Keller watched tears spill down her cheeks. He could literally feel the fear from the woman. He realized that he wanted very much to comfort her, perhaps draw her against him, hugging her and initiating that comforting human contact to convey both his sympathy and his sorrow for her plight. But somehow, he couldn’t do it. The last woman he comforted had put his heart beneath her shoe and crushed it. Nay, he wasn’t ready to hold Chrystobel yet, to feel her warm body against his. He seriously wondered if he ever would be. With a heavy sigh, he dropped his hands, hating Gryffyn d’Einen more with every breath he took.
“Not only will I challenge him, but I will win,” he said. “You need no longer fear for your sister or father, Lady de Poyer. You are my wife now and your family is now under my protection. Your brother’s reign of terror is over.”
With that, he turned on his heel and quit the chamber, leaving Chrystobel struggling not to sob. Was it possible it was true? Was it possible the English knight would actually become their savior and end their terror once and for all?
She was about to find out.
CHAPTER SIX
Not surprisingly, the inhabitants of Nether Castle did not easily obey the English orders to muster in the bailey. In fact, they had a fight on their hands with some of the soldiers. Keller and his men had to strip them of their weapons, forcing them out into the bitterly cold night with nothing to defend themselves with. Like conquered men, they were unhappy and uneasy.
The servants, however, showed no resistance and collected in a frightened huddle near the kitchen yard as the rebellious soldiers were corralled into several groups in the bailey. Keller didn’t want them to be all in one bunch because there was strength in numbers should they decide to rebel. Therefore, there were six separate groups of men, all of them sitting in the mud with their hands on their head. Five hundred English soldiers against less than three hundred Welsh was no match at all. Nether was subdued.
But Gryffyn was not among the subjugated. Keller had managed to locate the six men that Chrystobel had named as Gryffyn’s henchmen, and he had also located the two old knights, who were treated better than anyone else and allowed to stand rather than sit. They showed absolutely no resistance and Keller showed them a measure of respect for that behavior. But Gryffyn was nowhere to be found and as William held the Welsh hostage in the bailey, Keller took George, Aimery, and one hundred of his men in a feverish search of the castle. He was determined to find Gryffyn if he had to take the castle apart stone by stone.
It made for a loud and hectic search. Doors banged and men shouted. As Keller and his men tore through Nether’s towers, Chrystobel and Izlyn sat in Chrystobel’s bower, listening to the commotion. Izlyn had been brought up to Chrystobel before the bedlam started, a scared little girl needing the comfort of her elder sister. William had delivered the child and he was polite to Chrystobel but not overly friendly. She was coming to suspect that he didn’t trust her because she had denied knowing anything about the arrow. Even though she’d told the truth, his behavior had upset her, but she wouldn’t dwell on it. She had Izlyn to focus on now, and focus she did.
They could hear the shouts and cries floating in through the three big lancet windows in the chamber, and Chrystobel eventually secured the oil cloth drapes to help block out the noise as well as the chilling temperature. The hearth was blazing brightly, the chamber warm and inviting, and Chrystobel washed both her and her sister with water scented with violets, washing away the mud and cares of the day.
The violets had come from a garden that Chrystobel and Izlyn tended, creating pleasant memories in a world that had little, and they grew flowers and herbs in the rocky, and very moist, soil. While the cooks and kitchen servants tended the vegetable garden in the kitchen yard, Chrystobel’s walled garden was near the north side of the keep and consisted exclusively of flowering plants, herbs, and two apple trees that produced tiny but tasty apples. It had been her mother’s garden long ago and it was something the girls continued to tend. More than a garden, it was a haven of joy for them, a light in their darkened world.
Over the years, the garden had collected a variety of rose plants, lilies, violets, basil, and great bushes of rosemary. Chrystobel’s mother, Lady Elyn, had managed to cultivate lavender, even in the cold climate and rocky soil, and the bushes grew big and wild with well-established roots. The lavender oil was precious and used in soaps, oils, and medicines, and the garden itself was almost as prized as the sheep that provided Nether with its income and stability.
The scent of violets was heavy in the air as Chrystobel and Izlyn finished bathing and dressed in heavy sleeping shifts. Chrystobel braided her sister’s hair and finally put the girl to bed, covering her up with fluffy coverlets. As the child slept dreamlessly, Chrystobel sat by the hearth in a chair made of oak, with curved rails along the bottom so that it rocked gently, and gazed pensively into the fire. Now that the day had calmed and she and Izlyn were both safe and warm, her thoughts drifted to the man she had married.
Keller de Poyer. The English knight was now her husband. She kept seeing his dusky blue eyes and strong features, rolling them over in her mind. Up until six months ago, she’d had no knowledge of the man and, in fact, had been accepting gifts from the local chieftain, Colvyn ap Gwynwynwyn, a bastard grandson of the last man who claimed the Powys throne. It was perhaps assumed that she would marry Colvyn, even though the man was known to have an entire stable of lovers, and she didn’t particularly find the man attractive or even interesting. He was short, dark, and rugged, and saw a wife as merely another possession. He’d as much as told her that. She wondered if de Poyer saw her as just another possession, too, just like Nether Castle.
It was hard to know someone after only having been acquainted with him for a few hours, but in that time she had seen that Keller was vastly intelligent, wise, and rather stiff. Aye, he was indeed stiff, as if he didn’t know how to smile or enjoy himself. She’d seen him crack a smile, briefly, and it was a very handsome gesture. But then the smile had vanished and he was back to his stiff, intimidating self. It was quite clear that the man had an emotional wall around him, a wall that protected the soul beneath. She wondered if the wall was so strong because it was protecting something very soft and delicate. There had been moments, briefly, where she had seen something in the depths of those dusky eyes that bespoke of all things untold and vulnerable. It seemed strange to think of the powerful English knight as vulnerable.
As she sat by the fire and pondered the character of her new husband, there was a knock on the chamber door. Before she could rise and open it, the panel flew open and Gryffyn appeared. He blew into the chamber, slamming the door behind him and bolting it. Chrystobel was so startled that she leapt out of her chair and, tripping over the leg, ended up on the floor. Gryffyn hardly noticed, however. He raced past her and carefully peeled back the oiled cloth, peering at the activity in the bailey below.
Chrystobel picked herself up, brushing off her knees. “What are you doing here?” she demanded, fighting down her panic. “You mustn’t stay here. My husband will be back any minute.”
Gryffyn whirled on her. “Husband?” he spat. “So you have already married the loathsome swine?”
“I have,” she replied. “Father tried to find you to tell you of the ceremony, but he was unable to locate you.”
Gryffyn avoided commenting on his whereabouts during her wedding. “De Poyer is nothing but a thieving bastard!” he barked. “He has no right to be here!”
Chrystobel had seen her brother in rages like this before. His control would soon leave him and he would punch her senseless, so she made sure to stay well away from the man and his unpredictable fists. In fact, the only thing to do was to agree with him, humor him, anything to keep him from pummeling her and Izlyn in his fury over the English.
Terrified, she had to do what was necessary to protect both her and her sister. It was a submissive behavior she’d utilized for many years in the face of her abusive brother; sometimes
it worked and sometimes it didn’t. She prayed it would work this time. She had to show she was on his side, to agree with a barbaric man in the hopes he would go along his way and not harm her. The game of terror had begun.
“I know,” she agreed quickly. “But I was forced to marry him. I did not want to.”
That seemed to ease Gryffyn somewhat. He began smacking a fist against his open palm, agitated. “To the Devil with him and the rest of his Saesneg soldiers,” he grumbled. “The first arrow did not work but there will be more. If they want my castle, they will have to fight for it. There will be hazard and rebellion every second of the day!”
Chrystobel tried not to appear too shocked by his admission. So the arrow had indeed come from him! She very much wanted to appear as if she was on his side, anything to get the man out of her chamber without blood being drawn. The longer he remained here, the more chance there would be of him becoming violent. Get him out!
“Of course, Gryffyn,” she said patiently. “Anything you say. But you cannot remain here. He has already been back twice. If he finds you here, it would be very bad for you.”
Gryffyn was in the process of mentally dismembering the man he now considered to be his arch enemy, de Poyer, but he paused when his sister’s words sank deep. He looked at her, abruptly, his expression nothing short of venomous.
“He cannot best me,” he declared. “He had his demons pummel me earlier, but wait until I get the man alone. I will tear him apart!”
Chrystobel agreed steadily. “Of course you will,” she said. “I have seen what you can do. You are much more powerful than he is. Now, get out of here and go hide someplace where he will never find you. To the storage vaults, mayhap; there are many places to hide there.”
Gryffyn ignored her suggestion, at least outwardly. Inside, however, his distorted mind was working furiously. He was like a caged beast, pacing around and knocking over furniture, so much so that he awoke Izlyn. When the girl rubbed her eyes sleepily and then saw her brother, she began to weep. Gryffyn looked at the girl, infuriated.
“And you!” he barked, pointing a finger at her. “Tell me that I have your support or I shall punish you severely!”
Chrystobel raced to her sister’s side, falling onto the bed and throwing her arms around the girl. “You do not have time for her,” she insisted, her voice rising with panic. “Gryffyn, you must leave now. If they find you, they will kill you!”
Gryffyn marched over to the bed and reached out, grabbing Chrystobel by her hair. As she cried out in pain, he yanked her away from Izlyn and onto the floor. On her knees before her brother, his fingers brutally entwined in her hair, she gasped when he yanked her head upwards so that she was gazing into his menacing face. Gryffyn yanked her hair again just because he liked to hear her yelp. The sounds of pain always gave him pleasure.
“You are loyal to him, aren’t you?” he hissed.
Chrystobel was gasping and weeping with pain. “Nay!” she cried.
“Admit it!”
“Nay!” she wept. “Please, Gryffyn, let me go!”
Gryffyn didn’t comply. He held her hair tightly, his wretched mind mulling over a variety of scenarios involving his sister and the enemy knight. True, she had never shown any real excitement for marrying the Saesneg. In fact, she had been openly reluctant to do so. She was a bigger pawn in this situation than any of them. Therefore, Gryffyn eased his stance slightly… but only slightly. At the moment, he was concocting a scheme that would very much involve his sister. He needed her to save him. He needed her to save them all. There was a very simply way to put an end to the Saesneg reign of Nether.
“Then you will prove your loyalty,” he rumbled, digging into his leather vest and producing a small, sharp dagger. When Chrystobel cried out, terrified he was going to use it on her, he yanked her hair again to both control and still her. “When your husband comes to share your bed, you will use this dagger on him. When the man least expects it, thrust it into his back and kill him. Do you understand?”
Chrystobel was weeping uncontrollably but she nodded. Gryffyn yanked her hair one last time as he thrust the dirk at her, placing it into her shaking hands. Then he let go of her hair and watched her fall to the floor. His gaze, furious only moments before, was now strangely impassive as he looked at his sister huddled in a terrified heap.
“It is your duty as a Welshman to kill the English vermin,” he told her. “If you do not, then I will know you are a traitor and I will kill you the first chance I get. Once you are dead, I will kill Izlyn and Father as well. I will leave no one in this family alive, so you hold everyone’s lives in your hand. Kill your husband or I will kill you. Is this in any way unclear?”
Sobbing, Chrystobel nodded her head. “It… it ’tis.”
Gryffyn felt very powerful at that moment, pleased with his plan to kill de Poyer. As usual, he would have someone else do his dirty work for him. This time, it would be his sister.
“Good,” he grunted. “I will be down in the storage vaults. You are correct. It is the best place to hide. I will await word of your success.”
He meant it as a threat and she took it as one. Chrystobel remained in a ball on the floor, her face against the wooden planks, hearing Gryffyn as he stomped to her chamber door and swiftly quit the chamber. Like a violent storm, Gryffyn had swept along the land, leaving a trail of devastation in his wake. But the moment he vacated, the sudden silence was both comforting and eerie.
Once he was gone, Chrystobel jumped up and ran to the door, throwing the iron bolt so that he could not come back inside. Then she collapsed against the door, weeping and frightened. All she’d ever known from the man was terror, since she had been a small girl. He continued to put the fear of the devil in her, a primal instinct that had been instilled in her long ago. It therefore took her several moments before she was able to calm sufficiently.
Still sniffling, she pushed away from the door and made her way back to Izlyn, who had lain back down in the bed and pulled the coverlets fearfully over her head. The little girl was trembling, too, and Chrystobel lay down next to her, snuggling with the child to comfort her. All the while, Chrystobel was very torn with the course her life would take over the next few hours. She was terrified of Gryffyn, enough so that she was actually considering doing his bidding. She knew her brother well enough to know he meant what he said. He would kill them all should she fail.
But in the next breath, her new husband had sworn to protect her. She didn’t know the man and she didn’t yet trust his word – should she believe him? Or should she do her brother’s will simply to keep her family alive? Her entire life had been filled with these moments, threats of murder from a man who delighted in spreading panic. She was so very sick of the fear, so perhaps it was time to do something about it.
The dirk was still in her hand and she opened her palm to look at it, gleaming dully in the weak firelight. Perhaps it was time to take a leap of faith to save her father and her sister, to trust a man she had only known a matter of hours. She was coming to feel as if Keller de Poyer was her only hope, an English enemy who had sworn to defend her. Nay, she could no longer subject herself and her family to Gryffyn’s tyranny because to do so, ultimately, would only cause their deaths. This she knew as certainly as she lived and breathed. Someday, someway, Gryffyn would kill them all.
It was time to take a stand.
It was an hour or two before dawn by the time Keller made his way back to Chrystobel’s chamber. Over six hours of searching had failed to produce Gryffyn, so he put his men on shifts to watch over the Welsh inhabitants of Nether. Half went to bed while the other half remained awake and vigilant, guarding the unhappy Welsh.
The more the minutes passed, the more enraged he was about Gryffyn’s absence. He was coming to think that the man had fled the castle, which would have been the right thing to do. Gryffyn was more intelligent than he gave him credit for if that was the case, and as Keller made his way up to Chrystobel’s chamber, he struggled t
o push aside thoughts of the man. He didn’t want to carry that poison over into the lady’s chamber. He didn’t want that vile man on his mind when he looked at her.
The keep was dark and quiet at this hour as he reached the second floor landing. There were two chambers on this floor and he went to the chamber on the left, the one that overlooked the southern portion of the bailey. Lifting the latch, he gave a shove but the door was bolted. He knocked softly.
It took a moment for him to hear movement. He could hear feet on the floor, coming closer. Chrystobel’s voice hissed at him from the other side of the panel.
“Who comes?” she demanded.
“It is your husband, Lady de Poyer.”
He could hear the iron bolt being thrown, grating against the wood. The door opened slightly, but only enough to allow Chrystobel out. Keller was forced to step back as she came onto the landing, closing the chamber door behind her. He couldn’t help but notice that she was in a sleeping shift with a heavy shawl draped around her shoulders. A sleeping shift made him think of a bed, and a bed made him think of consummating their marriage. She also smelled of flowers, something he found quite alluring. He was still dwelling on the scent of violets when she began to speak, jolting him out of his somewhat lustful thoughts.
“Izlyn is asleep and I did not wish to wake her with our conversation,” she whispered. “I must speak with you.”
Keller could sense her grim mood. “How may I be of service?”
Chrystobel looked up at him, her brown eyes deep and bottomless. It was evident that there was much on her mind, a thousand questions without adequate answers. He was coming to see that the woman had no ability to hide her emotions. They were written all over her face. After a moment, she sighed faintly.
“Did you find my brother?” she asked.
“Nay.”
She grunted softly. “Nor will you, I suppose,” she muttered. “My lord, I must ask you something and I would beg you to be truthful.”
The Agents of William Marshal Volume II: A Medieval Romance Bundle Page 91
