The Revelation

The Revelation 2

Bile rising, she stumbled past him and dropped to her knees. When the

heaving was done, she wiped her mouth on her sleeve. “What will Uncle say of

Wulfrith and Stephen now ’tis proven Jonas was murdered?”

Rowan sank deeper into silence, and she realized that, though Uncle’s heart

might abide the honorable death of one he had loved, Jonas’s murder would

likely ruin it, especially as he had sent her brother to Wulfrith in spite of Jonas’s

protests.

If not that she loved her uncle, she would have hated him. “Nay, he must not

be told.” Feeling as if she had aged years in these last moments, she stepped past

Rowan and pulled the misericorde from her brother’s belt.

Frowning over the pommel that was set with jewels to form the cross of

crucifixion, she wondered whence the dagger came. She would have noticed such a splendid weapon had Jonas possessed one. Was it of Wulfen? It mattered

not. All that mattered was revenge.

Vengeance is not yours, Annyn. Jonas’s voice drifted to her from six months

past when he had come home for three days. Vengeance belongs to God. You

must defer to Him.

Her anger at the visiting nobleman’s son who had set one of her braids afire

had faltered when she heard Jonas speak so. He, who had so often shrugged off

God, had found Him at Wulfen. Considering Baron Wulfrith’s reputation, it had

surprised her. And more so now, having met the man and discovered his lie

about Jonas’s death.

False teachings, then. A man like Wulfrith could not possibly know God. At

that moment, she hardly knew Him herself. For days, she had prayed He would

deliver Jonas home. And this was His answer.

She squeezed her fists so tight that her knuckles popped.

How she ached to make Wulfrith suffer for the bloodguilt of her brother’s

death. She knew vengeance was God’s privilege, but she also knew it had once

been the privilege of surviving family members.

Would God truly strike her down if she turned to the ways of the Old

Testament? Revenge was the way of the world—certainly the way of men.

Revenge begat revenge, as evidenced by the struggle for England’s throne.

She nodded. How could God possibly deny her, especially as He was surely

too busy to bother with such things himself? Were He not, He would not have

allowed what had been done to Jonas.

Splaying her fingers on her thighs, she glared at the ceiling. “Vengeance is

mine, and You shall just have to understand.” A terrible, blasphemous thought

crept to her tongue, and she did not bite it back. “If You are even there.”

“Annyn?”

She looked to Rowan whose talk had turned her and Jonas to Henry’s side—

Rowan who would surely aid her. If it took a lifetime, Wulfrith would know the

pain her brother had borne. Only his death would satisfy.

It had been necessary. Still, Garr Wulfrith felt the stain of young Jonas's death.

He reached for the hilt of his misericorde and too late realized he no longer

possessed it. That had not been necessary.

Berating himself for the foolish gesture, he lifted a hand to his cheek where

Jonas’s shrew of a sister had scored his flesh. So the girl who looked and

behaved like a boy had also turned. Though Artur Bretanne remained loyal to

Stephen, somehow his brother's children had found Henry. For that, Jonas was

dead. And hardly an honorable death as told.

Remembering what he had done the morning he found his squire strung from

a tree, he told himself it was better that the truth of the betrayal die with the

betrayer. No family ought to suffer such dishonor, not even a family that boasted

one such as Annyn Bretanne. Thus, he had falsified—and now felt the brunt of

God’s displeasure.

Save me, O Lord, from lying lips and deceitful tongues, his mother would

quote if she knew what her firstborn had done.

For this, Garr would spend hours in repentance and pray that this one lie did

not breed, as lies often did—that after this day, he would know no more regret

for having told it.

He looked over his shoulder. Though it was the receding Castle Lillia he

sought, Squire Merrick captured his gaze. A promising young warrior, if not a bit

peculiar, he and Jonas had served together in squiring Garr. At first there had

been strain between the young men who both aspired to the standing of First

Squire, but it had eased once Jonas was chosen. In fact, the two had become as

near friends as was possible in the competitive ranks of the forty who sought

knighthood at Wulfen Castle. But, as Merrick now knew, friendships often had

false bottoms.

Garr shifted his gaze to Castle Lillia. He pitied Artur Bretanne. The man

would be a long time in ridding himself of his niece, if ever, for who would take

to wife that filthy little termagant who had but good, strong teeth to recommend

her?

Of course, what man took any woman to wife other than to get an heir?

Women were difficult, ever endeavoring to turn men from their purpose.

However, as with all Wulfrith men who preferred warring over women,

especially Garr's father, Drogo, Garr would eventually wed. Forsooth, he would

have done so three years past had his betrothed not died of the pox.

He turned back to the land before him. Once Stephen secured his hold on

England, Garr would find a wife of sturdy build whom he could visit a half

dozen times a year until she bore him sons to raise up as warriors—men who

stood far apart from ones like Jonas.

An image of the young man's death once more rising, he gripped the pommel

of his saddle. How could he have been so wrong? Though he had sensed Jonas's

allegiance to Henry, he had used it to put heart into the young man's training.

After all, how better to make a man than to give him a powerful reason for

becoming one? The aim was not to turn one’s allegiance, though sometimes it

happened. The aim was for the squire to give his utmost to his lord, which was

of greatest importance in battle.

But the strategy had failed with Jonas—fatally. A mistake Garr would not make again.

Telling himself Jonas Bretanne was in the past, dead and soon buried, he

released the pommel. As for Annyn Bretanne, she would put her loss behind her.

All she needed was time.

CHAPTER THREE

Castle Lillia, Spring 1153

Castle Lillia was taken, blessedly without loss of lives. From his bed, Uncle

Artur had ordered the drawbridge lowered to admit Duke Henry's army. Now

they were within, wafting their stench upon the hall and sounding their voices to

the rafters.

Holding the high seat on the dais was Henry himself. However, it was not the

vibrant man who carried Annyn's gaze time and again. It was the squire who sat

at a lower table.

The talk of the hall was that, though destined for the monastery, the deaths of

his brothers in the wars between Stephen and Henry had made the boy heir. Of a

family strongly opposed to Henry’s claim on England, he had been captured by

the duke’s army a sennight past while en route to Wulfen Castle. Such hopes his

father must have that Wulfrith could turn him from a sickly pup into a wolf, but

it would not come without much effort and pain. And now that he was to be held

at Lillia, it might not come at all.

Annyn peered closer. He was slightly taller than she, who had risen to five feet

three inches in the four years following Jonas's death, and his hair was nearly as

dark as hers. There was not much to his build, as there was not much to hers.

“My lady,” a warmly familiar voice spoke at her elbow.

She met Rowan's gaze. Regardless of the years that aged his eyes, there was

something more to them than she had ever seen. The man he would have sit on

England’s throne had been let into Lillia. “Rowan?”

“The Duke requests your attendance.”

Henry would see her? During his three hours at Lillia, he had not

acknowledged her though she directed the servants and had done her best to look

the lady of the castle.

Bitter humor tugged at her. Lady of the Castle, and yet beneath her mother's

chainse and bliaut—dragged on as Henry came into Lillia—she wore tunic and

hose. And for it she perspired.

She tugged the bodice off her moist skin. “I am presentable?” she asked in a

voice that was more husk than the scratch it had been four years earlier.

“As presentable as a boy turned lady can be.”

Wishing there was time to work her mess of hair into braids, she blew breath

down her small-breasted chest. “Then to Henry I must go.” She started past

Rowan but halted. “Pray, hasten abovestairs and tell my uncle I shall attend him

shortly.”

Hoping Uncle Artur, who had been abed these past months, did not fret his

failing heart over the happenings belowstairs, she traversed the hall. As with an

increasing number of those who had long sided with Stephen, the intervening

years were wrought with disenchantment for her uncle, though more for fear of

the king that Stephen’s son, Eustace, would one day make.

She settled her gaze on Henry. Poise befitting a lady, she reminded herself,

small steps, small smile, small gestures, small voice, small talk. While inside, her

heart beat large.

She ought to have been born a man. No matter how she tried for Uncle, it was

not in her to be a lady. Would it ever be? If Jonas had lived, perhaps, but his

murder left little for the woman's body into which she had been given.

Lifting her skirts, she sidestepped the sots whose bellies sloshed with Uncle's

wine and ale. As she ascended the dais, Henry paused over the rim of his goblet

and regarded her with large grey eyes.

She curtsied. “My lord.” When she straightened, a faint smile lifted his

freckled cheeks above his beard. He was handsome, though on other men such a

square face and feverish red hair would be less pleasing.

“The lady Annyn.” He gestured to the bench beside him. “Sit.”

Realizing her skirts were still hitched to her ankles, Annyn dropped them and

came around the table. As she lowered to the bench, Henry studied her with such

intensity she feared he saw beneath her bliaut and chainse to the tunic, hose, and

—

She gasped.

Wafting the scent of wine, Henry sat forward. “Something is amiss?”

Feigning a cough, she wiggled her toes beneath her skirts. She had forgotten

to exchange her worn boots for slippers. Had anyone seen?

She tucked her feet beneath the bench, summoned an apologetic smile, and

patted her neck. “A tickle, ’tis all.”

He eased back into the high seat. “You are not uncomely, Lady Annyn.”

Though his words were unexpected, she maintained an impassive expression.

What response did he seek? She could agree she was not uncomely, but neither

was she comely. Plain was the better word for one whose face was unremarkable

beneath pale freckles, whose breasts were not much larger than apple halves, and

the span between waist and hips was nearly unchanged.

“Why are you not wed?”

She flinched and immediately berated herself for failing to conceal her

feelings. Jonas would have been disappointed.

“Be assured, Lady Annyn, though you are of an age, I shall find a fitting

husband for you when I am king. One who will lord Aillil as it ought to be

lorded.”

Though her anger was more for his plan to wed her away from the freedom

she was allowed, neither did she like being spoken of as if she were an old

woman at eight and ten. Old women did not swing swords, tilt at quintains, or

hunt. And they certainly did not wear men's garments. Perhaps Henry would not

make a good king after all.

He chuckled, and she realized she had revealed herself again. “Ho, you do not

like that!”

Careful, he shall soon be your king. Still, she could not acquiesce as Uncle

would have advised and Rowan would have desired. She retrieved a small smile

befitting a lady. “Do you wish the truth, my lord, or a lie?”

Henry grinned. “That is all the answer I require, Annyn Bretanne. Now, where

does your loyalty lie?”

She released her tight smile. “You have my fealty, my lord.”

“As I had your brother’s, eh?”

Feeling the color pull from her cheeks, she asked, “You knew of Jonas’s

stand?”

Though he shrugged, she glimpsed in his eyes what looked like plotting. “A

good king knows his subjects, Annyn Bretanne, and a good king I shall be.”

And no more would he speak of Jonas. She clenched her hands. “I am certain

you shall, my lord.”

Henry grabbed a loaf of bread and wrenched off a bite. “What does your uncle

think, Annyn Bretanne?”

It was curious, but he had not ordered Uncle Artur from his bed, nor gone

abovestairs to confront the lord of the castle. It was as if Uncle was of no

consequence. And perhaps he was not. Not only had he stood down from Henry,

but he would not be much longer in this world. That last made her ache.

“Annyn Bretanne?”

Though she had never found her name offensive, it vexed that he was intent on speaking it in its entirety. She lowered her gaze. “Though I cannot speak for

my uncle, is it not enough that he did not subject Castle Lillia to siege?”

Silence, and the longer it grew, the more fearsome it was felt.

Wondering where she erred, she looked up.

Henry's face was flushed. “’Tis not enough.”

She swallowed. “What would be enough, my lord?”

“From his own lips he shall renounce his allegiance to Stephen.”

And if he did not? “As you know, my uncle is infirm. If you ask this of him, I

fear it will break a heart already broken in many places.”

“You would have me depart Aillil with its lord still firm to Stephen? I did not

enter here merely to quench my thirst and hunger, Annyn Bretanne. I came to

take this barony from Stephen.”

To whom it had not belonged for several years, though Uncle could not bring

himself to foreswear the false king. Again, Annyn wondered if she had erred in

supporting the duke, but that would mean Jonas had erred. And that was not

possible.

“There is another way, Annyn Bretanne.”

“My lord?”

“Aye, and most satisfactory. You shall wed a man of my choosing.”

Realizing he did not refer to her marrying once he was king, but sooner,

Annyn's booted feet stuttered out from beneath the bench.

“And for it, your uncle may hold to Stephen if that is what he would do. We

are agreed?”

As if it were so simple. As if she had a choice. But though she hated it,

marriage was inevitable. As Uncle’s heir, she must wed; as Henry’s subject, she

must make an alliance with one of his own.

“Agreed. You shall send word when a suitable husband is found?”

“The bargain I make is that you wed on the morrow.”

She startled. “The morrow?”

His eyes sparkled, and she realized this proposal had not come upon him

suddenly.

Perhaps none is worthy to wear the crown of England, she seethed before

chastising herself for judging him solely on how his ascension affected her. For

all that was told of Henry, and by his acts, he would make a worthy king—better

than Stephen and far better than Stephen’s brutal son, Eustace.

“I shall have your answer now, Annyn Bretanne.”

She looked to the occupants of the hall, one of whom Henry 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.