Free The Unveiling by Tamara Leigh

Samuel.”
    He turned and started across the hall that was dim only for lack of sunlight, a dozen or more torches giving light to those who pulled on tunics, rolled on hose, tugged on shoes, and carried pallets to a far corner.
    Annyn fingered the cap beneath her belt but decided against it. She would just be made to remove it upon entering the chapel.
    As she gathered her pallet and belongings, she scraped the back of her injured hand. The burn had lessened, but it still pained.
    She smoothed Wulfrith’s salve into her skin, then crossed to where the others had piled their pallets high and packs deep. Unburdening her arms, she discovered she was watched by a young man whose face was decidedly unattractive despite being set with the deepest blue eyes she had ever seen. He seemed familiar and she realized he was the squire who had stood behind one of the knights at Wulfrith’s table on the night past—the dark-haired knight who resembled Wulfrith.
    “I knew your brother,” the young man said.
    Be calm. ’Tis Jame Braose’s brother of whom he speaks. Remember that which Rowan told. Hoping the squire had not met Jame, she said, “You speak of Rhys?” The eldest. Pray, let it be the eldest, for she could not name the second brother.
    “Nay, Joseph.”
    That was it. “How is it you knew him?”
    He stepped nearer. “We served together under Baron Vincenne. He was a squire when I was yet a page.” A sad smile touched his lips. “Your brother taught me much of the sword.”
    “I see. What is your name?”
    “I am Charles Shefield, First Squire to Sir Abel, soon to be Sir Charles Shefield, one day Baron Shefield of West Glenne.”
    At least he knew his destiny. “I recognize the name.” Jame Braose might have, mightn’t he?
    “Your brother spoke of me?”
    She ought to have pretended ignorance. After all, one schooled for the priesthood did not necessarily engage in discourse over knightly training, especially with a brother one rarely saw. “He did.”
    His wide mouth curved, then fell. “I was aggrieved to hear of his death and that of your older brother.”
    Annyn wondered at the flush of sorrow she felt. It did not belong to her but the young man held by Henry. It must be because of Jonas. As Jame Braose knew the loss of a brother, so did she—though for him it had been two brothers.
    Set as she was on revenge, she had given little consideration to what Jame might feel. He had been but an opportunity. This, then, the reason God claimed vengeance for his own? That one not be made unfeeling? Was that what she had become? Callous? Indifferent? It seemed so, and it made her doubt herself. Mayhap—
    Four year old anger curled her fingers into fists. Jonas had been murdered and God had done nothing to punish Wulfrith. Even if it cost her soul, justice would be done.
    “If we do not make haste,” Charles said, “we will be late for mass.”
    Annyn started to follow him but paused at the heaviness of her bladder. “I...” She felt heat seep her face. A man would not be so uncomfortable!
    Squire Charles looked over his shoulder.
    “I must needs relieve myself.” Was she blushing as deeply on the outside as the inside?
    He inclined his head. “The chapel is on the floor above at corridor’s end.”
    She sighed as he bounded up the stairs. One thing was certain: if she wished to remain Jame Braose, she must avoid Charles.
    When she stepped off the stairs a short while later, the priest’s voice met her ears. Mass had begun.
    Though she was prepared for a small place of worship, as at Lillia, there was nothing small about the place she stepped into. It was so large there was room for all—pages, squires, and knights each provided a space that did not crowd one with another. The furnishings were costly, from the ceiling to floor tapestries that depicted the Lord on Earth and in His Heavens, to the ornate altar set with relics. But most surprising were the wide shoulders and bowed silver head at the front of