The Agents of William Marshal Volume II: A Medieval Romance Bundle

by Kathryn Le Veque

  “Not my wife,” he said. “I do not think she would be capable of that kind of deception.”

  Rhys was careful with his words. “But you have only known the woman three days,” he said quietly. “She is Welsh, Keller. Is it possible she has been deceiving you?”

  The mere thought made Keller sick. He shook his head firmly. “Nay,” he said. “She would not do such a thing. There are other possibilities more viable than that.”

  Rhys didn’t pursue the wife. He moved on to the next possibility. “What about the sister?” he asked. “Gart tells me she can write. Is it possible she has been sending messages?”

  Keller shook his head, more firmly this time. “You are chasing phantoms,” he scolded softly. “With what went on at Nether before we arrived, do you truly think either of those women would want to chase us off so it would be as it was before? That’s madness.”

  Rhys shrugged. “I am simply listing possibilities,” he said. “Eliminate the improbable and, no matter how impossible, whatever remains must be the truth.”

  “Find another truth.”

  “Very well,” Rhys was undaunted. “What about the brother? You said that he escaped and you have mentioned your fear that he is lurking about, watching the activities at Nether. Mayhap he is behind the Welsh rebels that appear in this town every time you do.”

  Keller sighed heavily. “That is as good an explanation as any,” he said. They were drawing near the church so he shifted his focus to what lay ahead. There would be time for speculation later. “We are nearly to the church. Assign six men to remove the coffin from the wagon. I want to get inside the church as quickly as possible.”

  Rhys nodded and reined his horse around, heading back into the column of men. Keller could hear him making assignments, calling out men and rearranging the defensive line around the wagon. The church of St. Peter loomed large off to the right, the gray, squat building that Keller became acquainted with yesterday. Before they entered the structure, he would send some men in to make sure no Welsh were lying in wait for them. At this point, he didn’t trust anyone or anything. Bad tidings were on the wind and he would not be caught unaware, especially with Chrystobel and Izlyn with him. He would never forgive himself if anything happened to either one of them, and he was positive he would never recover if harm befell Chrystobel.

  As the column pulled up to the church, he made sure that the men-at-arms created a defensive circle so that the coffin and ladies could be moved into the church with ample protection, and he had William send a few soldiers into the church to clear it. Even as Keller dismounted his charger and headed for the wagon, he felt distinctly uneasy. He didn’t like that they were being watched but he was very thankful that the merchant had the courage to warn him. At least now they would not be caught off guard. Or, at least, that was the hope. Still, he could feel the tension rising. Everyone was uneasy.

  When he reached the wagon, he smiled at Chrystobel as he lifted her out of the wagon bed and set her on her feet. Izlyn followed shortly and he took both women politely by the elbow, steering them clear of the coffin that was just being removed from the wagon. As they stood by and watched, the men-at-arms heaved the coffin off the wagon bed and turned for the church. The pace was slow because the coffin was heavy, and as they approached the entry, the soldiers that had been sent in to clear the sanctuary emerged to signal that no danger wait beyond.

  That was good enough for Keller. Taking the women by the arms, he moved in front of the coffin, heading for the protective innards of the church. It was cool and dark in the sanctuary beyond, and he could smell the pungent scent of incense. Just as he reached the doorway, he heard several high-pitched noises, sing-song, and he knew immediately what they were. He’d heard them many times before, in battle or in conflict of some kind. Keller knew the sound of an arrow when he heard it.

  He shoved Chrystobel and Izlyn into the church as several arrows rained down upon them. As everyone began to run for cover, two of the soldiers holding the coffin were hit and they went down in the street. The coffin, now unbalanced, fell heavily and tipped onto its side, knocking open the lid and spilling Trevyn d’Einen’s body out into the mud.

  Chrystobel and Izlyn, watching this terrible scene from the entry to the church, screamed in horror as their father’s corpse lay askew in the street. Keller was bellowing at his men to get under cover as more arrows rained down, but just as quickly as the second wave fell, men began running at them from all directions, weapons held high. Before Keller could take a second breath, they were entered into the throes of mortal combat.

  And the women were right in the middle of it.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Keller realized early in the fight that the Welsh were aiming for him. As soon as he shoved Chrystobel and Izlyn back into the church for a second time, he was overrun with attackers. He could hear Chrystobel scream and his broadsword came out, flashing wickedly in the dim light and slashing at the nearest man as he made his way to his wife and her sister. But the doors to the church were open and the Welsh were pouring in, creating a deadly situation in an instant.

  At least a dozen Welshmen had followed him into the sanctuary and the mighty de Poyer broadsword was in full swing. The Welsh weren’t particularly skilled fighters but there were many of them, so Keller backed the women into an alcove lit with dozens of candles and blocked them in with his big body in order to protect them. Men were coming at him from all sides, some with short blades, others with clubs. He lashed out a big boot to kick one man with a club right in the groin, sending the man to the ground as his colleagues tripped over his groaning form.

  There were three men to his left who were slashing at him with smaller swords, fat-bladed, and ones that were easily made by Welsh smithies. Keller kicked out again, hitting another man in the gut and sending him to the ground while he used his broadsword to fend off the others. He’d managed to seriously gash one man and stab another, and the Welsh body count in the sanctuary was growing. But more were flooding in and he knew, with sickening certainty, that it would only be a matter of time until he was overwhelmed by sheer numbers if he didn’t get help soon. His men knew he was in the sanctuary and he expected help to come at any moment, so he continued doing battle against men that were determined to kill him.

  He was fighting off a man on his left and one directly in front of him when another man, this one with a spear, came at him from his right. Keller saw the man moving towards him and he fell back slightly to give himself the opportunity to turn and fight him off, but as he turned, the strangest thing happened. He heard a female grunt, a yell really, and suddenly a big iron bank of candles went crashing into the man with the spear. Hot wax and fire sprayed everywhere and the man screamed as his clothes ignited.

  Shocked, Keller turned to see Chrystobel on the other end of the iron candle sconce. She was wielding it like a weapon, swinging it again when another Welshman got too close. When she turned to look at Keller, all he could see was terror and determination in her eyes. Courage in the face of fear was not a quality everyone possessed, but Chrystobel evidently did. The sweet, bright woman who had been abused her entire life was finally learning to fight back.

  That brave gesture from her bolstered Keller’s courage more than God himself could have. He gave her a half-grin, one of great approval, as he continued to fight off a swarm of Welsh. He managed to dispatch two more attackers when some of his men, led by Rhys, burst in through the church entry.

  Rhys’ double swords were flying furiously, killing or maiming anything they came into contact with. The man plowed into the collection of Welsh holding Keller and the women hostage and, with Keller’s substantial help, managed to clear out the group. Still, it was a brutal battle until the end. Those who weren’t injured finally ran off, leaving the dead and wounded littering the cold-packed floor of the church.

  “Are you well?” Rhys asked both Keller and the women. “Is anyone hurt?”

  Keller shook his head, turning to his
wife, who was still standing there with the iron sconce in her hands. She looked terrified. He went to her and gently unpeeled her fingers from the iron, letting it fall to the ground. Cupping her head with one big hand, he forced her to look at him.

  “All is well,” he told her softly. “You were very brave, my lady. I owe you much.”

  Chrystobel was trembling, white with fear and rage. “They… God’s Bones, they were trying to kill you,” she breathed. “I could not let them do it.”

  Keller put a big arm around her shoulders, kissing her forehead. “With you as my defender, they do not stand a chance,” he said. He kissed her again before focusing his attention on Rhys. “How is it outside?”

  Rhys sheathed one of his swords, keeping the other in his hand. “Still fighting for the most part,” he said. “Mayhap we should see if the priests have somewhere to lock the ladies up safely so we can return and clean up the dregs.”

  Keller shook his head. “I cannot be entirely sure the priests were not the ones who helped set up this ambush,” he said. “The ladies stay with me.”

  Rhys didn’t argue with him, mostly because he agreed with the logic. The priests had been strangely absent throughout the battle. “Where are the priests?” he asked, glancing at the big empty church behind him. “Have you even seen them?”

  Keller looked around the dark, dank sanctuary. “I have not,” he said. “Mayhap you should find them and bring them to me. I want to hear what they know of this attack.”

  Rhys went off into the darkness, taking several soldiers with him. As he headed off, Izlyn came around to Keller’s opposite side and slipped her hand around his big arm, holding on to him. Keller glanced down at the girl, winking at her when they made eye contact.

  “I suppose you were going to jump into the fight, too?” he asked her, teasing her softly. “Those fools had better run if they know what’s good for them.”

  Izlyn grinned, laying her cheek against his arm in a sweetly affectionate gesture. Keller merely smiled, standing with the two ladies, hearing sounds of a battle outside the door. He found himself wondering if Trevyn was still lying in the street outside, hoping the body wasn’t being damaged by the fight going on around it. No matter what the girls felt about their father, he didn’t wish for Trevyn’s desecration. It might be a bit traumatic for the ladies to deal with.

  “Stay here,” he told the women. “I must see what is happening outside.”

  Chrystobel and Izlyn let him go and he made his way to the church entry, gazing out at the activity in the street beyond. He could see the dumped coffin and Trevyn’s body still where they’d left it, but there didn’t seem to be much activity. He could still hear sounds of a battle going on but he couldn’t see where it was coming from. As he stood there, listening to the fading combat, Rhys emerged from the rear of the church.

  Rhys made his way over to Keller, unsheathing the second broadsword as he went. “I found the priests,” he said as he came to a halt. “They are in the cloister in the rear. Their throats are slit.”

  Keller’s eyebrows lifted as he struggled to conceal his shock. “All of them?”

  Rhys nodded, glancing at the women over in the alcove to make sure they hadn’t heard him. “I counted four priests and at least six acolytes. All dead.”

  Keller thought seriously on those facts. So much of this situation was puzzling and the mystery seemed to be deepening. “Is it possible that the priests weren’t siding with the Welsh?” he whispered. “Is it possible that the rebels killed them so they would not warn me of the impending ambush?”

  Rhys nodded. “My thoughts exactly,” he agreed. “Keller, we must return to Nether immediately and lock it up. Something bigger may be brewing and we do not need to be caught outside of the safety of Nether’s walls.”

  Keller couldn’t disagree. “Then we take d’Einen’s body back with us and bury it at Nether until such time as we can return,” he said, urgency in his manner. “Let us gather the men and depart.”

  “What do we do about the priests?” Rhys wanted to know.

  Keller didn’t like leaving a church full of dead priests but, at the moment, he was more concerned for the living. “Once we have the ladies back to the castle, I will send a contingent of men back to clean up the mess and bury the priests. I shall send word to the Bishop of Welshpool to let him know what has happened, as that is the nearest diocese. Meanwhile, let us put d’Einen back into his coffin and get the women to safety.”

  The knights swung into action. Rhys went outside to spread the word of retreat while Keller returned to the women. There were only pockets of fighting now, including Gart and William, who had managed to kill several Welsh who were more poorly armed against the big broadswords. Gart in particular had taken fiendish glee in dispatching anyone he came across, lending credence to the Sach nickname. It came to the point that when the Welsh saw the big knight coming with his bloodied sword, they scattered. That’s the way Gart liked it.

  When the fighting finally tapered off, Gart split the forces into those gathering the wounded and those putting d’Einen back into his coffin. Quickly, the coffin was loaded onto the wagon, along with eleven wounded men, and the women were loaded up as well. With no more signs of the Welsh, Keller ordered the funeral party to flee, and flee they did. What had been a leisurely ride to Machynlleth was a harried return to Nether Castle.

  Keller was thankful for their very lives, but one thing was certain – Rhys was correct. Perhaps the next attack would be on Nether. The Welsh were cunning and sly, and he would have to be on his guard every moment from this point forward. It was clear that someone was watching him and knew his every move.

  He would have bet money that someone was Gryffyn d’Einen.

  The big knight with the dual blades had nearly taken his head off. As it was, Gryffyn suffered a nasty gash to his shoulder, enough so that it caused him to flee the fighting, fearful that something worse would befall him. It was a bad wound that bled a good deal, and it hurt him to lift his left arm, so he needed to have it treated. The problem was that there was no available physic and he didn’t trust the dirty, crude Welsh soldiers. He didn’t want those dirty hands touching him.

  Therefore, he burst into one of the first homes he came across where a woman and her two children were going about their chores for the day. Bolting the door behind him, he beat the woman fairly severely as her children stood by and screamed, beating her to the point where she begged for mercy. Gryffyn was only satisfied when those around him were submissive and once she behaved in a surrendering fashion, he stopped hitting her and demanded she tend his wound. Bloodied and wounded herself, the woman did as she was told.

  With shaking fingers, the woman cleaned the gash and stitched it, but she hurt him as she stabbed him with the needle and Gryffyn hit her so hard that her left ear began to bleed. But she finished sewing him, whimpering with fright. When she was done, Gryffyn simply left. No words of thanks, no exchange of any kind. He simply swept out of the hut and headed over to the farmer’s cabin he had confiscated because he had left his mount there, a shaggy brown pony borrowed from Colvyn.

  As he made his way back to the farmer’s dwelling, he made sure to stay low to the ground and move swiftly. He dodged behind houses and jumped over fences. He could hear the distant sounds of what he thought might be combat but he didn’t return to find out. His destination was Castell Mallwyd. Whatever men were left after the skirmish with the English would also return there, as they’d been instructed to do. He didn’t even know what happened to Colvyn. He’d not seen the man since he set out after Keller, who had been inside the church with Chrystobel and Izlyn.

  Like a coward, Gryffyn had fled the scene. He returned to Castell Mallwyd before the nooning meal and it was deserted, so he set about scrounging together a meal from whatever Colvyn had in his food stores and waited for Colvyn and his men to return. It wasn’t a long wait. He hadn’t been back an hour yet before men started trickling in.

  For as man
y men as the Welsh had against half as many English, the wounds upon the Welsh were bad. It was clear that the English had been the victors, but Gryffyn waited with hope – hope that Colvyn had managed to wrest one or more of his sisters from Keller, but by the time Colvyn returned shortly before sunset, it was clear that he didn’t have the women with him. He was empty-handed.

  Gryffyn, who had been watching from the derelict battlements, could only feel great disappointment and great fury. He met Colvyn down in the bailey as the man, astride his shaggy pony, wearily entered the grounds of his destitute castle.

  “What happened?” Gryffyn demanded. “Where have you been? And why are my sisters not with you?”

  Colvyn didn’t say a word as he dismounted his steed. But once his feet hit the muck of the bailey, he walked up to Gryffyn and punched the man right in the face. Gryffyn staggered back, falling to one knee as he put a hand to his stinging cheek. When he looked up, it was to see Colvyn looming furiously over him.

  “That is for being a coward and fleeing a battle that you, in fact, instigated,” Colvyn seethed. “I lost twenty-seven men. Twenty-seven! And what did you do? You ran like a woman!”

  Gryffyn was livid but he was wise enough not to strike Colvyn in return. The man was a Welsh prince, after all, and the men at Castell Mallwyd were loyal to him. At least, they were for the time being. Gryffyn had been trying for three days to change that.

  “I was wounded,” Gryffyn hissed, indicating his torn tunic and the stitches on the skin beneath. “I was bleeding all over the damn place and went to seek aid. By the time my wound was tended, the battle was over, so I returned here. Are you telling me that it was not over? Was there more fighting that I missed?”

  Colvyn growled and turned away. He was disgusted, exhausted, and enraged, which was a nasty combination, and Gryffyn fleeing the battle had only fed that anger. He’d always known the man to be dramatic and cowardly, but this was more than even Colvyn believed him capable of. After pacing a few feet away, he abruptly stopped and turned to Gryffyn.