Wulfrith thundered forward. “This day we try again.” He halted alongside. “Come up behind me, Braose.”
At her hesitation, he gripped her upper arm and wrenched her toward him, giving her no choice but to straddle the small space behind his saddle.
“Hold to me!” He jerked the reins and the horse lurched, nearly sending her off its back.
Annyn wrapped her arms around Wulfrith. Through the woods she clung to him, cheek to his mantled back, his muscled chest flexing and tensing beneath her hands, his body emanating heat that, when the sky began to weep its promise of rain, drove the chill from her. And, curse her wayward senses, there were those stirrings again. Of hate, she told herself. After all, she sought his death, did she not?
It was then she remembered the misericorde and realized here was the opportunity she awaited. They were alone in the wood, his back to her, and Rowan was surely near. She could be done with it and gone from Wulfen this very day.
Loosing a hand from Wulfrith, she pressed it to her thigh. The misericorde had shifted higher on her leg, but though she had only to lift her tunic to retrieve it, she clenched it through the material.
The large vein, Rowan had said. She raised her gaze to Wulfrith’s sinewed neck above the collar of his mantle. Four years she had prepared for this, and yet she quaked. But she could do it.
Just as you could loose your arrow on the deer?
The horse veered right, causing her to slip sideways.
“Hold to me!” Wulfrith shouted.
She whipped her arm around him and tightly clasped her hands.
Shortly, Wulfrith reined in. “Off!”
She threw a leg over and dropped to the ground. Though the clouds had yet to issue the torrent they promised—still no more than an intermittent drizzle—the absence of Wulfrith’s heat poured discomfort through her. How she wished she had thought to wear a mantle as he had done.
He appeared at her side. “Nock an arrow.”
Annyn lifted the bow over her head and reached to her quiver. Was the deer near? Surely the chase would have sent it farther afield. She fit an arrow to the string and trailed Wulfrith through the woods.
He slowed and glanced over his shoulder. “Your prey is near. Be ready.”
Hoping she would not fail again, she looked to her bow. Seeing the arrow had ridden up the string, she refit it.
Wulfrith bent low, darted forward, and halted behind an ancient oak.
Annyn crept to his side.
“Go.” He jutted his chin.
Moving slowly as Jonas had taught her, she peered around the tree. There, a pool, but where—?
There, but she would have to draw nearer.
“Lesson three,” Wulfrith hissed.
Act when told to act. She put a foot forward but was halted by a hand on her shoulder. Did she err again?
She looked around, but rather than disapproval, there was encouragement in Wulfrith’s grey-green gaze. Strangely moved, she looked away.
“You can do this,” he spoke low.
“I shall not fail you, my lord.” Pray, let her not fail him. She would rather—
What was wrong with her? This she did for herself, not her brother’s murderer! Which reminded her of the misericorde. Mayhap once she brought down her quarry...
She turned from Wulfrith and eyed the deer. Providing she stayed upwind of her prey, she would not fail. She slipped from behind the tree and on to the next. Tree by tree she advanced, acutely aware of the man who watched.
When the deer was within arrow’s reach, she raised her bow, pulled the string to her cheek, and sighted her quarry where its head was bent to the pool.
You can do this. With a startle, she realized this voice was not Jonas’s. It was Wulfrith who encouraged her as she did not wish him to do.
She fixed on the deer. A perfect kill. As little suffering as possible. Drawing a deep breath of moist air, she drank in the taste beget by rain upon the wood.
You can do this.
“Leave me be!” she whispered.
The deer lifted its head, exposing its chest.
You can!
Where was Jonas? It was his encouragement she wished.
You can!
And she did. The arrow ran the chill wood and found its mark.
The animal lurched, stumbled, dropped to its forelegs, and heaved sideways.
“Worthy!” Wulfrith shouted.
Was she? She swung around and searched his gaze as he advanced. Approval was there, and though she tried to deny the sensation that shuddered through her, she was heartened. And more so when he loosed a smile from that firm mouth of his.
Again struck by how comely he was, Annyn looked to the ground.
Wulfrith clapped a hand to her back. “It seems we shall have fresh meat for the table after all. Well done, Braose.”
“Thank you, my lord.”
He prodded her forward. “Come, let us see your prize.”
She matched his stride, though only because he did not reach his very long.
As they circled the pool, the drizzle turned to rain—large, brisk drops that flattened Annyn’s hair to her head and made her fear it might also flatten her tunic to her chest. Bound though she was, a thorough dousing might reveal her if any peered near enough.
Looking to the man beside her, she saw his hair was becoming drenched though he could easily cover it with the hood of his mantle. As she watched, a bead of rain slipped from his brow, ran the curve of his nose, and settled on the bow of his upper lip. For an unguarded moment, she longed to brush it away, to feel the curve of his mouth beneath her fingertips. But then he looked down at her.
She wrenched her gaze to the fallen deer and silently cursed the weakness of her sorry soul.
As they drew near the animal, the sight of blood pooled around it caused her throat to constrict. God had put animals on earth to feed man, Father Cornelius told. It was meant to be. Still, as she stood over the deer, staring at the arrow shaft she had put through it, her eyes moistened.
Before she could turn, Wulfrith looked up from where he knelt over her kill.
“I know,” she snapped and swung around, “lesson thirteen: men do not cry.”
He rose at her back. “But men do cry. Of course, ’tis best done when no others are present.”
Had she heard right? Had this man who so often pronounced her unworthy said it? She looked over her shoulder but found no evidence of mockery on his face. Her loathing for him floundering, she turned back to him. “You also cry, my lord?”
“I am far older than you, Braose.”
Not as far as he believed.
“I have learned to command my emotions. Still, I am not without being moved on occasion. Of course, that is when I seek refuge in God.”
Annyn felt as if slapped. He sought refuge in God? This man who was responsible for her brother’s death professed to know God? Aye, he attended mass and was not unfamiliar with Proverbs, but she knew that for what it was. At least, she thought she did.
Brow furrowing as if he were suddenly uncomfortable with the conversation, Wulfrith swept a hand to the deer. “Look to your prize and be gladdened. This night it shall feed hungering bellies.”
She stepped toward the deer.
“I knew you would not fail me.”
She lifted her gaze. “And if I had?”
“Then I would have to teach you better.”
She saw that he nearly smiled again. Where was the beast in him? The one who had put Jonas to the rope? Who was this man who spoke of God with such ease and familiarity? Though she knew she ought to leave off, she asked, “And if still I failed you, my lord? What price, then?”
The light swept from his face, and he was once more a trainer of knights. “Throughout your stay at Wulfen, you will fail many times. Did you not, of what use would be my training? However, for he who is unable to rise above a weak mind and body, the price is dire. To him falls dishonor. He is returned home.”
Sometimes dead? Remembrance caused Annyn to shiver.
Wulfrith swept the mantle from his shoulders and onto hers. “Worry not, young Braose, methinks you are not among those destined to return home in dishonor.”
Though the fortnight was only half done, already she had proven herself? “Truly, my lord?”
“We shall see.” He dropped to his haunches alongside the deer.
Disconcerted by his confidence in her, the unexpected kindness he showed in relinquishing his mantle, and his talk of God, Annyn fingered the collar of the garment that gave his heat to her.
“We shall put the deer over my horse and walk it out of here.” Wulfrith issued a shrill whistle that resounded through the wood and called his mount to him.
Though Annyn helped as best she could, it was Wulfrith’s strength that put the deer over the horse’s back, Wulfrith who bound it, Wulfrith who—
What was his Christian name? Surely he had one, though she had not considered it. He was simply Wulfrith. It was all she had ever heard him called.
As they left the pool behind, Annyn berated her pondering, though only because of Rowan. It was his face she glimpsed through the veil of rain before he slipped behind a tree, his questioning felt across the distance.
Wulfrith drew his sword. “Make haste, Braose. We are not alone.”
How did he know? Were his senses so honed?
As she hurried after him, Rowan’s questioning returned to her: Why had she not killed Wulfrith?
There was no opportunity, she silently defended herself. But there had been. If not the dagger, she could have turned the arrow on him.
What must Rowan think? Was he disappointed? Of course he was. Though Wulfrith had finally pronounced her worthy, she was not—yet.
Despite her churning and her brother’s warning about revenge, she silently vowed Jonas would be avenged. I give you my word, Rowan.
A score of men were mounted before the raised drawbridge, their flaccid pennants showing the colors of England’s future king, and on either side of them, Wulfrith’s men.
Fear uncoiling, Annyn halted alongside Wulfrith at the edge of the wood. Had Henry come for her?
“By faith!” Wulfrith growled.
“Who comes to Wulfen, my lord?” she feigned.
It was a long moment before he spoke. “Henry’s men.”
Not Henry himself? “Why do they come?”
His shoulders rose with a deep breath. “To make of me an ally.”
He was certain of it? Mayhap he was wrong and they came for her. But if not, would Wulfrith turn from Stephen? Go to Henry’s side? “Will they succeed, my lord?”
As if she had not spoken, he tugged the reins with which he led his horse and strode forward. “Come!”
Annyn glanced behind. No Rowan, but he was there. Somewhere.
Resisting the longing to flee to the wood, she drew the hood of Wulfrith’s mantle over her head and hastened after him. As they neared, evidence of Wulfen’s reputation as a formidable stronghold became apparent. Though most of those who stood on the walls were but squires, they were weapon-ready to defend their lord’s castle. Would it be necessary?
Annyn looked to the scabbard on Wulfrith’s belt. He had returned his sword to it as they came out of the wood, and there it remained. If he anticipated trouble, it was not apparent. Of course, his sword could be put to hand in an instant.
True enough, it was not Henry who awaited the lord of Wulfen, but a nobleman Annyn recognized as the one the duke had longest considered as a husband for her. As the hooded man nudged his mount over sodden ground to meet Wulfrith, she silently beseeched her heart to calm. She had the cover afforded by the hood, and even if she came out from beneath it, the man would not likely recognize her. Of course, he surely knew Jame Braose who had arrived with him and Henry at Lillia. If any called her by name, she would be revealed.
“Lord Wulfrith,” he shouted above the fall of rain. “I bring you tidings from the duke.”
Though the man did not appear drunk where he sat astride an ivory destrier, he presented as somewhat older than she had first thought. Was he older, or was it an excess of drink that aged him?
Garr halted and considered the man. So, Henry had sent Geoffrey Lavonne to do his bidding. Interesting choice, for not four years ago, Garr had himself knighted Lavonne alongside Sir Merrick in a ceremony that had been absent Jonas Bretanne.
Pressed heavily by memories of the young man he had returned to Castle Lillia in a cart, he put them from his mind.
In matters of warfare, Lavonne had proven himself worthy of knighthood. Forsooth, he had surpassed most, though never Jonas Bretanne. However, his imperious bearing caused him to be disliked. He was boastful, antagonistic, and inclined to drink. Too, though his family supported Stephen’s rule, Garr had sensed the young man’s lean toward Henry. Now that Geoffrey was a baron, he had turned to Henry’s side. And regardless of his training at Wulfen, it would have no bearing on what his new liege had sent him to do. A man’s body could be trained in the ways of service and honor, but his heart did not always follow.
Garr glanced to where his brother, Everard, was mounted to the left of Lavonne, behind him a half score of squires. Standing guard on the other side of Henry’s men was Sir Merrick, also bounded by squires. And center upon the wall was Abel and the others. Arrows trained on those who had come uninvited to Wulfen, they would easily fell any who raised a sword.
With such numbers, Henry’s men would not dare. Of course, without they likely would, which once more returned Garr to the presence he had sensed in the wood. It had to have been one of Lavonne’s men.
Garr wiped the moisture from his brow. “Deliver your tidings, Lord Lavonne.”
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught Braose’s startle at the name of the man who had come to Wulfen. Did they know each other?
“Tidings are best relayed over a tankard of ale”—Lavonne shifted in his saddle—“a platter of venison”—he jutted his chin toward the deer—”and a warm fire.”
“Indeed.” Garr looked to those accompanying the baron. A dozen knights, a half dozen squires. Too many to allow within. “Then come inside, Lord Lavonne, and relay your tidings.” He signaled for the drawbridge to be lowered.
The baron turned his horse and nodded to his entourage.
“Choose three to accompany you,” Garr called as the chains of the drawbridge let out.
Lavonne jerked his horse around, kicking up mud that further befouled Garr’s boots. “Three?” he bellowed
Garr looked to his boots, back to Lavonne. “Two.”
The man threw off his hood. “What do you think? That I shall put a knife to you in your own hall?”
Beside Garr, Braose shifted.
Lavonne swept up a hand. “In the presence of your men?”
It was a taunt, but if Lavonne did think to steal upon him, he would soon recall that the squires of Wulfen were more worthy than most knighted elsewhere.
“Two,” Garr repeated.
Lavonne’s lips thinned. “With this weather, we shall require a night’s lodging.”
“If I grant it, you shall be given a chamber. As for the others, they may raise their tents outside my walls.”
The baron’s jaw bulged, but he bit, “Two ’tis,” and chose his knights.
With a final groan, the drawbridge met the ground. As Garr crossed over it, Squire Jame trailing, the weight he had carried these past years settled more heavily on his sodden shoulders. It was time to choose between England and loyalty. Either way, blood would be let.
Squire for Baron Lavonne? That arrogant, insolent sot whose voice had time and again risen from the solar during the three hours he had spent behind its curtains with Wulfrith? Who had been content with naught at Wulfrith’s table during the evening meal? Who had made full show of his vainglory even as he showed himself to be a fool with each swill of ale?
Annyn sighed. At least he did not disappoint, for he was exactly as his reputation told—a reputation that had chilled her when he had sent a missive to Uncle a year past suggesting a marriage between him and Aillil’s heiress. As his lands adjoined Uncle’s, he had sought to improve his lot. Fortunately for her, his recent siding with Henry had caused Uncle to reject the offer and they had not been introduced. Unfortunately, that new alliance had nearly gained him the wife Uncle had refused him.
Curse him! And curse Wulfrith for offering “Squire Jame”—thankfully, he had not spoken the surname—for the duration of his stay. Not only had Annyn’s dislike of Geoffrey Lavonne trebled since his arrival, but there remained the possibility he might recognize her from Uncle’s hall.
Pray, let me not be made to undress him, she silently pleaded as she mounted the stairs with her pallet and blanket beneath an arm. Let him be drunk asleep on the bed. It was possible considering the effort required for him to cross the hall a short while ago.
“Squire Jame!”
She looked around. Though Sir Merrick was only two steps down from her, she had been too chafed to hear his approach.
“Sir Merrick?”
He opened his mouth, but closed it as if to rethink his words. Finally, he said. “Sleep light. The one you serve this eve is not to be trusted.”
There was depth to the warning, as if... “You know the baron, my lord?”
His lips compressed and brow lowered above his sleepy eyes. “If one can truly know such a man, aye. He and I were knighted together four years past.”
Then the baron had trained under Wulfrith. Four years past...
Finally, Annyn grasped what had eluded her. Sir Merrick was the squire who had attended Wulfrith in bringing Jonas home, the same who had mistaken her for other than a lady. Had he served alongside Jonas? He must have, or at least known her brother. But why had he remained at Wulfen? Were not all those who trained here destined for lordships? Surely there were lands that Sir Merrick ought to be administering.
He heaved a sigh. “Sleep lightly, young Jame.”
“I shall.”
Annyn stared after him as he descended the steps. Did he know anything of Jonas’s death? Might Lavonne? He had also been present during Jonas’s training. Of course, what was there to be told that she did not already know? Jonas had been murdered, and surely Wulfrith was responsible. Had to be. Didn’t he?
Cease this senseless pondering! Though Wulfrith might be capable of showing kindness, it did not make him incapable of murder. Still, she was afflicted by doubt. Grumbling, she turned and climbed the last of the stairs.
As she paused on the landing, the chapel at the end of the corridor drew her gaze, it being the only room abovestairs that she had previously entered. Though the doors were closed, a flicker of light shone from beneath. As at Lillia, candles were kept lit before the altar.
Annyn sighed. Too soon she must drag from her pallet and hasten to make mass on time to avert Wulfrith’s wrath. Too soon she must choke down bread and cheese on her way to the training field. Of course, with the day’s rainfall—
Nay, still they would run as they did every morning. War does not wait for good weather, she imagined Wulfrith making a lesson of it. Hopefully, the rain would cease during the night.
She crossed to the chamber that Squire Warren had told her belonged to Wulfrith’s brother, Everard, and which Lavonne had been given for the night. The baron’s companions were in the next chamber that belonged to the youngest of the Wulfriths, Sir Abel. Unlike Lavonne, they had not been given a squire to tend them.
Annyn dropped her pallet to the left of the door where she was to sleep “lightly” and knocked.
“Enter!” Lavonne shouted.
Annyn pushed the door open.
From his chair before the brazier, the baron waved her forward and slurred, “Come quick ere all the heat escapes, fool!”
He will not recognize you. If he once lifted his gaze beyond his tankard at Lillia, ’twould have been much. And, once again, he is full up in his cups. She closed the door behind her. “My lord, I am to serve you.”
“Aye, now be the good little man Wulfrith has taught you to be and see me out of these filthy clothes.”
Suppressing a groan, she started toward the bed. “I shall first turn back the covers.”
“You shall first undress me!”
She met his fiery gaze. “Aye, my lord.”
She would start with his boots. Though she had yet to perform such service, it was surely the place to begin, especially as he looked to have no intention of prying himself out of the chair.
When she tugged off the first boot, a sour odor assailed her and she dipped her head to conceal a grimace. The second boot proved as base.
“You have not been long at Wulfen, have you?” Lavonne asked.
She set the boots before the brazier to dry. “A sennight, my lord.”
“I am given a squire with but a sennight’s training?” He pushed on the arms of the chair as if to lever up, but immediately collapsed.
Annyn stood. “I am sure Lord Wulfrith’s choice was not meant to offend,” she rushed to defend a man who could well defend himself. “I vow, Lord Lavonne, I am capable—”
“Enough!” Glowering as if he were a child refused a sweet, he turned his face to the brazier and muttered, “Never was I worthy enough.”
“My lord?”
“Leave me!”
Annyn hastened to the door lest he call her back. There, she glanced behind.
Lavonne’s head hung on his chest, but not in sorrow. He was no longer conscious.
In the corridor, she spread her pallet and, as she did each night, removed only her boots. However, no sooner did she settle a shoulder to her pallet than the light at the end of the corridor tempted her. The flicker of candlelight shone not only from beneath the doors of the chapel, but the seam where the two doors did not quite meet. Someone had entered.
She tossed the blanket aside and padded to the chapel to peer through the narrow opening between the doors.
It was Wulfrith. Silver head bowed, he knelt before the altar. Seeing the proud warrior humbled made new doubt ripple through her and caused the vow she had made Rowan to stagger. She should not be here.
Feeling a presence at his back, Garr opened his eyes. Braose? Though fairly certain it was the young man whose pallet he had seen alongside Lavonne’s chamber minutes earlier, he flexed his prayerful fingers in anticipation of bringing his dagger to hand. This night, men who would become his enemies if he did not join them were within and without his walls.
A moment later, he caught the sound of retreat and lifted his head. “Why do you come to my back?” He settled his gaze on the relics upon the altar.
The door whispered wider and the young man answered, “’Tis I, my lord, Jame Braose.”
Garr eased his mind from the dagger. “Come within.”
“It is late. I—”
“Lesson three!”
“Act when told to act,” he begrudged. A few moments later, he stood beside Garr.
“I have another lesson for you, Braose.”
“My lord?”
“Thirteen: be quick to show respect in the house of the Lord.”
Though Braose was surely groaning inside, he dropped to his knees.
Garr closed his eyes and returned to his prayers.
“My lord?”
Gripping patience, Garr looked to the young man.
“For what do you pray?”
For more than he could tell. Three hours he had spent with Lavonne as the man droned on about England’s heir and what would be required of the Wulfriths in Henry’s England. Through it, all Garr could think was what a pity it was that Henry did not better choose men to speak for him. But why was Braose so forward? “Why do you ask?”
The young man looked to his clasped hands. “I am never certain what to pray for, especially as it seems that all I ask for is denied me.”
“Do you not ask that Henry be king?”
The young man’s head snapped up, and there was no mistaking the fear in his pale blue eyes, fleeting though it was. “You do not know that is what I ask.”
“But I do.” Garr smiled derisively. “In sending you to me, no doubt your father thinks to turn you to Stephen’s side.”
Braose looked to the altar, and the silence grew until, finally, he conceded, “Can you turn me to Stephen?”
Garr studied his profile—a pretty one that, hopefully, would become masculine with maturity. He frowned. What was it about Braose that continued to niggle at him? Strangely, the answer felt within reach, as if it might be unveiled if only Garr would take hold of it.
Braose met Garr’s gaze. “Can you, my lord?”
If only he could read the young man’s eyes, but they remained largely closed to him. Still, one thing was clear. Garr shook his head. “Henry is strong in you. But others have turned. Not that it is expected. If it happens, so be it and the father is either well-pleased or greatly displeased. Regardless, he has a son worthy to administer and defend his lands.”
“You say you do not try to turn them?”
“What is lesson ten, Braose?”
“Let no man make your way for you.”
“Aye. Those who leave Wulfen would not be worthy of knighthood if they allowed another to choose their allegiance.”
After a long moment, Braose said, “You have not told me what you pray for, my lord.”
Garr returned his regard to the altar where he came when troubled. Here he sought answers as his mother had first taught him to do. “I pray for England, young Jame. I pray for all that is best for our land. I pray it once more prosper and war be buried with the dead.”
“And you think Stephen and Eustace are best for England?”
How bold he was! But rather than rebuke him, Garr said, “Though loyalty holds me to Stephen, naught could hold me to his son.”
Surprise rose in Braose’s eyes. “For what have you to be loyal, my lord?”
Aye, for what, especially now that there was Eustace? It was the same Garr had asked himself time over, and always the answer was, “Stephen saved my father’s life when they were young men. My father vowed ever to be his man.”
“Then ’tis for him, a ghost, that you remain loyal to Stephen.” Braose shook his head. “What of lesson ten: let no man make your way for you?”
Garr’s anger pricked. “’Tis not only loyalty that holds me to Stephen. He is a good man—at times weak, but good.”
“Not good enough for England.”
His anger surged. “When he took the crown there was none better, only that blustering Maude. In her hands, England’s present suffering would be ten-fold.”
“Even so, now there is someone better, England’s rightful heir. But still you will let another make your choice.”
Garr’s anger snapped, violating the first lesson his father had taught him. “Enough!” He surged to his feet. “I shall not allow a whelp to speak politics to me!”
Braose rose. Though uncertainty flickered in his eyes and caused him to clasp his hands before him, still he dared. “You are right, my lord. Far better to listen to a ghost than a lowly squire.”
Garr clenched his hands as he warred with emotions that a man should never allow to consume him. But there was so much fuel for them: the meeting with Lavonne, the knowledge that what the arrogant man spoke was true, the realization that loyalty had no place in determining England’s future, that this land would soon boast another king.
Garr swung away. “I do not know what makes me allow you what I allow no other.”
“Mayhap ’tis because I speak true, my lord. Henry will be king.”
Garr swept his gaze to the doors at the rear of the chapel. “Aye,” he begrudged. “It seems that all you ask for when you go to prayer is not denied after all.” He looked over his shoulder.
The young man frowned, then blushed. “So it seems, my lord.”
“Good eve.”
As Annyn watched Wulfrith pass through the door, she laid a hand between her bound breasts and wondered at the ache in her heart. She hurt for Wulfrith’s struggle.
He is responsible for Jonas’s death!
She shook her head. “I am getting too near him to see clearly,” she whispered. And suddenly she knew. It must be done this night or it would not be done at all.
