The Unveiling by Tamara Leigh (beach read book .TXT) 📖

now Wulfrith!” he stopped her.

She turned and struggled to hide her surprise over the sharp contrast between the duke and Garr where they stood together. Not only was her husband nearly a head taller than Henry, he was as a beacon to the other man’s candle light—handsome of face and form, distinguished with that shock of silver hair that she longed to push her fingers through. “My lord?”

He swept his gaze down her. “In one thing I am pleased—you heeded my advice on footwear.”

She followed his gaze to the peep of a slipper beneath her skirts. Remembering the boots she had worn at Castle Lillia, a bubble of laughter passed her lips. “’Twas good advice, indeed, my lord.” She put her foot out to better show the slipper. “Far more comfortable than boots.”

“And more womanly.”

Annyn caught Garr’s questioning gaze before he turned his attention to a serving wench. “A pitcher of our best wine!”

As Annyn crossed the dais, she looked out across the hall that was empty but for a handful, among them Rowan and his guards, Sir Merrick where he lingered near the door, and Lavonne who strode toward the latter.

Annyn started toward Rowan, but then she saw Lavonne pause before Merrick. Their words whispered the air without form, and whatever was spoken, it caused Sir Merrick’s face to darken. Lavonne’s profile showed he was no more amiable.

Remembering when Sir Merrick had caught her on the stairs at Wulfen and warned that Lavonne was not to be trusted, she halted and struggled to rearrange the pieces of Jonas’s death that she had once fit to include Garr.

Stride stiffer than moments earlier, Lavonne stepped outside, and Merrick stared after him before also starting for the doors.

Annyn glanced at her husband and Henry. As they and their men were too absorbed in this day’s talks to pay her heed, she picked her skirts high and hurried outside. In the dank of after-rain, she overtook Sir Merrick. “I must needs speak with you.”

He continued his descent of the steps.

“I beseech you, Sir Merrick, but a few minutes is all I ask.”

Only when she stepped ahead of him into the inner bailey did he halt. Sleepy eyes wider and brighter than she had ever seen them, he said, “I cannot help you, my lady.”

She caught his arm. “You know the truth of my brother’s death. I know you do.”

“The truth is that Jonas was found hung from a tree in the wood.” Still, dark shadows, as of dread memories, flickered in his eyes. “And that is all the truth there is.”

“You were there, weren’t you? When your lord found my brother?”

His mouth twitched. “My lady, ’tis inappropriate that you stand so near me.”

“Then speak and I shall step back.”

He drew a deep breath. “I accompanied Lord Wulfrith in the search for your brother, and was there when Jonas was found, there when my lord made his death appear honorable.”

Rowan came out onto the steps above, and with him his escort. Questioningly, her old friend looked from her to Merrick.

Annyn released the man’s arm. “Who else was there?”

“Sirs Everard and Abel.”

“And?”

“None others, my lady. None others could know.”

But others had known. According to Lavonne, who had taunted her over her brother’s death while at Wulfen, all had known Jonas had hung himself and their lord had put a wound to him to cover the truth of it. Unless it was a lie he told.

Beginning to tremble, she breathed, “It was Lavonne.”

Sir Merrick’s breath snagged, and he glanced right and left. “We must needs speak elsewhere.”

“Where?”

“The stables in the outer bailey. Come in five minutes.”

Five minutes seemed a world away as she watched him stride from her.

“Lady Annyn?”

She turned and was wounded by sorrow at the sight of her man. How had he grown so old so soon? “Sir Rowan?”

“All is well, my lady?”

She longed to reveal what Merrick had confirmed, but could not do so in the presence of the men-at-arms. She caught up Rowan’s hands that seemed to lack the strength that had long ago helped a young girl pull her bow string. “Pray, do not leave until I speak with you.”

As his brow knit, she stepped past him and traversed the inner bailey. Knowing five minutes was not yet gone, she lingered before the gatehouse. Every second feeling a minute, every minute an hour, she held there though she drew curious glances from Henry’s and Garr’s men.

Guessing five minutes had passed. Annyn hastened across the drawbridge.

The clang of metal on metal, testament to swords being beaten to life, rang clearly from the blacksmith’s shop as she hurried across the bailey. Not even with Henry come to make him an ally did Garr pause in the defense of his home.

Entering the dimly lit stables of the outer bailey, Annyn called, “Sir Merrick?”

At the far end where a torch flickered, a figure appeared and beckoned, then returned to the stall from which he had emerged.

Annyn hurried past the other stalls, most of which were occupied, and stepped into the end stall that was larger than the rest, as of one used for birthing colts.

Sir Merrick stood in the light that shone through a small window.

“It was Lavonne who murdered my brother,” she said. “Was it not?”

He stared at her.

“For this you sought me out at Wulfen and warned me to be cautious of him. Tell me it is so.”

His eyes momentarily closed. “It is so, my lady.”

Dear God. The man for whom she had revealed herself at Wulfen that he would not stand accused of her crime, had done far worse than she. Such bitter irony that she had gone to the aid of one whose death was warranted.

Annyn reached a hand out to steady herself, but there was naught to hold to where she stood at the center of the stall.

“My lady?” Sir Merrick grasped her arm.

When he started to urge her to the floor, she shook her head. “I did not break my fast this morn.”

“Forgive me for telling you. ’Twould have been best had you never known.”

“You are wrong. I had to know.”

Continuing to brace her, Sir Merrick said, “I give you my vow that Jonas will be avenged.”

Vengeance that was not hers, but God’s. Just as it was not Sir Merrick’s, though he made it sound like it belonged to him. “What do you intend?”

“Lavonne will not see another sunrise. He has agreed to meet me here in the half hour, and it is then I will do to him as he did to your brother.” He nodded to the left of the threshold.

Annyn peered into the shadowed corner where a noose hung from a rafter. Her skin creeped. “You shall hang him,” she whispered. Though it was as she would have once wanted, and a part of her still longed for, God once more spoke to her of vengeance. This time, He did it through Garr’s voice.

“I shall hang him,” Sir Merrick said, “and in that, Jonas will be partly avenged.”

“Partly?”

His gaze faltered. “Your brother was strong of will and body, Lady Annyn. One alone could not have done to him what happened that night in the wood.”

Chill bumps rose across her limbs. “Who was the other?”

He released her arm and crossed to the stall window. Bracing his hands on the sill, he dropped his head to his chest.

“Sir Merrick?”

He did not move, did not even look to breathe.

Annyn hurried forward and laid a hand on his shoulder. “Pray, tell me who the other one was.”

He turned. Tears glittering in his eyes, revulsion tugging at his mouth, he bit, “’Twas me.”

She stumbled back. “Nay, you would not!”

A tear crawled down his cheek. “Alone, I would not, no matter my anger and feeling of betrayal, but Lavonne is most persuasive. Aye, my lady, I did it, and violated the most inviolable of lessons. I let another make my way for me.”

“Why?” She trembled, her hands nearly numb. “Why did you do it?”

“Jonas betrayed. Jonas, whom I had come to admire and love as a brother.” He wheezed as he pulled in air. “Most esteemed and trusted of all squires, he stole a missive from King Stephen to Lord Wulfrith that he might deliver it to the enemy—Henry.”

As Garr had told.

“In my presence and Lavonne’s, he admitted it to Lord Wulfrith and defended that, after stealing the missive, he realized his error and intended to return it.”

Annyn stared at her brother’s murderer. “You believed him?”

“I might have, but like a fool, I allowed Lavonne to goad me to anger. Half the night he spat and raged over Jonas’s betrayal, pushing me, testing me, tempting me to do what I would not have done.” He dragged a hand down his face. “’Twould be but to put fear into Jonas, he said, to teach him a lesson he would not soon forget. Still I did not want to do it, but I did, my lady.” Bitter laughter rent the air. “And now to see whose side Lavonne has gone. Forsooth, methinks he was always there, that he used me against Jonas whom he believed had betrayed him!”

Somewhere in the stables, a horse snickered and another whinnied, but the ache rolling through Annyn rendered the sounds as insignificant as the buzz of a fly. “You killed my brother. You stood there while he kicked and tried to open his throat. You let him die.”

“I wanted to cut him down. I told Lavonne it was enough.” He shook his head. “But a few moments more, he said, and then...I lost my breath.” A glistening drop fell from his nose to the dirt floor. “I am weak and foul...dishonorable...not worthy.”

“How true,” another voice entered the stall.

Annyn swung around and saw Lavonne where he stood on the other side of the threshold. If not for his sword in hand, its blade propped against his shoulder, she would have set herself at him, but the lessons Garr had taught her prevailed. At her back, she heard the metallic whisper of Sir Merrick’s sword as it was drawn from its scabbard.

“Forsooth”— Lavonne stepped forward, giving her no choice but to retreat deeper into the stall—“you are as weak and unworthy as Lady Annyn’s beloved brother whom I persuaded to steal the missive for Henry.” He smiled. “Jonas, who thought himself above all, was ruled by me.”

“Stand back, my lady,” Sir Merrick entreated.

Annyn did as told.

The baron surveyed the shadow-ridden stall. The noose made him frown, then cluck his tongue. “For me, old friend?”

“By the sword or by the noose, this day you shall die.”

“Mayhap were I fool enough to come at the half hour, but see, I am here.” Lavonne sighed. “Surprise is a powerful weapon, Lady Annyn, a lesson taught to me by your dear husband.”

“Cur!” she spat.

“Ouch! Thee wounds!”

Sir Merrick chose that moment to lunge, sweeping his sword so near Lavonne’s face that, if the baron had a beard, it would have been shaved from him.

Lavonne countered, seemingly unhindered by the wound that Garr had done his arm at Wulfen. A pity it had not been his sword arm.

The swords crashed again, turning the horses in their stalls restless, causing Annyn’s hand to itch for a hilt as she watched her brother’s murderers—each set on ending the life of the other. She edged toward the threshold.

“Nay, my lady,” Lavonne scorned, “you stay.” He deflected a blow from Merrick’s sword, then knocked her to the far side of the stall. If not that she threw her hands up, she would