Free The Unveiling by Tamara Leigh Page B

both lessons to memory as he lifted the belt from her.
    “Wrong cart,” he pronounced. “Wrong line.”
    “I do not understand, my lord.”
    “You are to join Sir Merrick’s line when you come to the field. ’Tis he who oversees those recently elevated to squire.”
    “Did you not say it would be a fortnight ere I served under Sir Merrick?”
    His mouth tightened. “Aye, but still you will train at arms with him.”
    She nodded. “Which of these knights is Sir Merrick, my lord?”
    He looked across the field. “There, at the quintain.”
    Though the mix of dark and torchlight divided Squire Merrick’s features, she realized he was the one who had seemed familiar on the night past—and whose familiarity had frightened her. Where had she seen him? Or did his narrow face and sleepy eyes merely favor someone she knew?
    “Be of good speed,” Wulfrith said, “or you and the others under Sir Merrick shall run twice.”
    As they were to be given a half hour for the exercise, it was not around the training field they would run, for it took perhaps two minutes to circle once. Meaning she faced something greater. But she was determined she would not do it twice, especially as others would suffer for her straggling.
    She darted past Wulfrith and retrieved a belt from the cart alongside Sir Merrick. Blessedly, it felt half the weight of the first.
    “You are late!” Sir Merrick snapped.
    “Apologies, my lord.” She slung the belt around her waist, but before she could fumble with the fastening, he thrust her hands aside and fastened it for her.
    “Do not disappoint me, Braose.” Though it was a warning, Annyn thought she glimpsed encouragement in his heavily-lidded eyes.
    She hurried to the end of the line where the others awaited the signal—most of them her height or shorter. As the belt settled to her hips, Wulfrith’s shout resounded and the squires and pages burst forth.
    Annyn stayed with the mass as they rushed the downside of the hillock on which Wulfen was built. Though the rocks suspended from her belt glanced off her buttocks and hips, making for keen discomfort, she did not slow. Whatever lay ahead, she would overcome. However, her determination wavered when she entered the wood. It was dark, moonlight barely parting the shadows from the trees and the young men ahead.
    As she strained to see, someone knocked against her and caused her to drop to a knee. She shot back to her feet. Then another passed her, a large figure whose pale hair set him apart from the others. The squire lunged left, right, certain of his path as if he had run it many times. Though all of her ached, she stayed with him through the wood.
    What was their destination? Would she make the half hour? She tugged at her bindings and was grateful for the dark that allowed her to ease the discomfort that had grown with the need to fill her constricted lungs. Would it truly imperil her if she removed the bindings? Her tunic was full and—
    Nay, a squire’s training included wrestling, and if she were grabbed about the chest it was best that she remain bound. She touched the misericorde at her thigh. When would it set her free?
    Free to wander the path to hell, Father Cornelius whispered as an elbow struck her shoulder and a foot landed atop hers. Without apology, the offender shot ahead and melted into the darkness.
    “Curse you, Wulfrith,” she spat, putting the blame where it belonged. “Curse your black soul!” Determinedly, she resettled her gaze on the large shadow that was her beacon through the wood.
    When the sound of falling water reached her, dawn had turned the sky from black to deep blue, the towering sentries to trees, the shadows to squires and pages, and the one ahead to a man. It was Wulfrith, the pale hair that had held her to him not flaxen as supposed, but silver.
    She swerved and nearly collided with another squire. The young man shouted, but she was too intent on distancing herself to make sense of his words. Staying