The Unveiling - Tamara Leigh (rooftoppers TXT) 📗

lug boiling water among them, she might not be the only one scalded.

Shoulders aching, wrists burning, she refused the temptation of rest for fear she might not get her “arse” beneath her again.

Her ascension of the dais caused her knees to quake, but she made it. As she negotiated the length of table, she glanced at the curtain behind. Bare light filtered through, so either the curtain was thick, or little light shone within. She hoped for the latter—shadows in which to conceal herself and not be forced to look upon Wulfrith if he was, indeed, unclothed.

As she came around the table, she noted the sleeping figure who made his pallet just outside the solar—one of Wulfrith’s squires, no doubt, and there was an empty pallet beside his. She halted before the curtains. “My lord,” she called in her man’s voice, “I bear water for your bath.”

The curtains parted, causing light to tumble into the hall. However, it was not Wulfrith who stood before her, but the squire who had been at his lord’s back during the meal.

“Be quick about it, lazy urchin!” He threw the curtain wide.

Annyn felt her tongue unwind, but there was no stopping the words that spat off it. “Lazy? Who carries the water?”

“Braose!” Wulfrith thundered.

She returned the squire’s glower and stepped past him. At least the pails did not slop, she congratulated herself and glanced down. But then, they had done most of their slopping through the hall, as evidenced by the absence of water several fingers below the rims.

Wulfrith sat at a long table against the wall, head bent to quill and parchment, silver hair reflecting the light of three torches and a fat tallow candle, figure wrapped in a robe.

Relieved he did not look around, she scanned the solar.

It was neither large nor small, the postered and curtained bed placed center and back, a tapestry behind, a chest at its foot. To the right was a chair and small table, nearer right a brazier, and before the latter a tub. Thankfully, it was of a smaller size than what she had enjoyed at Lillia, though how a man of Wulfrith’s height and breadth found comfort in it, she did not know. Regardless, it would mean a dozen trips to the cauldrons. She traversed the solar and lowered the pails before the tub.

“The water grows cold,” the squire said, appearing at her side.

Annyn lifted the first pail. What did he mean cold? Still there was steam—if one squinted hard. Sucking her tongue to the roof of her mouth so it would not speak words she would regret, she emptied both pails into the tub.

“Make haste!” the squire ordered.

Each successive trip was more difficult than the last, her shoulders, arms, and legs protesting, her hand stinging. On her sixth return to the solar, she was appalled to feel the prick of tears.

Looking toward Wulfrith, she saw he was no longer at the table where he had not once looked up during her previous trips. A moment later, she faltered at the sight of bare shoulders above the rim of the tub and startled when she ran into Wulfrith’s impatient gaze.

“I wait, Squire Jame.”

Seeing his squire knelt alongside the tub soaping his lord’s back, she hurried forward and averted her eyes so she would not be made to look upon Wulfrith’s nakedness. She was pleased to discover that the water had risen considerably with his bulk, meaning two or three more trips ought to suffice.

“In my solar,” Wulfrith said as she poured water at his feet, “you will show respect by removing your cap.”

She set down the first pail and swept the cap from her head. Though she felt his gaze beckon, she kept her eyes down. “’Tis to be another lesson, my lord?”

“Does it need to be?”

“Nay, I shall remember.” She poured the second pail of water, but as she turned to go, his large fingers closed around her wrist.

She gasped, dropped the pail, and looked up. The sight of his chest rolled with muscle making her heart knock as if to be let out, she dragged her gaze higher.

He regarded the back of her hand. “You have burned yourself.”

Was that concern? Surely not.

He turned her palm up and pressed a thumb to its center. Though it had escaped the boiling water, his touch caused something curious to twist inside her.

“Squire Warren, go into my chest and bring my salve.”

“Aye, my lord.”

Though Annyn longed to wrench free, she felt like a hare trapped before a thicket too thick to grant refuge.

Wulfrith’s grey-green eyes returned to her. “You lack grace.”

Then she did not behave like a girl? Though pleased with her fit of Jame Braose, a part of her took offense. When the occasion warranted, she wore grace well enough. She pulled her hand free. “Of what use is grace to a man?”

He raised an eyebrow. “For one who ought to have been learned in respect, at least of the Lord, you know little of it, Braose.”

What had respect to do with grace? Before she could catch back Annyn Bretanne’s words, she said, “All I have learned of respect, my lord, is that it is earned.”

His eyebrows gathered.

Annyn, you fool!

“Lesson five,” he growled.

Another?

“Speak only when spoken to.”

“But you did speak to me, my lord.”

“I spoke, but a conversation I did not seek. There is a difference, and upon my vow to make you a man worthy to lord over Gaither, you shall learn it.”

“Aye, my lord.” She looked down, plucked at her bindings, and stilled. Had he seen?

“Squire Warren.”

The young man stepped from behind Annyn and handed her a small pot.

“Tend your hand,” Wulfrith ordered.

“Now?” She was too surprised to consider whether a response was appropriate following his latest lesson. From his lowering brow, it was not.

“You shall know pain at Wulfen, Braose, but pain that teaches and is earned.”

She lowered her gaze and was immensely grateful that the water lapping Wulfrith’s abdomen was fogged by soap. She averted her eyes. “What of your bath water?”

“We are not conversing, Braose!”

Silently, she berated herself. She did not lack wit—could read, write, and reckon. If not for her training with Rowan, she could even have kept Uncle’s books. However, in Wulfrith’s presence she struggled and fumbled as if slow-witted.

Surprisingly, the salve smelled pleasant and soothed when she smoothed it in. She refit the stopper and extended the pot to the squire where he again stood behind his lord. “I thank you.”

“Keep it until your hand is healed,” Wulfrith said.

She opened her mouth but closed it with the reminder that he did not seek to converse. She was learning.

She spread the strings of the purse on her belt, dropped the pot into it, and grabbed the pails. Only a few more trips—

“Your task is finished,” Wulfrith said, beginning to rise from the tub.

She jerked her face aside that she not be made to look upon him.

What had he said? Her task was done? Aye, but why when more water was needed? Surely not because of her hand. He was not so merciful. Perhaps he was merely tired. Or disliked baths.

Regardless, she was dismissed. Heartened by imaginings of a soft pallet, she turned away.

“Stay, Braose.”

Keeping her gaze down, she came back around. “My lord?”

“We must needs speak further.”

Didn’t he mean he must needs speak and she listen? What other lesson was there to learn at the middling of night? She ventured a sidelong glance and was relieved to find he had donned his robe.

“Sit.” He swept a hand toward the table.

She lowered the pails, adjusted her tunic, and crossed the solar. Settling in the chair farthest from the one he had earlier occupied, she was dismayed when he pulled out the chair beside hers.

“What is the highest honor, Braose?”

She considered his thick column of throat. A pulse beat there, evidence of his humanity. And mortality.

“The...” She deepened her pitch. “The highest honor, my lord?”

“What is it?”

Had Rowan spoken of it? Father Cornelius? Though something told her she knew, Wulfrith was too near. So near she could feel the heat of his body.

“You do not know.”

“It escapes me, my lord.”

“That with which one is unfamiliar cannot escape.” He poured a goblet of wine and settled back to watch her as he drank. Finally, he lowered the goblet. “The highest honor, Jame Braose, is to serve others.”

As she knew. What was wrong with her? It had to be fatigue.

“And that is your sixth lesson—that you serve others. Do you think you can?”

“Aye, my lord. For this I was sent to Wulfen.”

“You were, but if you do not prove yourself within a fortnight, you shall be returned to your father.”

Surely Jonas would be avenged before then. “I shall not disgrace him,” she spoke for Jame Braose. “This I vow.”

“Lesson seven, do not make vows you cannot keep.”

That she assuredly knew, for a vow made four years past had brought her to this moment and place. “Aye, my lord.”

“Your training at Wulfen will be the most difficult thing you have endured, especially as it must needs be accelerated for your previous lack of training.”

She sat straighter. “I am prepared, my lord.”

“Of that we shall see.” He thrust his legs out as if he intended to stay for a time. “For a fortnight you shall serve me beneath First Squire Warren and Second Squire Samuel.”

Samuel being the one on the pallet outside the solar?

“And to both you shall answer and show respect. In that time, if you prove worthy to pursue knighthood, you will be given in service to Sir Merrick for the remainder of your years at Wulfen. During your final six months, you shall come again to serve me as Squire Warren and Squire Samuel serve me. If I determine you are honorable and capable, you shall be knighted.”

As Jonas was to have been. Annyn squeezed the feeling from her fingers.

“You wish to remain, Braose?”

“I do.”

He put the goblet aside and sat so far forward there could not have been a foot between their noses. “Then I can be assured you will bring no more spoils to my table.”

The pel. To her dismay, warmth rushed her cheeks, but in the next instant she felt the blood drain from them as she peered closer at the left side of his face. Scarring? Aye, four faint lines to attest to Annyn Bretanne’s hatred when this man had brought Jonas home four years past. As she had longed for, he was marked as her brother’s murderer.

“Speak lesson one, Squire Jame.”

She was to have committed them to memory? “Lesson one...”

“When spoken to, listen well,” he snapped.

“’Tis as I was about to say, my lord.”

His eyes did not believe her. “Then I can be assured?”

“I shall bring no more spoils to your table.” She held her breath.

“Good. Now tell how a young man trained to God knows the sword and staff.”

As Rowan had warned against revealing her facility with weapons, she had fumbled and stumbled, but not before revealing something of her true skill.

“Braose!”

“’Tis a conversation you seek, my lord?” She knew it sounded impertinent, but her hesitation might otherwise be interpreted for the deceit it was.

His face darkened. “Your father told that you knew little of weapons.”

His wine-scented breath made her heart beat faster. “My father presumes that where there is God there is naught else.” Believable?

“What else do you know, Braose?”

“I have hunted.”

“Deer and boar?”

She shifted on the chair. “Aye.”

“Do your