The Unveiling by Tamara Leigh (easy books to read txt) 📕

at the sting that had begun in her own throat hours earlier and stepped forward.

He led her across the outer bailey to the inner drawbridge. She was watched, and when she followed the strongest of the sensations, her squinted eyes found Squire Charles where he paused outside the stables. A moment later, Squire Samuel, leading Wulfrith’s destrier, appeared.

Nose running, Annyn sniffed and turned her eyes forward as she passed beneath the portcullis.

The inner bailey provided her first view of Stern’s donjon lit by daylight. Though simply designed, it was majestic and more immense than any she had seen. Indeed, two of Castle Lillia’s donjons could fit into it.

The steps were treacherous, though not because of disrepair. Rather, her eyes continued to struggle with the light she had been too long denied.

At the great doors, the porter shot Annyn a questioning look as he stepped aside to allow Sir Abel and her to enter.

The fresh scent of mint that contrasted sharply with the fetid odor of the cell, struck Annyn before she set foot within. Though she had never been fond of using the herb to scent the rushes at Castle Lillia, it now appealed. Entering the hall, she breathed it deep and wished Rowan was with her. He had hardly spoken to her for however many days had passed, but she longed for the friendship he had extended all these years. However, her discourse with Wulfrith’s mother had turned him again and she was once more the betrayer.

Annyn looked around the hall where a half dozen servants set out trestle tables for the nooning meal. As the exterior of the donjon was simple, so was the interior, but it did not lack for warmth. The ceiling to floor tapestries were woven of muted colors, the furnishings sparse but solid, the stairway of modest size. Indeed, the only excess, could it be called that considering the size of the hall, was the massive stone fireplace that reached to the ceiling.

Longing to stretch her hands to the flames, she lowered her hood and followed Sir Abel. As they neared the stairway, a figure dressed in black halted on the bottom stair.

Startled eyes evidencing she had not known her son’s prisoner was summoned, Wulfrith’s mother looked to her youngest son.

He shrugged. “Wulfrith ordered it.”

Then he had summoned her. Meaning he was recovered? Thank you, Lord.

“’Twill not do,” Wulfrith’s mother said as she assessed Annyn, from her disheveled hair to her begrimed boots. She waved her forward. “Something must needs be done.”

“What say you, Mother?”

The woman turned a sour eye on her youngest boy. “Prisoner or no, I do not allow such filth in my home. It attracts fleas and rats.”

Annyn could not take offense. She was horribly fouled.

“Come, Lady Annyn, let us see what can be done.”

She followed Lady Isobel up the stairs, as did Sir Abel.

The woman must have heard his footsteps, for she swung around. “Go back to your wench in the stables. I do not require your attendance.”

“You should not be alone with her, Mother.”

Her hands fell to her hips. “Has she a weapon?”

“Nay, but—”

“Go—unless you wish to carry her bath water.”

Annyn blinked. She was to have a bath? Ah, mercy! To wash away the filth, to smell clean again.

“He will not like it,” Sir Abel said.

“That we shall know soon enough.”

He grunted, turned, and descended the stairs.

The lady of Stern resumed her ascent. Though the winding stairs continued upward, she turned off the first landing.

The realization that Wulfrith was likely behind one of the four doors made Annyn’s heart skitter. As she passed the first, the laughter of girls sounded from the chamber. He could not be there.

His mother traversed the corridor to the end and pushed open a door.

The chamber was of a good size despite the enormous bed that sought to diminish it, but as with the hall, it was simply furnished.

“My son’s chamber when he is at Stern,” Lady Isobel said, then muttered, “which is far too rare.”

It was Wulfrith of whom she spoke, but where was he if not here? The solar? Aye, his mother had given it up that he might know greater comfort.

“I shall send for the tub and water,” the lady said.

The door closed, and when Annyn turned, she was alone. But she would make no trouble. Not only was she chill and ailing, but she must speak with Wulfrith about Rowan. She crossed to the brazier that glowed softly from earlier use, meaning Wulfrith’s mother had likely taken the chamber for herself while her son recovered.

Though the warmth spread through her fingers, it came nowhere near the chill at her center. Shivering, she wondered how long it would be until the hot bath was delivered.

She glanced at the bed and imagined crawling beneath the heavy coverlet. However, not only would it be inappropriate, but she would sully the bed. In fact, though fatigue pressed her to sit, she didn’t dare settle her filth onto the chair.

The tub, borne by two servants, arrived within a few minutes. As Wulfrith’s mother directed that it be set before the brazier, Annyn stepped aside.

Shortly, a hand touched her shoulder. “Sit, Lady Annyn.”

She met Lady Isobel’s steady gaze. “I am fine, my lady.”

“You are not.” She pressed Annyn toward the chair. “Worry not. The chair will clean.”

Why was Wulfrith’s mother so kind to one who had sought to kill her son?

“Sit,” the lady’s accented voice turned more firm.

Annyn lowered herself. “I thank you.”

The woman turned as the first buckets arrived.

Annyn watched the maid servants carry them within and remembered when she had lugged water for Wulfrith’s bath. It seemed so long ago.

“Josse,” Lady Isobel addressed the pretty young maid who next entered the chamber, “add coal to the brazier, then assist Lady Annyn in the removal of her garments.”

“Aye, my lady.” When the young woman approached Annyn, her lips were pressed as if to hold back a smile and her eyes danced. Doubtless, she had never assisted a lady who looked as Annyn did with her bruised face, shorn hair, and the filthy clothes of a man. “If you would stand, my lady, I shall make you ready for your bath.”

Beneath Lady Isobel’s gaze, the mantle was lifted from Annyn’s shoulders, next the tunic that Wulfrith had given her. She shivered.

“What is this?” Lady Isobel took the white tunic from Josse and ran fingers over the ragged edge from which Annyn had torn the strip for Wulfrith’s shoulder. “’Tis what bound my son’s injury?”

How had she guessed? The fine linen? “Aye,” Annyn said, “the blood needed to be stanched.”

The woman considered the modest embroidery around the neck. “It belongs to him.”

Then it was surely she who had made the stitches. “He gave it to me when...” Annyn put a hand to the cut tunic that revealed the bindings she would have removed if not for the additional warmth they provided. “He gave it to me when my own was...torn.”

Lady Isobel’s eyes lowered to the bindings. “So that is how you did it. Clever.” She stepped forward and peered into Annyn’s face. “Still, I do not understand how Wulfrith—or any other—did not see you. I would have instantly known you for a woman.”

She would have? It was not as if Annyn possessed the beauty of her mother or Lady Isobel that easily proclaimed their femininity.

“But then, I am a woman and they are not.” A bitter laugh parted Lady Isobel’s lips. “How blind men are, especially those of the warrior class who are far too busy searching out war to look near upon the small and precious things of life.”

The lady hurt, Annyn realized, something in her past weighing upon her.

“But that is the way of men.” She beckoned Josse forward.

As the servant removed Annyn’s tunic, Lady Isobel turned away. “I shall return ere long.” She crossed to the door and paused. “Mayhap later you will tell me how your own tunic was rent.”

That her son had put a dagger through it?

The lady closed the door.

Josse flung the tunic onto the chair and grimaced over the bindings. “I shall have to unwind you.” When Annyn’s chest was finally bared, she exclaimed, “Oh, my lady, see what you have done!”

Annyn’s flesh was angry, especially where the upper and lower edges of the bindings had rubbed. But she hardly felt it, she was so cold. Looking to the bath that wafted steam and the scent of roses, she reached to her braies.

Josse pushed her hands aside. “’Tis for me to do.”

When Annyn finally settled into the tub, she moaned as the water gave its heat to her. Closing her eyes, she reveled in a pleasure that had only ever seemed a chore. She hardly felt the hands rubbing soap into her skin, the water streaming over her head, the fingers scrubbing her scalp, but too soon the bath cooled.

As Josse ushered her into a towel, Lady Isobel reappeared with a bright blue bliaut, white chainse, head veil, and hose and slippers.

Strangely, Annyn was not disappointed that she would once more don lady’s clothes. More than ever, including when she was a very young girl and had still dreamed of being the beauty her mother was, she longed to look the lady. For what reason, she did not care to admit.

Lady Isobel considered Annyn’s scrubbed face and bare shoulders above the towel. “As expected, you are pretty.”

Truly? The nearest she had come to such a compliment was when Duke Henry had condescended to pronounce her “not uncomely.” “Thank you, Lady Isobel.”

The woman eyed Annyn’s arms. “The Baron Lavonne is also responsible for these bruises?”

Then she knew it was he who had struck her face, likely told by Abel who would have learned it from his brother. “He was angered by what I said to him.”

Lady Isobel put her head to the side. “Angrier than you made my son?”

It took Annyn a moment to decipher the woman’s message that her son was not a beast. But Annyn already knew that.

Lady Isobel sighed and looked to Josse. “We must needs make haste. Lord Wulfrith grows impatient.”

Josse lifted the armful from her mistress. “Come, Lady Annyn.” She stepped to the bed and laid out the garments.

It felt strange to be dressed by a maid, for Annyn had not liked the close attentions of the woman that Uncle had given in service to her at Castle Lillia—the tittering over her choice of clothes, the muttering over the grime caused by her training with Rowan.

“It has been four days since you arrived at Stern,” Lady Isobel spoke from the chair Annyn had earlier occupied.

It seemed twice as many. Wishing she had a towel with which to wipe her nose and that she could shake the chill that had returned to her, Annyn sniffed and looked up from the bliaut Josse had pulled over her head.

“And yet,” Lady Isobel said, “you have not asked how my son fares.”

Annyn’s heart jerked. He was recovering, was he not? “I assumed that, as he sent for me, he must be healing.” She caught her breath as Josse pulled in the side laces of the bliaut that fit a bit too snug. “He is, is he not?”

“Aye, he heals.”

Thank You, Lord.

“Lady Gaenor’s gown is a wee tight.” Josse stepped back to assess Annyn. “But it will do.”

Who was Lady Gaenor? Annyn looked from Josse to Lady Isobel, but neither enlightened her. Whoever the woman was, and for whatever reason she kept clothes at Stern, Lady Gaenor was tall. Even with slippers, the bliaut’s skirt would trail—not only