Dreamspell (46 page)

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.

I
t 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.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Tamara Leigh holds a Masters Degree in Speech and Language Pathology. In 1993, she signed a 4-book contract with Bantam Books. Her first medieval romance,
Warrior Bride
, was released in 1994, followed by
Virgin Bride, Pagan Bride,
and
Saxon Bride
. Tamara continued to write for the general market, publishing three more novels with HarperCollins and Dorchester and earning awards and spots on national bestseller lists.

In 2006, Tamara’s first inspirational contemporary romance,
Stealing Adda
, was released. In 2008,
Perfecting Kate
was optioned for a movie and
Splitting Harriet
won an ACFW “Book of the Year” award. Both books were released as audiobooks. In 2009,
Faking Grace
was nominated for ACFW “Book of the Year” and RITA awards. In 2010,
Leaving Carolina
was featured in Target stores’ “Emerging Authors: New, Notable, Red-Hot Reads” section. In 2011, Tamara wrapped up her “Southern Discomfort” series with the release of
Restless in Carolina
.

When not in the middle of being a wife, mother, and cookbook fiend, Tamara continues to write. Recently, she returned to the historical romance genre with the release of
Dreamspell,
a medieval time travel romance. With
The Unveiling,
the first book in her new
Age of Faith
series, she once more invites readers to join her in the world of the middle ages.
The Yielding
, the second book in the series, will be available December 2012.

Tamara lives near Nashville, Tennessee with her husband and sons, a Doberman that bares its teeth not only to threaten the UPS man but to smile, and a Shih Tzu with a Napoleon complex and something of an eating disorder.

WEBSITE:

www.tamaraleigh.com

www.thekitchennovelist.com

EMAIL:

[email protected]

GOOD OLD SNAIL MAIL:

Tamara Leigh, P.O. Box 1298

Goodlettsville, TN 37070