The Unveiling - Tamara Leigh (rooftoppers TXT) 📗

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