CHAPTER ONE

Lincolnshire, England, October 1149

A nightmare seized him from sleep, turned around his throat, and filled his mouth so full he could not cry out. Desperate for air, he opened his eyes onto a

moonless night that denied him the face of his attacker.

By all the saints! Who dares?

He struck out, but a second attacker appeared and pitched him onto his belly.

Though a foul cloth had been shoved in his mouth, the loosening of hands around his throat permitted him to wheeze breath through his nose. Then he was yanked up from the blanket on which he had made his bed distant from his lord’s tent.

Too late realizing the error of allowing dishonor to incite him to isolation, he ****** backward and nearly found his release.

Hands gripped him harder and dragged him toward the wood.

Who were these miscreants who spoke not a word? What did they intend?

Would they beat him for a traitor? Worse?

A noose fell past his ears. Feeling death settle on his shoulders, he knew fear that surpassed any he had known. He shouted against the cloth, struggled to shrug out from beneath the rope, splayed and hooked his useless hands.

Lord, help me!

The cruel hands fell from him, but as he reached for the rope, it tightened and snapped his chin to his chest. An instant later, he was hoisted off his feet. He flailed and clawed at his trussed neck but was denied even the smallest breath of air.

Realizing that this night he would die for what he had intended to do...for what he had not done...for Henry, he would have sobbed like the boy he ever

denied being had he the breath to do so.

Unworthy! The familiar rebuke sounded through him, though it was many months since he had been called such.

Aye, unworthy, for I cannot even die like a man.

He turned his trembling hands into fists and stilled as the lessons taught him by Lord Wulfrith numbered through his mind, the greatest being that refuge was found in God.

Feeling his life flicker like a flame taking its last sip of the wick, he embraced the calm that settled over him and set his darkening gaze on one of his attackers who stood to the right. Though he could not be certain, he thought the man’s back was turned to him. Then he heard the wheezing of one who also suffered a lack of breath.

A mute cry of disbelief parted his lips. Of all those who might have done this, never would he have believed—

Darkness stole his sight, swelled his heart, and brought to mind a beloved image. He had vowed he would not leave her, but now Annyn would be alone.

Forgive me, he pleaded across the leagues that separated them. Pray, forgive me.

As death tightened its hold, he could not help but weep inside himself for the

foolishness that had sent him to the noose.

His body convulsed and, with his last presence of mind, he once more turned heavenward. Do not let her be too long alone, God. Pray, do not.

Castle Lillia

Annyn Bretanne lowered her gaze from the moonless mantle of stars.

“Jonas...” She pressed a hand over her heart. Whence came this foreboding? And why this feeling it had something to do with her brother?

Because you were thinking of him. Because you wish him here not there.

“My lady?”

She pushed back from the battlements and swung around. It was William, though she knew it only by the man-at-arm’s gruff voice. The night fell too black for the torches at the end of the wall-walk to light his features.

He halted. “You ought to be abed, my lady.”

As always, there was a smile in the title he bestowed. Like the others, he knew she was a lady by noble birth only. That she had stolen from bed in the middle of night further confirmed what all thought of one who, at four and ten, ought to be

betrothed—perhaps even wed.

Though in such circumstances Annyn was inclined to banter with William,

worry continued to weight her.

“Good eve,” she said and hastened past. Continuing to hold a hand to her heart, she descended the steps and ran to the donjon. Not until she closed the door on her chamber did she drop her hand from her chest, and only then to drag

off her man’s tunic.

Falling onto her bed, she called on the one her brother assured her was always near. “Dear Lord, do not let Jonas be ill. Or hurt. Or...”

She turned aside the thought that was too terrible to think. Jonas was hale and would return from Wulfen Castle. He had promised.

She clasped her hands before her face. “Almighty God, I beseech Thee, deliver my brother home from Wulfen. Soon.”

CHAPTER TWO

There was but one way to enter Wulfen Castle. She must make herself into a man.

Annyn looked down her figure where she stood among the leaves of the wood.

And scowled. Rather, she must make herself into a boy, for it was boys in which the Baron Wulfrith dealt—pages who aspired to squires, squires who aspired to knights. As she was too slight to disguise herself as a squire, a page would be her lot, but only long enough to assure Jonas was well.

Still haunted by foreboding, though it was now four days since it had burrowed a dark place within her, she dropped her head back against the tree beneath which she had taken cover and squinted at the sunlight that found little resistance in autumn's last leaves. If only her mother were alive to offer comfort, but it was eight years since Lady Elena had passed on. Eight years since Annyn had known her touch.

A thumping sound evidencing the wily hare had come out of the thicket, Annyn gripped her bow tighter and edged slowly around the tree as her brother had taught her.

Though the scruffy little fellow had not fully emerged, he would soon. She tossed her head to clear the hair from her brow, raised her bow, and drew the nocked arrow to her cheek.

The hare lifted its twitchy nose.

Patience. Annyn heard Jonas from two summers past. Would she hear his voice again?

Aye, she would see him when she journeyed to Wulfen Castle where he completed his squire's training with the mighty Baron Wulfrith, a man said to exercise considerable sway over the earl from whom he held his lands.

Annyn frowned as she pondered the Wulfrith name that brought to mind a snarling wolf, her imagining made more vivid by the terrible anger the man was said to possess. Since before William of Normandy had conquered England, the Wulfrith family had been known England to France for training boys into men, especially those considered seriously lacking. Though Jonas's missives spoke little of that training, all knew it was merciless.

The hare crept forward.

Hold! Jonas’s voice, almost real enough to fan her cheek, made her smile, cracking the mud she had smeared on her face as her brother had also taught her to do.

She squeezed her eyes closed. Thirteen months since he had departed for Wulfen. Thirteen months in training with the feared Wulfrith who allowed no women within his walls. Thirteen months to make Jonas into a man worthy to lord the barony of Aillil that would be his as Uncle Artur's heir.

The hare thumped.

Annyn jerked, startling the creature into bounding from the thicket.

Follow, follow, follow!

She swung the arrow tip ahead of the hare and released. With a shriek that made her wince as she did each time she felled one of God's creatures, the hare collapsed on a bed of muddy leaves.

Meat on the table, Annyn told herself as she tramped to where her prey lay.

Not caring that she dirtied her hose and tunic, she knelt beside it.

“Godspeed,” she said, hoping to hurry it to heaven though Father Cornelius said no such place existed for animals. But what did a man who did not know how to smile know of God's abode? She lifted the hare and tugged her arrow free. Satisfied to find tip and feathers intact, she wiped the shaft on her tunic and ****** the arrow into her quiver. She stood. A catch of good size. Not that Uncle Artur would approve of her fetching meat to the table. He would make a show of disapproval, as he did each time she ventured to the wood, then happily settle down to a meal of hare pie. Of course, Annyn must first convince Cook to prepare the dish. But he would, and if she hurried, it could be served at the nooning meal. She slung the bow over her shoulder and ran.

If only Jonas were here, making me strain to match his longer stride. If only he were calling taunts over his shoulder. If only he would go from sight only to pounce upon me. Lord, I do not know what I will do if—

She ****** aside her worry with the reminder that, soon enough, she would have the assurance she sought. This very eve she would cut her mess of black hair, don garments Jonas had worn as a page, and leave under cover of dark. In less than a sennight, she could steal into Wulfen Castle, seek out her brother, and return to Aillil. As for Uncle Artur...

She paused at the edge of the wood and eyed Castle Lillia across the open meadow. Her disappearance would send dread through her uncle, but if she told him what she intended, he would not allow it.

She toed the damp ground. If he would but send a missive to Wulfen to learn how Jonas fared, this venture of hers need not be undertaken. However, each time she asked it of her uncle, he teased that she worried too much.

Movement on the drawbridge captured Annyn’s regard. A visitor? A messenger from Wulfen? Mayhap Jonas once more returned for willful behavior? She squinted at the standard flown by the rider who passed beneath the raised portcullis and gasped. It belonged to the Wulfriths!

Though the men on the walls usually called to Annyn and bantered over her frightful appearance, her name did not unfurl any tongues when she approached the drawbridge. Ignoring her misgivings, she paused to seek out the bearded Rowan who, as captain of the guard, was sure to be upon the gatehouse. He was not, but William was.

She ****** the hare high. “Next time, boar!”

He did not smile. “My lady, hasten to the donjon. The Baron Wul—”

“I know! My brother is returned?”

He averted his gaze. “Aye, Lady Annyn, your brother is returned.”

So, neither could the renowned Baron Wulfrith order Jonas's life. She might have laughed if not that it boded ill for her brother’s training to be terminated.

Though of good heart, he had thrice been returned by fostering barons who could no more direct him than his uncle with whom he and Annyn had lived these past ten years. Thus, until Uncle Artur had sent Jonas to Wulfen Castle, brother and sister had been more together than apart. Soon they would be together again.

Silently thanking God for providing what she had asked, she darted beneath the portcullis and into the outer bailey, passing castle folk who stared after her with something other than disapproval. Telling herself her flesh bristled from chill, she entered the inner bailey where a half dozen horses stood before the donjon, among them Jonas's palfrey. And a wagon.

As she neared, the squire who held the reins of an enormous white destrier looked around. Surprise first recast his narrow face, then disdain. “Halt, you!”

She needed no mirror to know she looked more like a stable boy than a lady, but rather than allow him to mistake her as she was inclined to do, she said, “It is Lady Annyn you address, Squire.”

Disdain slid back into surprise, and his sleepy green eyes widened further when he saw the hare. “Lady?” As if struck, he looked aside.

Annyn paused alongside Jonas’s horse and laid a hand to its great jaw. “I thank you for bringing him home.” She ran up the steps.

The porter was frowning when she reached the uppermost landing. “My lady, your uncle and Baron Wulfrith await. Pray, go quick 'round to the kitchen and put yourself to order.”

Baron Wulfrith at Lillia? She glanced over her shoulder at the white destrier.

How could she not have realized its significance? The baron must be angry indeed to have returned Jonas himself. Unless—

William's unsmiling face. The lack of disapproval usually shown her by the castle folk. The wagon.

Not caring what her appearance might say of her, she lunged forward.

“My lady, pray—”

“I will see my brother now!”

The porter’s mouth worked as if to conjure argument, but he shook his head and opened the door. “I am sorry, Lady Annyn.”

The apology chilling her further, she stepped inside.

The hall was still, not a sound to disturb God and His angels were they near.

Blinking to adjust to the indoors, she caught sight of those on the dais. As their backs were turned to her and heads were bent, she wondered what they looked upon. More, where was Jonas?

The hare's hind legs dragging the rushes where the animal hung at her side, she pressed forward, all the while telling herself Jonas would soon lunge from an alcove and thump her to the floor.

“’Twas an honorable death, Lord Bretanne,” a deep voice struck silence from the hall.

Annyn halted and picked out the one who had spoken—a big man in height and breadth, hair cut to the shoulders.

Dear God, of whom does he speak?

He stepped aside, clearing the space before the lord's table to reveal the one she desperately sought.

The hare slipped from her fingers, the bow from her shoulder. Vaguely aware of the big man and his companions swinging around, she stared at her brother's profile that was the shade of a dreary day. And there stood Uncle Artur opposite, hands flat on the table upon which Jonas was laid, head bowed, shoulders hunched up to his ears.

Annyn stumbled into a run. “Jonas!”

“What is this?” the deep voice demanded.

When Uncle's head came up, his rimmed eyes reflected shock at the sight of her. But there was only Jonas. In a moment she would have him up from the table and—

She collided with a hauberked chest and would have fallen back if not for the hand that fastened around her upper arm. It was the man who had spoken. She swung a foot and connected with his unmoving shin.

He dragged her up to her toes. “Who is this whelp that runs your hall like a dog, Lord Bretanne?”

Annyn reached for him where he stood far above. He jerked his head back, but not before her nails peeled back the skin of his cheek and jaw.

With a growl, he drew back an arm.

“Halt! ’Tis my niece.”

The fist stopped above her face. “What say you?”

As Annyn stared at the large knuckles, she almost wished they would grind her bones so she might feel a lesser pain.

“My niece,” Uncle said with apology, “Lady Annyn Bretanne.”

The man delved her dirt-streaked face. “This is a woman?”

“But a girl, Lord Wulfrith.”

Annyn looked from the four angry scores on the man's cheek to his grey-green eyes. This was Wulfrith? The one to whom Jonas was entrusted? Who was to make of him a man? Who had made of him a corpse?

“Loose me, cur!” She spat in the scratchy little voice Jonas often teased her about.

“Annyn!” Uncle protested.

Wulfrith's grip intensified and his pupils dilated.

Refusing to flinch as Jonas had told her she should never do, she held steady.

“’Tis the Baron Wulfrith to whom you speak, child,” her uncle said as he came around the table, his voice more stern than she had ever heard it.

She continued to stare into the face she had marked. “This I know.”

Uncle laid a hand on Wulfrith's shoulder. “She is grieved, Lord Wulfrith. Pray, pity her.”

Annyn glared at her uncle. “Pity me? Who shall pity my brother?”

He recoiled, the pain of a heart that had loved his brother's son causing his eyes to pool.

Wulfrith released Annyn. “Methinks it better that I pity you, Lord Bretanne.”

Barely containing the impulse to spit on him, she jumped back and looked fully into his face: hard, sharp eyes, nose slightly bent, proud cheekbones, firm mouth belied by a full lower lip, cleft chin. And falling back from a face others might think handsome, silver hair—a lie, for he was not of an age that be spoke such color. Indeed, he could not have attained much more than twenty and five years.

“Were I a man, I would kill you,” she rasped.

His eyebrows rose. “’Tis good you are but a little girl.”

If not for Uncle's hand that fell to her shoulder, Annyn would have once more set herself at Wulfrith.

“You err, child.” Uncle Artur spoke firm. “Jonas fell in battle. His death is not upon the baron.”

She shrugged out from beneath his hand and ascended the dais. Her brother was clothed in his finest tunic, about his waist a silver-studded belt from which a sheathed misericorde hung. He had been made ready for burial.

She laid a hand on his chest and willed his heart to beat again. But nevermore.

“Why, Jonas?” The first tear fell, wetting the dried mud on her face.

“They were close.” Uncle Artur’s low words pierced her. “’Twill be difficult for her to accept.”

Annyn swung around to face those who stared at her with disdain and pity.

“How did my brother die?”

Was Wulfrith’s hesitation imagined? “It happened at Lincoln.”

She gasped. Yesterday they had received tidings of the bloody battle between the armies of England's self-proclaimed king, Stephen, and the young Henry, grandson of the departed King Henry and rightful heir to the throne. In spite of numerous skirmishes, raids, and deaths, it was told that neither man could claim victory at Lincoln. Nor could Jonas.

“Your brother squired for me. He was felled while delivering a lance to the field.”

Despite her trembling, Annyn held Wulfrith’s gaze. “What felled him?”

Something turned in his steely eyes. “An arrow to the heart.”

All for Stephen’s defense of his misbegotten claim to England.

She sank her nails into her palms. How it had pained Jonas to stand the side of the usurper when it was Henry he supported. And surely he had not been alone in that. Regardless of whose claim to the throne one supported, nobles vied to place their sons at Wulfen Castle. True, Wulfrith was Stephen's man, but it was said there was none better to train knights who would one day lord. If not for this silver-haired Lucifer and his thieving king, Jonas would be alive.

“He died an honorable death, Lady Annyn.”

She took a step toward Wulfrith. “’Twas for Stephen he died. Tell me, Lord Wulfrith, what has that man to do with honor?”

As anger flared in his eyes, Uncle Artur groaned. Though Uncle also sided with Stephen, he had been aware of his nephew's allegiance to Henry. This, then —his hope of turning Jonas to Stephen—among his reasons for sending his nephew to Wulfrith.

Amid the murmuring and grunting of those in the hall, Annyn looked to Wulfrith's scored flesh and wished the furrows proved deep enough to mark him forever. And of Stephen who had pressed Uncle to send Jonas to Wulfrith?

Whose wrongful claim to England had made the battle that took Jonas's life?

“Again, were I a man, I would kill your beloved Stephen.”

While his men responded with raised voices, out of the darkness of his accursed soul, Wulfrith stared at her.

“Annyn!” Uncle strangled. “You do not know of what you speak.”

“But I do.” She turned her back on him and gently swept the hair off her brother's brow.

“Pray, Lord Wulfrith,” her uncle beseeched, “do not listen—”

“Fear not. What has been spoken shall not pass from here.”

Annyn looked over her shoulder. “My uncle is most grateful for such generosity from the man who bequeathed a grave to his heir.”

Wulfrith's lower lip thinned with the upper, and his men objected more loudly, but it was Uncle Artur's face that stayed her. His torment pushed past the child in her and forced her to recognize it was not Wulfrith who staggered beneath her bitter words. It was this man she loved as a father.

She swallowed her tears. She would not further lose control of her emotions. After all, she was four and ten winters aged—a woman, though her uncle defended her as a girl. If not for his indulgence, she might now be wed, perhaps even with child.

She closed her eyes and drew a deep breath. When she lifted her lids, Wulfrith's harsh gaze awaited hers. “We wish to be alone,” she said.

He inclined his head and looked to Uncle. “Lord Bretanne.”

“Lord Wulfrith. Godspeed.”

Despising the baron’s ample shoulders and long-reaching legs, Annyn stared after him until he and his men passed through the door held by the porter.

“You should not have spoken as you did,” Uncle said, though the steel in his voice would forge no sword.

Jonas's death had aged him, had stolen the breadth of shoulders on which he had borne her as a young girl.

Pressing her own shoulders back, she stood as tall as her four feet and some inches would stretch. “I know I have shamed you, and I shall endeavor to earn your forgiveness.”

He mounted the dais and put an arm around her. “All is forgiven.” He turned her to Jonas.

As she looked at her brother, a sob climbed up her throat. Reminding herself she was no longer a girl, she swallowed it.

“An honorable death.”

Uncle’s whispered words struck nearly as hard as when Wulfrith had spoken them. Though she struggled to hold back the child who incited words to her lips, she could not.

“Honorable! Not even eight and ten and he lies dead from serving a man who was more his enemy than—”

“Enough!” Uncle dropped his arm from her.

“Can you deny Jonas would be alive if not for Stephen's war?”

Anger met weariness on his brow. “Nay, as neither can I deny he would yet breathe if Henry, that whelp of Maude's, did not seek England for his own.” He reached past her, ungirded Jonas’s belt, and swept up his tunic. “Look!”

She did not want to, longed to run back to the wood, but that was the girl in her. Jaw aching at the force with which she ground her teeth, she dragged her gaze to the hideous wound at the center of her brother’s chest.

“What do you see?” Uncle asked.

“A wound.”

“And whose army do you think shot the arrow that put it there?”

Henry’s, but—

“Whose, Annyn?”

Henry's, but Stephen—

“Speak it!”

She looked to her quaking hands. “Henry’s.”

He sighed, bent a finger beneath her chin, and urged her face up. “Stephen may not be the king England deserves, but until a worthier one appears, he is all there is. I beseech you, put aside Jonas's foolish allegiance to Maude's son. Henry is but a boy—barely six and ten—and unworthy to rule.”

Unworthy when he led armies? Unworthy when—

She nodded.

Uncle stepped back. “I must needs pray.”

As she ought to herself, for Father Cornelius told it was a long way to heaven. The sooner Jonas was prayed there, the sooner he might find his rest. “I shall join you shortly.”

As her uncle turned away, Annyn saw the captain of the guard step out of a shadowed alcove. Had he been there when she entered the hall? Not that any of what had been said should be withheld from him, for he also had been like a father to Jonas. Did Uncle know of Rowan’s presence?

She looked to her uncle as he traversed the hall and saw him lift a hand to his chest as if troubled by the infirm heart that beat there.

Panged by the suffering of the man who had been good to her and Jonas—far better than his brother who had sown them—Annyn silently beseeched, Please,

Lord, hold him hale.

A moment later, she startled at the realization that she called on the one who had done nothing to protect her brother. Thus, it was not likely He would answer her prayers for her uncle.

When the old man disappeared up the stairs, Annyn drew nearer the table and reached to pull Jonas’s tunic down. However, the V-shaped birthmark on his left ribs captured her gaze. Since it was years since the boy he had been had tossed off his tunic in the heat of swordplay, she had forgotten about the mark.

She closed her eyes and cursed the man whose charge of Jonas had stolen her brother from her. Wulfrith had failed Jonas. Had failed her.

When Rowan ascended the dais, she looked around.

The captain of the guard stared at the young man to whom he had given so many of his years, then a mournful sound rumbled up from his depths and he yanked down Jonas’s tunic. For fear she would cry if she continued to look upon Rowan’s sorrow, Annyn lowered her face and reached to straighten the neck of her brother’s tunic. If not for that, she would not have seen it. Would never have known.

She looked closer at the abraded skin deep beneath his chin. What had caused it? She pushed the material aside. The raw skin circled his upper neck and, when she traced it around, it nearly met at the back.

Understanding landed like a slap to the face. Wulfrith had lied. An arrow had not killed Jonas. Hanging had been the end of him. Why? Had her brother revealed his allegiance to Henry? More, who had fit the noose? Wulfrith who stood for Stephen? It had to be. And if not him, then surely he had ordered it.

Annyn whipped her chin around and saw that Rowan stared at what she had uncovered.

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 ****** 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 had served since bringing Elena and her children to Lillia. How he had hated the name of Wulfrith, and now, it seemed, for naught. Still, there was the bloodguilt of Jonas’s death that the Wulfriths bore. And for Rowan, a need to finally avenge that death.

Though a part of him urged him to find a way to turn Annyn from her course, a young man he had loved had been murdered. A young man who had been as a son to him. Though never could he love Annyn as he had loved Jonas, he cared for Elena’s daughter. Whatever the cost, Drogo’s son would pay in kind.

But only if Annyn could kill. Of that Rowan was not certain. Forsooth, was she even prepared for the training she must endure to draw near Wulfrith?

As she had asked, Rowan had trained her and tried to make his time with her a balm to his loss of Jonas; however, he had not demanded of her all he would have required of a boy aspiring to manhood.

Fortunately, it was unlikely much had been required of Jame Braose, destined as he had been for the church. Thus, Annyn Bretanne as Jame Braose would not be expected to know much of arms and squiring. All she must know was where

best to sink a dagger so that its victim would not rise again. And that Rowan could teach her.