The Unveiling - Tamara Leigh (rooftoppers TXT) 📗

know. His nearness and words making it difficult to breathe, she gulped another breath. “Are we, my lord?” I sound like a poltroon!

“Aye, Jame Braose, you war with me. As if I have wronged you.”

He saw too much. “Wronged me, my lord? How can that be?”

His smile was full of falsehood. “I know not, but I shall.”

When a dagger was the end of him.

“Remove your belt and get to Sir Merrick.”

Swept with relief when he strode away, Annyn looked to where Sir Merrick led his squires in the thrusting of swords.

“Squire Jame,” Wulfrith called.

Ordering her countenance, she looked over her shoulder. “My lord?”

“How do you know my soul is black?”

Annyn nearly convulsed. How did he know what she believed of his soul? She had not— Aye, when she had run the wood, unaware Wulfrith was her beacon, she had cursed him. But had she truly spoken aloud?

She shrugged. “’Twould seem only one with a black soul would make young men awaken ere the sun’s rise, don weighted belts, and seek an obstructed path through the darkness...my lord.”

“Indeed.”

This time, Annyn indulged in relief only when he was gone from sight. Blowing a breath up her brow, she reached to the belt and unfastened it.

“Braose!” Sir Merrick called.

She hastened to the cart and dropped the belt atop the others. When she turned, the knight was before her.

“You nearly earned my wrath,” he said.

But she had not disappointed as he had warned against. “I am aware of that, my lord.”

He turned on his heel. “Come, we are at swords.”

Annyn followed. Though the five squires who served and trained beneath Sir Merrick said nothing, she felt their vexation long before she stood in their midst. For her mistake, they had nearly been punished. Fortunately, she did not require their acceptance. She was at Wulfen for one reason only.

CHAPTER SEVEN

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