The Unveiling - Tamara Leigh (rooftoppers TXT) 📗

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.

CHAPTER EIGHT

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