TAMARA LEIGH NOVELS - Book One in the Age of Faith series
Chapter 9
Squire Samuel slept. Had he also been instructed to sleep lightly?
Feeling the weight of the blood coursing through her, Annyn slipped behind the curtain and into near darkness. As expected, the two hours since midnight had doused the torchlight within. Still, the narrow slits on either side of Wulfrith’s bed allowed the moon’s clouded light to penetrate the oilcloths, but only enough to differentiate between shades of black.
Annyn gripped the misericorde tighter and told herself she could do what needed to be done. Stay left to avoid Squire Warren who sleeps right, she recited, a dozen steps to the foot of the bed, four more to the head, a single sweep of the blade.
Standing just inside the solar, she strained for sounds of sleep from Wulfrith and his squire.
There was one breath, deep and softly snoring, but the other could not be heard. Likely, the former was too loud. That must be it.
She peered through the dark and picked out Wulfrith’s figure in the center of the bed.
Be done with it! For Jonas, for Rowan, for you!
As she put a foot forward, chill bumps coursed her arms and legs.
No different from stalking a deer.
But there was no place to hide, no oaks to peer out from behind, and if she was seen, Wulfrith would not simply bound away. Indeed, it might be her blood that choked the mattress. And would she truly know peace if he died by her hand? Though in that moment she knew she would not, it had to be done.
And if ’twas not he who put the noose to Jonas? her conscience protested.
Even so, he is responsible! Why else would he lie about Jonas’s death?
As her inner voices warred, Annyn measured her footfalls across the solar, grateful the rushes were so fresh they did not snap and rustle. It also helped that she had left her boots abovestairs, her hose better serving to muffle her movements.
Mouth and throat as dry as parchment, she halted alongside the bed and looked upon Wulfrith’s dark figure. The pale of his silver hair showed where his head lay. And drew a clear path to his neck.
She had but to lean forward, make a sweep of it, and be gone. Far from here. Far from Lillia. Far from Henry’s plan to make of her mere chattel.
Though she longed to swallow hard, Annyn denied the lump in her throat lest it awaken Wulfrith. Hand quavering, she began to raise the misericorde above the man who did not fit a murderer...who had given her salve for her hand...who had not beat and humiliated her when she spilled wine on him...who had not berated her for tears shed over a fallen deer...who sought God even when no one was watching...who prayed for what was best for England...
He killed your brother!
Jonas...
Vengeance is not yours, Annyn. Vengeance belongs to God. You must defer to Him.
She struggled a moment longer, then stifled a whimper. She could not take another’s life.
Strangely, it felt as if a burden was lifted from her. Shoulders slumping, she silently beseeched, Lord, forgive me. Pray, forgive me.
Knowing she must leave Wulfen Castle this night, she lowered her hand that held the misericorde.
In the next instant, steel slammed around her wrist.
Clamping her teeth to keep from crying out, she strained back. Wulfrith tightened his grip, causing her fingers to spasm and release the misericorde. Then he dragged her forward.
Behind, Annyn heard Squire Warren’s startled voice, though what he spoke as he lurched up from the floor and what Wulfrith answered, she could not have said.
Desperate, she dipped her head and bit the hand that held her.
“Lord!” Wulfrith bellowed.
It was only a slight loosening, but enough to slip her small hand free. Annyn jumped back and felt the brush of Wulfrith’s fingers over her arm as he thrust up from the mattress. She spun about and made it across the solar only to meet with Squire Samuel’s entrance.
God must have forgiven her for what she had not done, for He gave her wings. She darted left, evaded both squires, and pushed through the curtains.
The fray in the solar having awakened those in the hall, most had risen from their pallets to search out the cause. Fortunately, it was to Annyn’s advantage. As the weak torches threw too little light to identify her, and the young men were muddled by the unexpected awakening, she slipped unnoticed among them as Squires Warren and Samuel came through the curtain. But she could not stay here when she was to have spent the night abovestairs.
“Our lord has been set upon!” Squire Warren shouted. “The knave is among you!”
Annyn pushed on, praying the torches would not be lit prior to her reaching the stairs and she could make it to her pallet before those who kept chambers above rushed down to the hall.
She made it past the others and, at the stairs, glanced over her shoulder. There was still not enough light to put faces to any, but she knew it was Wulfrith who had come out of the solar. Though she allowed herself only the one glance before taking the stairs two at a time, she was struck by his stance. It lacked urgency, as if he had not come near death, as if he knew his assailant, as if he knew where to find him—rather, her.
Voices above, followed by the thump of feet, halted Annyn’s ascent. Willing her heart to stay in her chest, she swung around and descended the stairs in hopes of appearing to have made it down ahead of the others.
Staring out across the darkened hall, Garr ran a finger over the impressions in the back of his hand and, when the torches rose to flame, lowered his gaze. Teeth. Not a warrior’s weapon. Indeed, those trained to knighthood would first use a fist or draw another dagger. Unfortunately, that expectation had caught him unaware and allowed his assailant to escape.
Berating himself for the error, he narrowed his gaze on the marks. Small, even teeth, as of a young page, which did not surprise him, for the figure had lacked stature.
Amid the clamor of the hall, he turned his hand and opened his fingers to reveal the dagger meant to sever his life. And stopped breathing.
He swept his gaze to the pommel where crimson jewels were embedded to form a cross. It was a ceremonial dagger awarded only to those knighted at Wulfen—excepting one who should never have been given the honor. But he was dead.
So to whom did this misericorde belong? Of those present, only Garr’s brothers, Wulfen’s knights, and Lavonne possessed one. Though the latter was most likely responsible for the attack, it was certainly not he who had brandished the weapon. Of course, some of the young men here had fathers knighted by Garr’s father, Drogo, grandfathers knighted by Garr’s grandfather, and further back.
What irony if he had been felled by a Wulfen dagger! Not that there had been any possibility of that, for he had heard his assailant enter the solar. He had lain unmoving, feigning a soft snore to coax the young man near. If not for those vicious teeth, this moment he would have the miscreant at his feet. But there would be no escape for him.
Looking out across the hall, Garr wondered which of the young men’s heart beat with fear. Whose brow perspired? Hands trembled? Who had so strongly stood the side of Henry that he would murder for the man who would be king?
“You are well, Brother?” Abel asked as he and Everard gained Garr’s side, both wearing skewed tunics donned in haste.
Garr searched those in the hall. The one who captured and held his gaze was Lavonne where he stood near the stairs, a knight on either side. The baron’s clothes were rumpled as if he had slept in them, face red-nosed and squint-eyed. However, his only surprise at being awakened so early was surely that it was not for the reason expected—to look upon the death of the one who had trained him to knighthood. So which of these young men had he set to do the deed?
Garr tightened his robe and stepped to the edge of the dais. “Silence!”
All turned to him.
He contemplated each, many of whom had teeth so crooked they were easily eliminated along with those too tall and stout. He paused on Braose where the young man stood not far from Lavonne. As was known to be his preference when he settled on his pallet, he was fully clothed, unlike the other squires and pages who either hugged blankets about themselves or had hastily donned tunics.
Might it have been Braose? Garr held the young man’s gaze. Not only was he small of stature, but he was Henry’s side. Too, this eve he had squired for Lavonne. But behind those unreadable eyes, could he murder? Remembering the deer in the wood, the tears in Braose’s eyes when he looked upon the slain animal, Garr concluded it was not possible. Braose could hardly kill, let alone murder.
Garr considered the next squire, but dismissed the young man who was not only tall, but lacking a front tooth. Still, among the many were possibilities, and one belonged to the misericorde.
Garr raised the weapon and stepped forward. “To whom does this belong?”
There was interest, but no one claimed it. Not that Garr expected his assailant to reveal himself. Fortunately, there was a way he might draw the young man out, providing he had any honor about him.
Garr descended the dais and strode through the rift that opened before him as the young men stepped aside. He passed Braose, halted before his guest, and lifted the misericorde. “You recognize this, Lavonne?”
The man’s brow puckered. “Why do you ask?”
“You know this dagger?”
“Of course I do. ’Tis the same as you gave me the day of my knighting, the same given to all knighted at Wulfen.”
Garr held out his other hand. “I would see yours.”
The baron sputtered. “You think I carry it on my person?”
“No longer, for this night you gave it to another to put through me.”
As outrage darkened Lavonne’s face, the baron’s knights on either side set hands to their swords.
“I would not,” Everard spoke in a deep rumble. He, Abel, and Sir Merrick had slipped behind Lavonne and his men. Swords drawn, they stood ready.
“What is this?” Lavonne demanded. “You think me so fool as to try to kill you whilst I lie beneath your roof?”
“I do.”
Lavonne glanced left and right. “Upon my word, this night I did not seek your death.”
Though Garr detected no lie in the baron’s eyes, he doubted his judgment as he had done many times since Jonas—
He did not want to think there. Meeting Everard’s waiting gaze, he nodded.
Everard laid the edge of his sword to Lavonne’s throat. The man’s knights were helpless to aid him as Abel and Sir Merrick were too soon upon them.
Fear peeling away arrogance, the baron demanded, “What do you intend?”
Very soon they would know whether or not the assailant had honor. Garr slid the misericorde beneath the belt of his robe, folded his arms over his chest, and considered the man before him long enough to cause a sheen of perspiration to form on Lavonne’s upper lip. “What I intend is to return you to Henry on the morrow, drawn and quartered.”
Behind, a sharply drawn breath rose above the murmurs of pages and squires. Braose?
“You would not dare!” Lavonne roared.
Garr waited for the assailant to drag honor from fear, but when he did not, nodded. “I would. After we hang you.”
“Nay!” Braose cried in a voice pitched higher than Garr had ever heard it. “’Twas not he.”
Disgusted at having been so blind, angered that he should be so betrayed as he had vowed never to be again, Garr strode to the young man who stood with chin high and hands clenched at his sides. “It seems the baron shall not be alone in paying the wages of treachery.”
Braose swallowed, and when he spoke his voice was hardly familiar—husky, but lacking depth. “He has done naught to warrant your vengeance. ’Twas I and no other.”
“See now!” Lavonne yelped. “I demand recompense for the injustice done me!”
Garr could almost believe Braose was alone in this. Ignoring the baron, he pulled the misericorde from his belt and thrust it before the young man’s face. “Is this not Lavonne’s?”
“Nay, it belonged to my brother.”
His brother... Something about the young man’s voice and the accusation in his eyes wrenched Garr far from Wulfen.
It could not be. He looked again to the misericorde, turned it, and found the initials that, newly knighted, he had scratched into the blade beneath the hilt: G.W.
It was. The filthy urchin who had so hated him with her eyes, who had marked him with her nails, and now her teeth, had become a woman.
Anger coursed through Garr, once more testing the first lesson his father had taught him. Before he could dam the emotion, it flooded him and he caught the front of his assailant’s tunic. Staring into her startled blue eyes, he slashed the dagger down through the material.
A cry parted bowed lips and showed straight, even teeth.
Garr stared at the bindings revealed between the edges of the rent tunic. And he was not the only one to see the truth of Jame Braose.
Amid shock that parted mouths and put tongues to voices, Garr returned to the face he had never truly seen. A pretty face. The face of a woman, and one whose chin did not fall, whose eyes were wide with an anger that challenged his own.
He dragged her near. Not until her face was inches from his, and no less defiant, did the full impact of her presence hit him. A woman within Wulfen’s walls where there had never been one. A woman! And one not unknown to him.
Were I a man, I would kill you. Were I a man...
Garr put his face nearer hers and dared her to hold his gaze. Though something flickered in her eyes—fear, he thought, though with women one could not be certain—she did not look away.
“A woman at Wulfen!” Lavonne jeered. “Tell, Lord Wulfrith, who is this foul creature who has made a fool of you?”
Still Garr waited for her to look away. “The lady’s name is Annyn Bretanne.”
Despite the unveiling, she did not even blink.
Lavonne choked, spluttered, and demanded, “What do you say?”
“This is Lady Annyn Bretanne of Aillil,” Garr repeated, the hand with which he held her aching to batter flesh and bone. Praying Lavonne would give him a reason to turn his anger from the woman to whom he could not put a fist, he looked to the baron.
The horror in Lavonne’s eyes turned to rage. “Unhand the termagant!” From the color that rose on his face and the spasming of his right eye, he did not demand the Bretanne woman’s release that he might offer her his protection. “Unhand her I say!”
Garr twisted her tunic in his fist, bringing her so near he could feel her breath on his jaw. “She is my prisoner.”
“Nay, she is my...” Lavonne drew a rattled breath. “...betrothed.”
The grudging pronouncement stunned Garr, as it also seemed to stun the woman who gasped and breathed, “Nay.”
“This termagant,” Garr bit, “the same who tried to murder me, is to be your wife?”
Lavonne raised his seething gaze. “By order of Duke Henry. But do not think I knew what she intended, for until this hour she was unknown to me. Nine days past she and her man, Rowan, fled Castle Lillia. None knew she was destined for Wulfen, and certainly none knew she had donned men’s clothes to pretend herself a man.”
Though Garr was unconvinced Lavonne was blameless, for the moment he was done with him. He looked to Everard, Abel, and Sir Merrick, and momentarily wondered at the unease wreathing the latter’s face. Did his breath trouble him again?
“Clear the hall!” Garr shouted. He would have none lend an ear to his dealings with the Bretanne woman. He dragged her toward the dais.
“Lord Wulfrith,” Lavonne called, “I demand—”
“Remove the baron!” Garr shouted over his shoulder.
Despite Lavonne’s protests, his voice quickly faded from the hall.
Garr pulled the woman around the high table, thrust the curtain aside, and propelled her ahead of him into the solar. If not for the table she stumbled against, she might have lost her footing. He almost wished she had. Such anger he felt to once more know betrayal at the hands of a Bretanne!
Annyn returned the stare of the man whose death she had denied herself. Now it was surely she who would die, for regardless that Henry had promised her to the detestable Lavonne, Wulfrith would not deny himself.
Though fear made her long to clutch her tunic closed, she found strength in knowing her destiny. Laying her hands flat on the table behind, she raised her chin.
Still holding the misericorde that had waited four years to bleed him, Wulfrith strode toward her.
Annyn steeled herself for his assault.
He halted before her. Eyes so cold it was as if an icy wind swept the solar, he slid the misericorde beneath his belt. “You have made a fool of me, Annyn Bretanne.”
Though she longed to sidestep and put the room between them, she stretched her chin higher. “I would think you pleased that I did not make a corpse of you.”
A muscle in his jaw leapt, but the anger that had pulsed from him in the hall had diminished as if he were gaining control of it. “Were you a man, you would kill me, hmm?” he repeated the threat she had made upon seeing Jonas laid out at Lillia.
She squeezed the table edge. “It is what I said. It is what I meant.” But what I could not do. Did he know? As no sooner had she forsaken her vow to Rowan than Wulfrith had seized her, she could not be certain. “My brother’s death was no mishap as you told—as you lied. He was murdered.” She gave a short, bitter laugh. “Did you truly believe the rope burns around his neck would go undiscovered?”
Wulfrith’s jaw strained, his only reaction to learning she knew the truth.
“Honorable death!” Were she a man, she would spit.
“I kill when ’tis necessary to defend home, land, and my people,” Wulfrith growled, “but I am no murderer. No innocents fall to my sword.”
“Do they not? You were ready to hang, draw, and quarter Lavonne!”
He smiled grimly. “Was I?”
Had his threat to the baron been only that—meant to reveal the one whom Wulfrith believed Lavonne had enlisted?
“In one thing you are right,” Wulfrith conceded. “Your brother’s death was not honorable. Forsooth, ’twas most dishonorable.”
The admission, could it be called that, took Annyn’s breath. She waited for more, but he strode to the cool brazier.
“How dishonorable?”
He looked around. “Where is Jame Braose?”
Then he would not tell her of Jonas’s death. Very well. Murder was murder regardless how it was done. Still, to know...
“Did you and your man Rowan, whom I presume is the one who calls himself Sir Killary, murder him?”
“Murder!” Annyn pushed off the table. “I am no mur—” She lowered her gaze. From what had passed this night, he would believe her capable of murder. He need never know of her failing.
She met his gaze. “Jame Braose is at Castle Lillia where he was brought after Duke Henry captured him and his escort. I took his name and place. That is all.”
Wulfrith traversed the solar and once more placed himself over her. “Nay, Annyn Bretanne, that is not all.”
Though he seemed to have gained control of his emotions, still there was anger in him, anger for her daring to enter a place forbidden to women, for disguising herself as a man, for the dagger that had sought his blood, for the fool she had made of him. Would her death satisfy?
“Is my fate to be the same as my brother’s? Will you hang me?”
She heard his teeth snap and would have looked away if not that her fate could be no worse than that which she had already accepted. However, she was unprepared when his large hands settled around her neck, causing a small cry to burst from her.
With his thumbs, he pressed her chin higher. “Though ’twould be within my rights to put you to the noose and none would call it murder, there are better means of punishment.”
Why could she not breathe when his hands were not so tight as to prevent it? Though she swallowed, still she could not open her throat.
“’Twas Rowan in the wood, was it not?” he asked.
Sliced by fear for the man who had stood by her when there was no other, she lowered her gaze so Wulfrith would not see her weakness. Glimpsing his chest revealed between the edges of his robe, she looked lower and lit upon the misericorde. It was within reach.
“You wish to try again?” Wulfrith challenged. “To fail again?”
She hated him for knowing the course of her thoughts.
“Aye,” he said, “it was Rowan in the wood, though what I do not understand is why you did not turn the arrow on me.”
Finally, breath stuttered through her. Defiance all that held her head above fear, she said, “I should have.”
Slowly—purposefully—he drew his thumbs downward, but did not stop at the base of her throat. Hands splaying her collarbone, he continued to the upper edge of her bindings and hooked his thumbs beneath.
Would he tear them from her? Make her suffer greater humiliation than when he had revealed her in the hall? Ravish her? This last jolted, for she could not believe it was something he would do.
Poltroon! shrilled the darkness within. If he could murder, he could violate. Still, she remembered the chapel and the man on his knees praying for England. Could that man murder? Ravish?
The uncertainty, the warring between past and present, and her body’s response to his touch, made her long to scream.
“I shall find this Rowan,” Wulfrith broke through her turmoil.
So few words for so great a threat! For her, Rowan had sacrificed his allegiance to Henry. And now, perhaps, his life. She would rather die ten times than have him suffer for her ills.
“He has done naught. Though I convinced him to assume the person of Sir Killary, still I would have come had he not agreed. He did it to protect me.”
“Protect you?” Wulfrith dropped his hands from her. He turned, put a stride between them, and came back around. “Where is he now that you are in need of protection—dire need of protection?” He pointed to the outside wall of the solar. “He cowers in yon wood waiting for you to murder a man he also wishes dead.”
He did not know that. Did he?
“I am right, hmm?”
Annyn took an entreating step forward. “Pray, do not—”
“You are lovers?”
She drew a sharp breath. Truly Wulfrith must think her base to believe such when he, her enemy, had been more intimate with her than any. Of course he could not know his was the first man’s body she had seen unclothed. “Rowan should not be made to answer for what I did. Pray—”
“Pray! Aye, that you should do. And do not stop ’til you’ve no more breath.”
Then there was nothing she could say or do. Her revenge was now his and he would not turn from it.
Annyn stiffened her spine and crossed her arms over her chest. “I have naught else to say to you.”
“That is good, but there is one thing more I need to know.” He came to her again. “Raise your arms.”
“For what?”
He stepped nearer and slid his hands beneath her arms and down her sides.
Annyn strained away, but he gripped her sides.
“What are you doing?” she demanded.
“Have you more weapons?”
“Only my teeth.”
His lips thinned, but rather than speak the words surely on his tongue, he continued his search. Less gentle, though still impersonal, his hands at her waist caused the fine hairs along her limbs to stand erect. And when he ventured up again, one hand curving around to her back, the other passing over her belly, she tried again to evade him.
He placed a hand against her lower ribs and sought her gaze.
“I have no more weapons,” she said through clenched teeth.
His hard eyes did not believe her. “If you wish me to spare you further humiliation, you will remain still.” He dropped to his haunches, turned a hand around each ankle, and slid upward.
Trying to put her mind anywhere but here, Annyn looked to the ceiling.
He felt her calves, her knees, her thighs. She trembled. He swept her hips, brushed the hose tucked in her braies. She shuddered.
“Hose?” he rumbled.
“Aye.” She steeled herself for further degradation, but he straightened and swung away.
“We leave within the hour.”
She felt as if dashed with chill water. “Leave?”
He halted before the curtains. “I will not have Wulfen further befouled by a woman.”
As if women were all the ill of the world when they were the life and breath of it as her mother had told. “Where are you taking me?”
“Away.” He swept the curtain aside. “All of Wulfen is known to me, Annyn Bretanne,” he warned, then strode from the solar.
Leaning back against the table, she dropped her chin to her chest. She had failed, and now punishment would be hers. Unless...
Though there was no escaping Wulfen, once they left she might find an opportunity. But if she escaped Wulfrith, where would she go?
She shook her head. Later she would worry on it. If later came.
