The Unveiling - Tamara Leigh (rooftoppers TXT) 📗

wine, nearly all feigned an interest in something or someone else.

“You are much improved, my lady?” Sir Merrick asked as she scooted her spoon around the trencher.

She nabbed a piece of venison. “I am. How do you fare, Sir Merrick?”

“Well.”

And yet the deep shadows beneath his eyes told otherwise. As he searched out the trencher, she wondered how best to broach the subject of Jonas. Straight on. “Did you kindly regard my brother, Sir Merrick?”

His spoon paused above the trencher.

“Ah, you did not.” Hopefully, that would move him.

He lowered his spoon. “Aye, I did. We squired together under Lord Wulfrith.”

She forced herself to dip her spoon again. “Then you were at Lincolnshire with him.”

“Why do you ask, Lady Annyn?”

She met his gaze. “That I might know how he died.”

He returned his attention to the trencher.

“Do you know, Sir Merrick?”

“Lord Wulfrith did not do it,” he finally spoke.

She laid a hand on his arm. “Nor did Jonas.”

“In that you are right.”

He knew! She waited for the rest, to finally learn who had murdered her brother, but he resumed his search of the trencher.

Annyn gripped his arm. “Will you tell me?”

“I cannot tell what I do not know, Lady Annyn.”

“But you said—”

“I did, but that is all I have to tell.” He took another bite of stew before returning his gaze to her. “As Lord Wulfrith is not one to murder, neither was your brother one to take his own life. One need not have been present at the hanging to know that.”

There had to be more.

He looked past her and frowned. “Lord Wulfrith does not like your hand upon me, my lady. Pray, spare me his jealousy and remove it.”

Annyn looked into Garr’s fierce eyes where he sat half a dozen up from her. Was it jealousy that shone from him? Jealousy when he did not want her?

“Lady Annyn?” Sir Merrick reminded her of her hand.

She looked back around. “May we speak again?”

“I shall be leaving soon.”

Then he was returning to Wulfen. “Before you leave?”

“Perhaps, though there is naught more to tell.”

Feeling as if she released a lifeline, Annyn drew her hand from him.

Garr stared. He did not like it, especially the unsettling emotion it caused to beat within his breast. Of what had the two spoken that Annyn thought to lay her hand on Merrick? What required that her head be so near his? He did not like it at all. She should have remained abovestairs where it was easier to clear his mind of her, but she had come down with her chin up and Gaenor’s bliaut sweeping curves his hands remembered.

He tightened his hold on his meat dagger. There was something about Annyn Bretanne that stuck to him and would not be brushed off. He wanted to slide his fingers through silken strands so black they knew no sliver of moon and teach her soft mouth to give as it took.

By faith! I lust! And for a woman promised to another. Once more reminded of Duke Henry’s demands, he ground his teeth. Though the first demand was decided, all three were required.

He rose and, when those in the hall looked up with dismay at the possibility their meal was at an end, said, “Continue.” Ignoring his mother’s gaze as he strode past her, he glanced again at Annyn and Merrick. There was little space between them, but he was pleased to see they no longer conversed.

Though Annyn’s back stiffened when he passed behind her, she did not look around, and for that he was grateful. He was uncomfortable enough without having her blue eyes further stir him.

He crossed the hall, ascended the stairs, and entered the chapel.

Annyn longed for her chamber, but she knew she would find no escape there from Rowan’s revelations though she endeavored to lay them at God’s feet. Too, neither would she find insight into what Sir Merrick would not reveal. Thus, she forced herself to remain seated on the bench before the hearth in hopes that Sir Merrick might free himself from the men who had gathered to boast of swords and destriers. Would he ever? And what of Garr? Might he return to the hall?

She looked to Lady Isobel who sat opposite with a daughter on either side. Though the woman had been somewhat abrupt this evening, doubtless due to the deception worked on Josse, she persisted in her attempt to pull Annyn into a discussion. But Annyn knew little of needlework to which the three Wulfriths applied themselves. She had always found hunting and weapons more interesting. Not that she couldn’t run a stitch to cloth. Or could she? It had been so long.

“You are sure you would not like to work a piece of cloth, Lady Annyn?” Lady Isobel offered again, the foreign lilt of her voice soothing.

And enjoy herself as much as they? Truly, none of them appeared to delight in the task of plying needle and thread. It had to be something they did because it was expected—while men enjoyed themselves.

Annyn shook her head. “Needlework is the lesser of my talents.”

Gaenor’s head came up from the sleeve of a bliaut to which she applied flowers and vining leaves. “What are the greater of your talents, my lady?”

Her mockery made a fine point on the air, causing Beatrix to giggle. “I hear, Sister”—she grinned—“’tis the things of men at which she excels.” She slid her gaze to Annyn. “Is that not so, my lady?”

“Beatrix!” Lady Isobel admonished.

Though touched with embarrassment, Annyn told herself it was not for her to feel. She had been wrong in avenging Jonas, but at least her life had more purpose than poking and prodding a needle, tugging and jerking a thread, and suffering snags and snarled stitches. She smiled. “Most assuredly, Lady Beatrix.”

Disappointment at missing her mark caused the young woman’s pretty mouth to slouch.

“Then we make for poor company, Lady Annyn?” Gaenor tried again. “No doubt you would prefer the talk of men to the gaggle of women over needles.”

True.

“That is enough!” Color suffused Lady Isobel’s face.

Her older daughter lowered her gaze and shifted her graceless figure on the bench.

Though stung by Gaenor’s attempt to humiliate, Annyn took pity on the young woman who reminded her of herself of years past. Still, there was promise in Garr’s sister. Given a few more years, she could be most becoming—if she ceased stooping her shoulders in an attempt to subtract from her height and smiled rather than scowled.

“Actually,” Annyn said, “what I would prefer is a game of dice.”

A snort sounded from where Squire Samuel stood at her back, but it did not compare to Lady Isobel’s wide-eyed dismay. “Dice, Lady Annyn?”

Realizing she had delivered Gaenor from her mother’s wrath only to turn it on herself, Annyn regretted her choice for lightening the mood. Of course, she did like dicing, a game Uncle had taught her, though he had muttered over and again that he should not. It was one thing for a man to play the “sinful” game in opposition to the preachings of the Church, but far another for a woman to do so.

Annyn knew it would be best to say she jested but she decided against retreat. Decried for having disguised herself as Jame Braose, then Josse, henceforth she would simply be herself. And Lady Annyn Bretanne of the Barony of Aillil liked the casting of dice.  “Aye, Lady Isobel, dice—also known as God’s game.”

“God’s game?” Gaenor and Beatrix exclaimed.

Isobel dropped her needlework. “Surely I did not hear what I think I did.”

Annyn sat forward. “Does not chance belong to Providence, my lady?”

Garr’s mother seemed to consider it but shook her head. “I shall not abide this talk of dice being of God.”

What was it Uncle had used to quiet his own conscience? “But surely you know from Bible readings that the Apostles cast lots to select the successor to Judas?”

Again, her words gave Lady Isobel pause, and again the woman shook her head. “The choice of a successor is far different from the wagering of coin that all know to be the daily ruin of nobles and villeins.”

“On that I agree, but coin does not need to be wagered to enjoy the game. Indeed, many times I have played for the plumpest apple, the sweetest tart”—she eyed the needlework in Gaenor’s lap—“so that another would undertake the task of sewing and mending.”

Like a torch brought to darkness, Gaenor brightened and, in that moment, fulfilled some of the promise of the woman she would become. “Tell, Lady Annyn, how is dice played?”

“Gaenor!” Lady Isobel protested.

Lest the young woman’s light blow out, Annyn stood. “Why tell you when I can more easily show you?”

“What?” Lady Isobel shrilled.

Putting all from her—Jonas, Garr, Rowan, the loom of Duke Henry and Lavonne—vowing this night she would find some enjoyment, Annyn smiled at Squire Samuel as she stepped around him.

“I require three dice,” she announced as she advanced on the dozen men gathered before the dais.

Their ranks parting, they stared disbelievingly at her.

Annyn looked from one to the next. She skipped over Sir Merrick, Squires Charles and Warren, and paused on Garr’s brother. “Surely you carry dice, Sir Abel.”

“Surely he does not,” Lady Isobel said. “There is no gambling at Stern.”

Men were men regardless of the rules, and something told her Sir Abel was far from the exception. As Garr’s mother drew alongside, Annyn looked to Abel’s belt. “Kindly open your purse, Sir Abel, and lend me your dice.”

All around, it was so still she thought she heard the color spot his cheeks, but he spread his purse strings.

“Abel!” his mother rebuked.

He smiled apologetically. “Surely you do not mistake me for your eldest son, Mother.” He picked three dice from his purse that likely held a total of six to play the other games of dice.

“Thank you,” Annyn said when he dropped them in her palm. She returned to the hearth where Gaenor and Beatrix were failing in their attempt to look less than eager. “Now what shall you wager your sister, Lady Gaenor?”

The young woman’s gaze went to where her mother surely shone her disapproval, but at least Lady Isobel was not calling a halt to it. Because she was also curious?

“Tell, Lady Gaenor,” Annyn prompted.

She looked to Beatrix. “If I win, you shall finish my embroidery. If you win, I shall set the sleeve of your chainse.”

It hardly seemed a fair wager, but Beatrix proved shrewd. “Both sleeves and the hem.”

“You agree, Lady Gaenor?” Annyn asked.

“Aye.”

“Then let us try a few casts.” Annyn cleared the rushes. “We shall begin with a game called raffle. The winner is the one whose dice—all three—land alike.”

“All three?” Beatrix exclaimed.

Annyn waved the sisters forward. “It may take some time, but it makes for excitement.”

Thus, with Lady Isobel and the men looking on, Garr’s sisters first cast lots.

He would not have believed it had he not come upon it himself. But there it was—dice played at Stern—and presiding over it was Annyn Bretanne. On her knees before the hearth, surrounded by a score of men and women that included Garr’s mother and sisters, she scooped the dice from the floor and looked to Squire Charles who rested on his haunches across from her.

“They roll best if you blow on them.” She cupped her hands to her mouth and blew while those all around chuckled. Even Lady Isobel allowed a small smile.

Though outrage was Garr’s first reaction to this violation of his family home,