“I just came from Southern Wales,” he finally said. “It is calm for the most part. I heard no stirrings of revolt.”
Gart grunted. “All the Welsh do is revolt,” he muttered. “The Scots, too. And the French. Can no one simply do what they are told these days by those who demand to rule them?”
Keller was back to grinning. “You have spent enough time in the wars in France to know the answer to that,” he said. “No one wants to be subjugated these days.”
“Speaking of subjugated,” Rhys said as he peeled back his hauberk, revealing the sticky black hair beneath. “How has it been for you around here? Any excitement?”
Keller just looked at him. Where to start? After a moment, he simply shook his head. “Let us go into the great hall and I will tell you the madness that has been commonplace here since my arrival.”
Gart looked interested. “Madness?” he repeated. “Have we missed something?”
Keller could only lift his eyebrows. “That would be a simple way of putting it.”
Chrystobel presented a lovely meal for Nether’s newest guests. After being introduced to Sir Gart Forbes and Sir Rhys du Bois, she had run back to the kitchens were the servants were preparing a great feast. Great pitchers of ale, made from barley from their own fields, appeared on the tables and were quickly consumed by the two big knights and over one hundred senior soldiers they had brought with them into the great hall. The rest of the English mingled with Keller’s forces to the north side of the bailey and near the gatehouse, swelling the ranks of the English to almost eight hundred men. Nether was a big place and was able to accommodate the crowd, but the d’Einen soldiers were rather outnumbered. The sight of so many English made them nervous.
When Chrystobel sent the ale to the hall, she also made sure to send barrels of ale out to the soldiers in the bailey, English and Welsh. She didn’t want to neglect any of Nether’s inhabitants, and especially the Welshmen who were not overrun by the English. Meanwhile, the cook and two of the kitchen servants began making loaf after loaf of dense brown bread and, piping hot, the loaves were sent out in waves to the great hall and troops outside. Butter went with the loaves, giving the men something to eat while the cook worked on re-heating roast mutton and covering it with a rosemary-peppercorn gravy made from the rosemary in Chrystobel’s garden. As the mutton was being sauced, an old kitchen servant was making a great, hearty stew made from dried peas, barley, and carrots over an open flame in the kitchen yard in an iron pot big enough for a man to bathe in. The stew was thick and delicious, seasoned with onions and precious salt, and soon everyone was partaking of the mutton and of the stew. It was a glorious feast, indeed.
With everything running smoothly, Chrystobel stood in the corner of the hall, watching her husband, William, George, Aimery, and the two enormous English knights as they devoured the meal. The hall was rather lively, being so crowded, alive with conversation and filled with smoke from the hearth and the wanderings of hungry dogs. Men were laughing and talking everywhere.
At the end of the long feasting table sat Keller and the other knights, having a serious conversation from what Chrystobel could see, which was why she hadn’t joined them. She assumed, correctly, that they had a great deal to talk about so she focused on her kitchen duties to ensure that everyone had enough to eat. She wasn’t comfortable enough, or bold enough, to join the knights’ conversation.
The feasting and the conversation went for most of the day and on into the early evening. Everyone seemed quite caught up in their conversation and ale. As the evening meal approached, the cook prepared a large quantity of mice pies – literally, pies filled with cooked, de-boned mice, onions, turnips, carrots, beans, and garlic, baked until the crust of the pie was a deep golden brown. Mice were very plentiful at Nether and the cook had managed to find a way to utilize the pests, cooking them into a tasty pie. Like rabbit or any other rodent, the Welsh cooks made use of what they could find and the result, in this case, was a clever and delicious result.
By the time the mice pies rolled out for the diners, Chrystobel took a couple of the male servants and went to the keep, down in the bowels of the stores where they kept their hoard of alcohol. They had a small brewery near the kitchens where they made ale using the barley grown on Nether lands, but they also made cider fermented with apples, cherry juice, honey, and peppercorns. It was a very potent cider with a powerful kick, hence, it was only brought out for special occasions. Otherwise, it was left to continue aging in the cold, dark stores, growing more potent by the day. Every time they brought out the bottles, there seemed to be more of a punch to it.
As the evening deepened, more alcohol was distributed. The ale, as it was more plentiful, was given to the troops supping in the bailey while Chrystobel took big bottles of the powerful cider into the hall. The servants distributed the bottles onto the tables and, on top of the ale that the men had been drinking most of the afternoon, the introduction of the cider turned most of them into drunken fools not a half-hour later. The legendary cider packed a more powerful punch that normal being ingested on top of the ale. In fact, things began to veer out of control after the mice pies were gone and the cider was in steady supply.
Back in the corner of the hall, Chrystobel could see that the feast was turning into wild drunken debauchery. The men were now playing games of chance, gambling on the tabletops as they drank, or betting each other that one could jump off of the feasting table higher and farther than another man could. Then, someone would vomit, and then ten more men would vomit, spraying it all over the wall and floor nearby. More laughter about it, then urination would follow. Men would pass out on the floor.
Open-mouthed, Chrystobel watched the increased activities with great concern and some awe. She’d never seen such drunkenness. Izlyn, who had been helping in the kitchens, heard the commotion going on and came to stand next to her sister, wide-eyed at the spectacle. Holding hands tightly, they stood and watched with shock and bewilderment as George, as drunk as a giddy fool, jumped on top of the feasting table and began singing ribald songs.
“There once was an old whore named Rose,
Who would lick off the tips of your toes!
In passion, ’tis odd, she would swear that, by God,
A tree was as big as your rod!”
The men roared with glee, singing the chorus of the song as loud as they could. They weren’t really singing. In fact, they were shouting and slamming their wooden cups against the floor, the wall, or the table. George was dancing around on the table, drunkenly kicking cups and trenchers onto the floor, including Gart’s. Frustrated, Gart reached up and yanked him down. George ended up in a pile on the floor as Aimery, even drunker than his brother, leapt up in his place. He launched into a well-known song, much repeated in inns and taverns throughout England and Wales.
“A young man came to Tilly Nodden,
His heart so full and pure.
Upon the step of Tilly Nodden,
His wants would find no cure.”
When it came to the chorus, Aimery lifted his hands to encourage every man to sing with him. Soon, the hall of Nether was filled with the sounds of English voices, all joined in drunken revelry.
“Aye! Tilly, Tilly, my goddess near,
Can ye spare me a glance from those eyes?
My Tilly, sweet Tilly, be my lover so dear,
I’m a-wantin’ a slap of those thighs!”
The men laughed uproariously, mostly because Aimery was bouncing around on the table, doing a jig like an idiot. But he slowed long enough to sing the last verse with the greatest flourish.
“Then our young man, his life less grand,
Since the day he met our Tilly.
His love for her nearly drove him daft,
When he discover’d not a puss, but a shaft!”
Cups pounded on the tables and walls loudly as men shouted a refrain of the chorus. Aimery leapt down from the table, pulled his brother up from the floor, and began dancing with him, cr
azily, around the head table while the soldiers screamed encouragement. The two of them held each other in an embrace as they danced a wild jig around the room, suddenly coming to a stop when they spied Chrystobel and Izlyn. Aimery pointed at the pair.
“Look!” he cried. “The two most beautiful women in all of Wales!”
The entire room turned to look at Chrystobel and Izlyn, standing against the wall, and before they could run off, George and Aimery had them cornered.
“Come and dance with me, Lady de Poyer,” Aimery begged. “It is a night for celebration!”
Chrystobel was torn between fear and humor with Aimery’s drunken antics. He had her by the wrist and she was trying to pull away.
“Nay,” she insisted. “I do not dance.”
“What?” Aimery bellowed, outraged. “A beautiful woman who does not dance? It is a crime! A tragedy! An outrage!”
Chrystobel was shaking her head even as he tried to drag her away from the wall. “Nay,” she said, more firmly. “I do not dance. Please let me go.”
Aimery wasn’t trying to be cruel. He was simply drunk and had little self-control. To his right, George had managed to grab Izlyn, who was paralyzed with fear as the man held on to her. When Chrystobel looked over and saw the expression of terror on her sister’s face, something within her snapped. Izlyn was petrified and George didn’t seem to notice. All Chrystobel could hear or see were visions of Gryffyn as he grabbed Izlyn to haul her away to the vault while she had been helpless to intervene. How many nights had she lain awake, weeping because she couldn’t help her sister? But this was different. Gryffyn wasn’t here and Chrystobel wasn’t helpless in the least. She could defend her baby sister, however small the gesture, against a drunken knight. Yanking her arm away from Aimery, she reached over and slapped George across the face.
“Let her go!” she roared, clutching her sister fiercely against her. “Can you not see that she does not wish to dance?”
Izlyn broke into sobs as Chrystobel rushed the girl off, bolting from the hall. Keller, having been over on the opposite side of the room, barely caught the commotion. All he saw was Chrystobel slapping George and his protective instincts began running wild.
Pushing himself away from the table, he was trying to figure out why he was so dizzy as he headed over to where George and Aimery were standing. He was mad enough to kill and it began to occur to him that he might be slightly drunk. Everyone else was, and he was coming to think he was no exception. There was no other explanation for the tilting room and his surging fury. He was never any good when he imbibed too much so he was usually very careful about it, but he seemed to have lost track of how much drink he had ingested this night. He seemed fine until he started drinking that powerful cider, and then….
By the time he reached George, his fury had gained full steam. He grabbed the young knight by the shoulder and spun him around to face him.
“What did you say to Lady de Poyer to cause her to slap you like that?” he snarled. “Well?”
George’s eyes opened wide with both fear and surprise. “N-nothing, my lord,” he insisted. “I only asked her sister to dance but she did not want to!”
Aimery was nodding fervently, confirming what George was telling his liege. Frustrated, angry, Keller looked between the two young knights.
“You will never again touch my wife or her sister,” he growled. “Do you comprehend me?”
George and Aimery nodded seriously. “Never again, my lord,” George assured him. “We apologize.”
That wasn’t good enough for Keller. He thumped George’s chest with a big hand. “You know what Gryffyn d’Einen did to those women,” he said, his voice low and threatening. “You know what hell he put them through, how he beat and humiliated them. By God’s Bloody Rood, you should have more sense than to grab women who have known little else but abuse. You’ll scare them to death!”
George readily agreed. “We are deeply sorry, my lord,” he repeated. “Should we go apologize to your lady wife and her sister?”
Keller eyed the two knights, knowing they were mostly harmless, and suddenly feeling rather foolish for becoming so angry with them. It was the alcohol forcing his manner.
“Nay,” he grumbled, pushing past them. “I will go and make sure they are well. You just stay away from them.”
George and Aimery watched Keller stagger from the hall, heading out through the darkened bailey towards the keep. As they stood there and wondered what more they should do to make amends to Lady de Poyer, from across the room, William, Rhys, and Gart were watching.
The older knights were fairly drunk themselves. Gart, in fact, was having a difficult time remaining upright. The tabletop kept trying to rise up and hit him in the face. Rhys was more exhausted than anything, but William was just plain liquidated. Everything about him was liquidated and sloshy. He watched Keller rough up George before leaving the hall. When the man was gone, he turned to Gart.
“I think that I should follow him to make sure all is well,” he muttered, putting his feet under him in the hopes of being able to stand up and not tip over. “He does not do well when he has had too much to drink.”
Gart was holding on to the tabletop for balance, even though he was seated. “Before you go, tell us the truth of the matter now that de Poyer is out of earshot,” he said. “I have been wanting to ask you this since we arrived. Was it true that Keller was betrothed to Garren le Mon’s widow?”
William nodded gingerly. Too much movement would have him toppling over. “The Marshal gifted de Poyer with le Mon’s widow,” he confirmed. “It was reported the le Mon perished in the battle for Lincoln Castle, but that was erroneous information, for Garren le Mon did not die. From what I was told, Keller was fairly in love with the Lady le Mon and her two children. He was looking forward to a beautiful family and when le Mon returned, it nearly destroyed him.”
Gart grunted in response to the sorrowful story. “I know Garren,” he said quietly. “I, too, was at the battle at Lincoln Castle. Garren was in command of Richard’s troops during the siege, in fact. But then someone stole le Mon’s armor and got himself killed, so it was naturally assumed that it was le Mon himself. Thank God it was not true. Garren is a good man.”
“Indeed his is,” Rhys agreed. “I was at that battle, also, and well remember the rumors of le Mon’s death. Garren is a much decorated and much respected knight, but then again, so is Keller. The man should have never let his feelings get involved with a marital contract. Wives are not meant to be loved.”
Gart eyed his blue-eyed friend. “So you do not plan to love your wife when you marry?”
Rhys was stalwart. “I do not plan to marry,” he said firmly. “In our profession, wives are a hindrance.”
“Keller has a wife,” Gart reminded him.
Rhys was firm in his opinion. “The wife came with the castle,” he said. “If I was gifted with such a castle, then I’d take the wife, too. That does not mean I have to fall all over myself, fawning with adoration for the woman. ’Tis foolish, I say. It is demeaning to a man.”
Gart grinned, unusual for the usually stone-faced knight. “I will remind you of that the day you marry,” he said. “I will tell your wife not to expect any affection from you.”
Rhys could see that Gart was teasing him. “The woman would be wise to simply do what I told her to do, when I told her to do it,” he said, feigning a rigid manner. “That is all a woman is good for, anyway.”
Gart opened his mouth but William stopped him from replying. “Idiots, both of you,” he said. “I have a wife whom I adore and I would not have it any other way. Now, if you two louts will excuse me, I am going to make sure Keller doesn’t make an arse out of himself in front of his new wife.”
Gart reached up to grab him before he could move away. “De Poyer must make his own way in this marriage,” he said. “He cannot have you bailing him out of trouble at every turn. He must learn on his own.”
William sighed heavily. “Under norma
l circumstances I would agree with you,” he said, “but you sat here all afternoon listening to de Poyer tell you about his wife’s brother and how the man beat both of the sisters and abused the family. Furthermore, you saw what just happened – everyone is very sensitive about the situation in general and Keller is so socially inept that I’m not entirely sure he knows how to deal with skittish women. He might send them off into fits and then we would have a disaster on our hands.”
Gart looked up at him, lifting his eyebrows. “I will repeat what I just said,” he muttered. “The man must learn. You must let him find his own way in this marriage.”
He was right. Reluctantly, William sat back down but refused Gart’s offer of more cider. He’d had enough. So the three knights sat there, reliving memories from when they had all served King Richard in The Levant, telling story after story, laughing at the humorous situations and reveling in the glory of others. Odd how the death, disease, and destruction of the Third Crusade didn’t enter in to their conversation; at the moment, they could only remember the good times. Perhaps it was the alcohol, perhaps not. Fond memories and warm sands were all they could seem to recall.
It was a good evening of proud and touching recollection.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Keller could hear the soft voices as he approached his wife’s chamber in the keep. He could hear Chrystobel speaking to Izlyn. As he stood at the door, listening to the soft hissing, it began to occur to him that he’d yet to consummate his marriage and he was a bit perturbed that his wife’s twelve-year-old sister was in the chamber. He simply wanted to be alone with the woman to do what was his legal and moral right. He didn’t want, or need, an audience. It was a selfish thought and he knew it, but thanks to the alcohol in his veins, he didn’t particularly care. Hand on the latch, he quietly opened the door.
The chamber was warm, the only light in the room being cast from the flickering fire. The walls, the furnishings, and the people undulated in shades of orange and yellow. As he entered the room and quietly closed the door, his gaze found Chrystobel and Izlyn over by Chrystobel’s big bed. Izlyn was lying down, covered up, and Chrystobel was sitting up beside her. When her gaze met with Keller’s, she smiled.
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