Chapter 4

CHAPTER FOUR

The woods of Wulfen Castle, England

Staring at her distorted reflection, Annyn waited for the water disturbed by her hands to still and return her face to its familiar planes. When it did, she felt assured that none would know what was concealed beneath loose tunic, hose, and braies—the latter padded at the groin lest the hem of her tunic carried up.

She fingered the black hair she had cut to her jaw two nights past. Of all she had done to look the boy, this contributed the most. However, she was not overly saddened by the sacrifice of the greatest proof of her femininity. Indeed, her hair had too often proved a hindrance.

She filled her lungs with crisp air. Spring. Awakening from the death of winter, it made the world over and gave hope to those who had none. It soothed, leaving behind the old and painful and giving rise to the new and joyful. For some.

Trying not to think of Uncle who was in the ground by now, and Henry who surely fomented over her disappearance, she ran her fingers across the new shoots of grass alongside her boots. The blades were reborn, as she was into this man’s world.

When Rowan’s reflection appeared over her shoulder, she saw he wore the colors of the family she had taken for her own and shaved his beard, the latter making him appear younger and assuring he would not be recognized.

He met her gaze in the pool. “Are you ready, Jame Braose of Gaither?”

She stood. “I am.”

“Still I see the woman.”

“Because you know the woman.” She tugged at the bindings that bound her small breasts beneath the tunic.

“Perhaps.” He settled a cap on her head. “As much as possible, wear this. And take care with your voice. ’Tis a squire you pretend, not a page.”

Though her natural huskiness lent to the pretense, a lower pitch was required.

“I shall.” She plucked at the bindings.

“And refrain from that.”

She made a face. “Considering I am not much bigger in the chest than a boy, is it truly necessary for me to be bound?”

His brow lowered. “Is it necessary for you to do this thing?”

He knew it was, though since their departure from Lillia she had felt his disquiet deepen. “It is.”

“Then you must needs be bound.” He strode toward the horses.

’Twill not be for long, Annyn consoled herself, certain that, within a sennight, she would find an opportunity to avenge Jonas.

Vengeance is not yours.

She pushed aside her brother’s words and touched the misericorde bound at her thigh. The great vein in the neck, Rowan had told.

“Come!” he called.

Thrilled with fear, she hurried after him and mounted her horse. They maintained silence to the edge of the wood, beyond which lay Wulfen Castle.

Annyn’s first glimpse of the darkly imposing structure perched firmly on a hillock made her swallow. It was high and wide, walls washed in dark grey, red flags as blood upon it.

“You would stay the course?” Rowan asked.

Wishing there was another way that would not cost him his allegiance to Henry, she sat straighter. “I would.”

He nodded and spurred his mount forward. “Godspeed,” he shouted as they hurtled across the land.

Not until they slowed midway did Annyn see what transpired to the left of the castle. Four score men swung swords, tilted, and grappled hand-to-hand on a training field more vast than any she had seen. Its perimeter fenced, the interior crossed by yet more fences, the field was sectioned in such a way that each activity was separated from the other.

When thunder arose from behind, Annyn turned in her saddle to watch as five armored riders advanced on them. They were of Wulfen, their red surcoats emblazoned with charging wolves. Stomach tossing, she reined in alongside Rowan.

“Do not forget who you are, Jame Braose,” he warned.

Meaning this young man torn from the priesthood had not likely more than

laid eyes to arms. But that did not mean he could not learn quickly.

Wulfrith’s men drew around her and Rowan, and Annyn saw they were not quite men. Only a few sprouted whiskers, and then without much enthusiasm.

They were all young men, squires approaching knighthood.

“Who goes?” demanded the one who sported a darkly fuzzed chin.

It seemed she was not alone in trying to sound like a man.

“I am Sir Killary,” Rowan rendered in the superior voice of one who ranked

above another. “This is Jame Braose of Gaither. Baron Wulfrith expects us.”

The young man urged his horse nearer. “Your papers.”

Rowan withdrew the parchment from his saddlebag and slapped it in the squire’s palm.

The young man unrolled it and scrutinized the words that Annyn had put to memory. “Ride,” he said and jutted his chin in the direction of the castle.

Though Annyn expected the activity on the training field to cease as they neared, there was no break in the fierce battles between those who struggled

toward knighthood, nor when Wulfrith’s escort halted them before the field.

Young men were everywhere, grunting and perspiring. Among them moved older men who shouted direction and demonstrated technique. However, the one who captured her gaze was a large figure engaged in hand-to-hand combat.

Silver hair bound at his nape, the back of his tunic dark with perspiration, Wulfrith lunged and dropped his young opponent with a clip to the jaw.

A shudder went through Annyn. The baron was not to be bested by a boy.

But I am a woman. And this woman will put him to ground—into the ground.

As the young man regained his feet, Wulfrith said something and showed a fist. The squire nodded and Wulfrith turned away.

The face Annyn had first seen four years past topped a body that looked even more powerful in simple garments. A moment later, those arresting grey-green eyes landed on her.

Breathe! She held his stare as he traversed the training field, secure in the knowledge gleaned by Rowan that Wulfrith had never met Braose. As for Annyn Bretanne, four years had changed her, and the one time they had met, her face had been crusted with mud. He would not recognize her. But would he see the woman beneath the man’s garments?

Continuing to hold her regard, he halted two paces to her left.

Her insides rattled. Was her nose large enough for a man? She flared it. Teeth too even? She seamed her lips. Shoulders too narrow? She pushed them back.

Chest too—?

“The papers, Squire Philippe,” Wulfrith ordered.

The darkly fuzzed one stepped forward. Only then did Annyn realize he and the rest of their escort had dismounted. Should she and Rowan?

“’Tis Jame Braose of Gaither, my lord.”

Wulfrith unrolled the parchment and lowered his gaze, but no sooner did

Annyn draw a breath of relief than he looked up. “You are late.”

She struggled with throat muscles that were tighter than they needed to be. “I fear—”

“This is all the escort your father provided?”

“My lord,” Rowan said, “I am Sir Killary, in service to Baron Braose. En route to Wulfen, we were set upon by Henry’s army. Though all were captured,

the boy and I had the good fortune to escape two nights past. We came directly to Wulfen.”

Wulfrith stared.

Did he see through her and Rowan? Please, God—

Sacrilege! Father Cornelius castigated from afar. God would not aid in her revenge. And though Annyn excused her plans by telling herself she was aiding God, she knew death for death would not be forgiven. To hell she would go, that dark place often preached by Father Cornelius.

“Why do you wait?” Wulfrith demanded.

“My lord?” Annyn nearly choked on the title.

His nostrils flared. “Such musing will see you dead, Braose. I say again—”

Again?

“—dismount. Your training begins now.”

“But I have only just arrived.”

He moved so suddenly it was as if by sorcery he appeared at her side.

Gripping her boot, he jerked her out of the saddle.

She landed on her back. As she fought for breath, she looked up at where he stood over her with legs spread. It was good she did not quickly refill her lungs for the words to which she longed to give breath would surely prove her undoing.

At last catching air, she looked to Rowan. Though warning fell from him, there was struggle in his eyes that told of the effort he exerted to keep from

setting upon Wulfrith. As for their escort, their mouths were still, but their eyes spoke as loudly as Rowan’s. Not with warning, but amusement.

“Gain your feet,” Wulfrith ordered.

She stumbled upright and snatched her cap from the ground. As she jammed it on her head, she turned. Though four years had put her closer to Wulfrith’s height, still a foot stretched between the top of her head and his.

Cunning and stealth, she reminded. What he did not see would give her revenge.

“Lesson one,” he said, “when spoken to, listen well.”

She tightened her throat muscles. “Aye, my lord.” Never her lord!

“Lesson two, never question me.”

“Aye, my lord.” Miscreant!

“Lesson three, act when told to act.”

I shall act, all right. “Aye, my lord.”

“Lesson four, keep your eyes on your opponent.”

“Aye, my lord.” Cur!

“Now get to the field.”

As dearly as she longed to look to Rowan, she knew it would not be tolerated.

Lesson three, was it not? Or was it four?

As she stepped away, Wulfrith addressed Rowan. “Tell your lord his son is received.”

Rowan was leaving? Surely Wulfrith would extend one night’s hospitality?

She looked over her shoulder—a mistake.

“’Round the field ten times, Braose!” Wulfrith ordered.

Curse him! And she did, over and over until she was halfway around the field and again caught sight of Rowan. As she watched him ride from Wulfen, she

ached. She had not even been allowed to wish him Godspeed. But, then, men did not bother over farewells.

On her fourth turn around the field, she saw the last of Rowan from sight. But he would be near, and when Wulfrith met his fate, Rowan would see her safely away.

Trying to turn back her woman’s tears, she lowered her gaze to the ground.

Six turns more, she told herself as she perspired into her tunic, and she did not doubt Wulfrith would know if she cut it by one.

She searched him out and found him head and shoulders above a squire whose height made her look tall.

She frowned. A page? Aye, and there were more of smaller stature, some looking as young as seven or eight. Though it was not unusual for pages to train

alongside squires, Annyn was surprised that Wulfrith trained the young boys himself.

By the time she made the last turn of the field, her tunic and bindings were damp and the latter chafed. Remembering Rowan’s warning, she clenched her hands to keep from picking at her discomfort. When she reached the entrance to

the training field, she gripped her aching sides and bent forward.

She had thought herself more fit. Though nearly every day she exerted herself, either by chasing game through the wood or learning weapons with Rowan, this hurt.

Yielding to the need to sit—for a moment only, she vowed—she dropped to the ground, only to yield again and lay back on the scrubby grass.

Panting, she looked side to side. Her mount was gone. Had it been taken to the stables? What of the pack containing her scant possessions?

She curbed her worry with the reminder that neither was of consequence, closed her eyes, and listened to her breathing that, according to Rowan, was the

surest way to calm it.

A cloud moved across the sun, offering sweet reprieve from its heat.

“You are not very fast,” said a dread voice.

Not a cloud, but Wulfrith. She peered up at him.

His eyes were reproachful. “You will have to do better if you are to don armor. Get up.”

Thinking him every foul name she could call to mind, she staggered upright and followed him to the training field.

Though those she passed tipped her senses with potent perspiration and made her long to cover her mouth and nose, she suffered through it to the center of the field where quarterstaffs were piled.

Wulfrith swept one to hand. “Choose.”

He would test her himself? She ground her teeth. To plant a dagger in him was what she wanted, not to play at fighting.

“Braose!”

She grabbed a staff and turned. “You are to train me, my lord?”

He put a two-handed grip to his quarterstaff. “All start with me. All end with me.”

“And in between?” She placed her hands too near as Jame Braose might do.

Wulfrith’s gaze fell to them. “When you have proven yourself worthy to train at Wulfen, you will be assigned a knight to serve.” He stepped forward, gripped her right hand, and pushed it down the quarterstaff.

His touch jolted, and it was all she could do not to wrench away.

“Hold it so.” He jutted his chin. “Now show whether you are a boy or a man.”

He raised his staff, lunged, and was on her before she could counter.

She bent beneath the blow to her shoulder and grunted out her pain. Though Wulfrith had surely exercised restraint, it was not gratitude she felt but a deepening desire for revenge.

“Not worthy,” he taunted. “Come again.”

Forgetting the inexperienced young man she was, she lunged.

This time their staffs met at center, but as Annyn congratulated herself on deflecting his blow, he arced his staff and slammed it against the knuckles of her left hand.

She cried out, loosed the quarterstaff, and hugged her throbbing hand to her chest.

Curse his black soul! Curse his loins that they might never render forth

another like him. Curse—

“Not worthy. Arm yourself!”

She retrieved the staff, fended off his next assault, and became the attacker.

The staffs crashed between them, but Wulfrith was solid. Nearly chest to chest with him, assailed by his strong, masculine scent, she looked up.

He looked down. “Not worthy. You fight like a girl.”

Fanned by the hot breath of revelation, Annyn forgot her pain. Did she fight like a girl? Did he see Annyn Bretanne? Or was this part of her training? Surely the latter, for she hardly fought like a girl. Indeed, she had forgotten Jame Braose and put Rowan’s training to good use.

“I fear I am at a disadvantage, my lord, for surely you are two of me.”

His lips curled. “Mayhap three.” He ****** her back.

Affecting the untried person of Jame Braose, she staggered before coming at him again. However, further pretense was unnecessary when next their staffs met. For all of Annyn’s training, her skill was as water to his wine.

He turned his staff, met hers, pushed back, met again, pushed again, and knocked her so hard to the ground that the staff flew out of her hands.

Bottling her cry of pain, Annyn dropped her head back and showed him her hate.

“We will use that,” he said. “Anger makes a man strong.”

As it was said to make him strong?

“You but need to learn when to use it and to what degree, little priest.”

His reminder of who Jame Braose was cooled her expression of hatred.

“Now the pel.” He turned.

The pel? And what else?

As Annyn rose, she saw the field had emptied. Gauging by the lowering sun, the supper hour neared. And she was alone with Wulfrith—of certain advantage were she capable of working vengeance without stealth.

“Braose!”

Muttering beneath her breath, she tramped after him.

He stood before a wooden post set in the ground. “Your sword.” He extended the one he held.

Her fingers brushed his as she turned them around the hilt, and she felt her blood rush. How curious hate was—

The tip of the sword hit the ground, and she stared down the blade’s length before realizing she had been given a blade twice the weight of others. Though she knew such swords were used to develop muscles and grow one accustomed

to wielding weapons, Rowan had never pressed her to swing one.

“Are you hungry, Braose?”

Dare she hope he might forego this exercise? “Indeed I am...my lord.”

“Then the sooner you take the pel to ground, the sooner you may fill your belly.”

All the way to ground? Though she supposed she ought to be grateful the post was not thick, she hated Wulfrith more.

She took a step back, closed her other hand over the hilt, and heaved the sword up. It was not the pel she struck once...twice...a dozen times. It was the

image she summoned of Wulfrith. She hacked until her arms trembled. And still the post was not halfway felled.

Throat raw from labored breath, she lowered the sword.

“You have much anger for one promised to the church,” Wulfrith mused.

She looked to where he leaned against the fence. How was she to respond? As Jame Braose. “Were your own destiny snatched from you, you would also be angered.”

He arched an eyebrow. “So I would.” He strode from the fence and advanced on her. “Finish with the pel and come to the hall. You will pour wine at table this eve.”

When was she to eat?

She thought he meant to pass behind her, but he paused at her back, leaned in, and said, “I promise you, Jame Braose, we will turn that anger of yours to good.”

His warm breath on her skin made her shiver. Her good, not his.

She heard his footsteps retreat. When she was fairly sure he was gone, she looked over her shoulder. Only she remained on the training field, and somewhere out there, Rowan.

With a grunt, she raised the sword and swung. The blade bit, causing the wooden post to shudder and chips to fly. If it was a pel Wulfrith wanted, a pel

she would give him.

Across the darkening of day, Garr looked down from the battlements to the young man on the training field. Though Braose’s arms and shoulders surely raged, he continued to swing the weighted sword.

He was not as expected. Though years from a man’s body, he was not fragile and fought well for one who had received little training in arms. And the anger that colored his eyes!

It reminded Garr of the anger he himself had known as a boy. But Braose’s seemed to go beyond his loss of the church. Indeed, it was as if directed at Garr himself. Because Garr stood Stephen’s side and the little priest turned heir had gone to Henry’s side? That the young man’s father had not told in the missive sent two months past beseeching that his son be accepted at Wulfen.

As for Jame’s impertinence, he dared mightily when it had been told he was acquiescent. As for face, he was nearly pretty, his skin smooth and unblemished and lacking any evidence that a beard might soon sprout.

There was something else about him that bothered. Though Garr was trained to the eyes, that well of emotion more telling than men’s lips, something dwelt in the young man’s hate that could not be read. But soon enough he would come to it, Garr hoped, for his reading of men’s eyes had failed him once. Only by God’s grace had it not cost hundreds of lives.

He shoved a hand through his hair. Though nothing was certain in life, there was merit in going to the eyes to truly know a person—rather, a man, for could one truly know a woman? And would one wish to?

Bothersome creatures, his father, Drogo, had often said. But they were useful, for without them there would be naught, Garr conceded no more than his father and grandfather had done. Still, truth be known, he had never come nearer a woman than through the ease of his loins, and only with harlots.

At the age of four, Drogo had taken him from Stern Castle to begin his training at Wulfen. It had been the same for the two brothers that followed, never

knowing much of their mother or sisters beyond the once, sometimes twice-a-year visits. Women were a bad influence, Drogo had told. They weakened a man’s heart when it needed to be strong. Thus, as it had been for the generations

before Garr—men who knew women only for the lusting and getting of heirs—so it would be for the generations to follow.

Garr looked one last time at Jame Braose. Whatever it was about the young man, he would discover it. Silently cursing that he was late to prayer, he swung away.

When the irony of his blaspheming struck, he raised his eyes. “Forgive me, Lord.” Such was the difficulty of even putting one’s thoughts to women. Always

they turned a man from his purpose.

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