The Unveiling - Tamara Leigh (rooftoppers TXT) 📗

would choose to make of her mere chattel—a possession, a servant who directed servants, a body for spilling a man’s lust, a womb for breeding. It was all she would become to one of these drunken sots. Worse, it meant her brother’s death went unavenged and Wulfrith would never know Jonas’s pain. She struggled but turned from the dark desire. She would not have Uncle Artur suffer further.

“I accept your proposal, my lord, but were I a man, such terms would not be acceptable.”

He laughed. “Were you a man, Annyn Bretanne, for naught would I put such terms to you.”

Under cover of the ridiculously long sleeves of her mother’s bliaut, she clasped her hands tighter and rebuked herself for speaking with a child’s tongue.

Henry reached for his goblet. “’Tis settled. On the morrow you shall wed.” He swept his gaze around the hall as if in search of the groom, and his eyes settled on one farther down the lord’s table. A baron, she believed, and young, mayhap a score and five.

Though she knew she ought to be grateful he was not decrepit—indeed, he was handsome—he appeared to love his ale, as evidenced by the weave of his head and the stain on his tunic. If there was one thing Annyn detested, it was an excess of drink. Her mother had suffered the weakness, and though Annyn had been quite young before Lady Elena’s passing, the raucous laughter often followed by wrenching tears was well remembered.

Henry grunted and drained his goblet. “I shall make my decision on the morrow. Good eve.”

Annyn stood. “Good eve, my lord.”

“Annyn Bretanne.”

“My lord?”

He thrust his goblet toward a serving wench. “Henceforth, there will be no more swordplay, no more tilting, no more hunting.”

He knew. Something inside her shriveled. Not yet wed and already she was bound. Nothing left to her but the tedious chores of ladies, of which she could do few. “Aye, my lord.”

“Too, my dear wife, Eleanor, would advise that slippers are the better choice beneath a lady’s skirts.”

She curled her fingers into her palms, her toes in her boots. “And she would be quite right, my lord. Is there anything else she would advise?”

“That is all.”

She knew she ought to remain in the hall to direct the servants, but she could not. She would attend Uncle Artur, then withdraw to her own chamber.

When she was halfway across the hall, Henry’s prisoner once more fell to her regard. The squire was slumped on an upturned hand, oblivious to the clamorous escort who had been taken with him. If not for his capture, it would be Wulfrith’s hall in which he sat, Wulfrith to whom he answered, Wulfrith—

She must think only of Uncle Artur.

Shortly, she entered the solar. It was aglow, the fire in the hearth painting the walls orange and yellow. Though there was no place in all of Lillia as warm and vibrant, the bargain struck with Henry numbed her to it.

She looked to where Uncle lay in the postered bed, then to Rowan who sat in the chair alongside. “He sleeps?”

Before he could answer, Uncle’s lids lifted. “Annyn.”

She hastened forward, sank onto the mattress edge, and kissed his brow. “I am here.”

“You...look the lady.”

As she so rarely did. “I have tried.”

He touched her sleeve. “I remember the last time your mother wore this gown. Such a beautiful woman.”

It was how all remembered Elena Bretanne. Unfortunately, or perhaps fortunately, Annyn fell short of the woman who had borne her.

Uncle Artur sighed. “Aillil is Henry’s now.”

Though it was as Annyn wished, she felt little satisfaction. “’Tis.”

“My Jonas was right. A better king Henry will make.”

Annyn cupped his face. “Rest, Uncle.”

“A better baron Jonas would have made.”

If not for Wulfrith.

His lids trembled downward. “And a better husband I would have made...your mother.”

She startled and glanced at Rowan who also jerked with surprise.

“We loved,” her uncle breathed.

Annyn shook her head. “Uncle?”

Rowan issued a short, bitter laugh. “So that was the way of it.”

Annyn met the gaze of the one who had first been her father's knight, ever near to comfort away bumps and bruises regardless of whether they were accidental or meted out by his lord’s terrible temper.

She winced in remembrance of the bad humor that had not been spared their mother. Though Father Cornelius would have pronounced Annyn and Jonas evil, they were relieved upon the death of the one who had sired them. Shortly afterward, they had come with their mother to Lillia, and Rowan had brought them. There was none Annyn trusted more. All he had taught her: horses, hawking, the sword, the lance, the bow. Never would she know him as Jonas had known him, but he was a friend.

He squeezed his temples. “He was the one.”

Annyn stared at him. What pained him so? Aye, he had cared for her mother, but...

She sought backwards and pried at memories of her mother and Rowan. There was not much to draw upon, other than that Rowan had been ever near and kind. And how grateful her mother had been for his unfailing attendance. But why had Rowan cared so much? Had he more than cared? As, it seemed, her uncle had done?

She knelt before the knight. “Did you love her, Rowan?”

He dragged a hand down his face. “What man did not? Even your father, for all his cruelty, loved Elena.”

“Ah, Rowan.” She laid a hand to his jaw. “I did not know.”

“’Twas for none to know.”

“Not even my mother?”

“She knew, and for a time I believed she felt for me, but she did not.” Face darkening, he looked to Uncle. “It seems ’twas Artur she cared for.”

Annyn followed his gaze to where her uncle lay silent. She had been but six when her mother died, unaware of what went between men and women. Had Elena returned Artur’s love?

As Annyn stared at her uncle, longing for him to awaken that she might know her mother’s secret, she was struck by the utter rest upon his face.

She looked to his chest and waited for it to rise. It did not. She twisted around and pressed an ear to Uncle’s chest, but no matter how she strained, a heart that no longer beat could not be heard. She gasped and looked to Rowan. “He is gone.”

He stared.

Annyn sank back on her heels. Her mother lost to her, then Jonas, now Uncle. If not for Rowan, she would truly be alone. She hugged her arms to her. Though she told herself she would not cry, tears wet her cheeks.

She did not know how long she sat wrapped in misery, but finally Rowan laid a hand on her shoulder and said softly, “Aillil is yours now.”

What did it matter? Though she loved Aillil and its people, even if the latter shook their heads when she passed, she had none with whom to share it. And come the morrow, it would all be taken from her. “Nay. Aillil belongs to one of Henry’s men.”

Rowan’s eyebrows clashed. “Of what do you speak?”

Accursed tears! Good for naught but swelling one’s eyes. “I am to wed on the morrow.” She stood, crossed to the window, and unlatched the shutters. “I agreed to it that Henry would not force Uncle to renounce Stephen.”

Though Rowan rarely betrayed his emotions, she felt his anger. It surprised her, for though she knew he held her in affection, he was Henry’s man.

“Who would he have you wed?”

As the cool night air emptied the oppressive heat from her, she said, “Even he does not know. He shall decide on the morrow.”

“But your uncle is dead.”

“And you think that changes anything?” She gasped. It changed everything. She had agreed to Henry’s terms to spare her uncle pain, and pain he could no longer feel. But did she dare? If not for her ache, she might have smiled. Aye, Annyn Bretanne dared.

She turned to Rowan. “I shall leave Lillia.”

“Where will you go?”

To where she had longed to venture for four years. “Wulfen Castle.”

He drew a sharp breath. “We have spoken of this, Annyn. You must put aside your revenge. Naught good—”

“Will you take me? Or do I go alone?”

Never had she seen him struggle so, for if he agreed, he would betray his future king. Though she knew she should not ask it, she needed his help. “You also want Jonas avenged. Do you deny it?”

“I cannot.” His voice cracked. “But though I would have vengeance on Wulfrith and render it myself if I could get near him, what you intend could mean your death.”

Then it was fear for her that stayed him. She crossed to his side. “Do you think I will not be dead if forced to wed?”

“You speak of blood upon your hands.”

“The blood of my brother's murderer!” Regardless of whether it was Wulfrith who put the noose to Jonas or he’d had another do it, through him her brother had died. “Whether or not you aid me, I will do this.”

He scrabbled a hand over his bearded jaw. “How?”

“You will aid me?”

He slowly inclined his head.

Then she would have her revenge. “There is a squire in the hall who was traveling to Wulfen when he was captured by Henry,” she said.

“Jame Braose.”

Then he had also heard the talk. “I shall need his papers and to learn all there is to know of him.”

He understood what she intended, but rendered no more argument. “I shall take ale with him and his escort.”

“We leave the hour ere dawn.”

“I shall be ready.” He crossed the solar.

“Rowan?”

He looked over his shoulder.

Annyn steepled her hands beneath her lips and whispered, “I thank you.”

With a dip of his chin, he departed.

Pretending she did not feel the misgivings that sought to weaken her resolve, Annyn told herself she would do this thing, and when it was done she would know peace.

Vengeance is not yours, Jonas insisted.

“You are wrong.” She looked to Uncle who, it seemed, had loved and been loved by her mother.

She struggled with the desire to pray for him that vied with the fear of attempting to gain God’s ear when her heart was so corrupt. In the end, she stepped forward and touched her lips to the old man’s cheek. “Godspeed, good uncle.”

Had Artur been the one? Rowan halted on the stairs, turned to the stone wall, pressed his palms to it, then his forehead. Though he longed to never again return to the darkness, he peeled away a score of years and once more saw that night.

Artur had also been there, having arrived hours before Drogo Wulfrith and his entourage stopped at the castle to request a night’s lodging—a night when Elena's husband had yet to return from London. Though Artur had never revealed his feelings for his brother’s wife, nor she for him, perhaps he had been the one. Yet all these years Rowan had believed it was Drogo Wulfrith. And hated him for it.

That night in the hall, the renowned maker of knights was unable to move his gaze from Elena. And, curse her, she who was inclined to partake of too much drink had played to him.

They had bantered, quaffed goblet after goblet, laughed until jealousy so fiercely gripped Rowan he forgot to whom Elena belonged.

Rowan dragged his hands down the stone wall and wrenched his head side to side to escape memories of the unpardonable thing he had done in believing Drogo—

But it might have been Artur. Indeed, it likely was. Jealousy found fuel in the man Rowan