“If you want your husband to live, you will open the door,” he shouted. “Do you hear me? Open this door or your husband will die!”
Chrystobel’s head disappeared after that. Shortly afterwards, Izlyn appeared and both Keller and Gryffyn shouted at her, confusing the girl. Frustrated with Keller’s behavior, Gryffyn kicked Keller again and when the man bent over, he hit him on the head with the butt of the dirk, sending Keller to his knees.
As Keller saw stars and struggled not to pass out again, he began to hear sounds of fighting behind him. He could hear the song of broadswords as they met with metal upon metal, and he knew there was no way he was going to allow Gryffyn into the keep or near his wife. He didn’t know where the dirk was that Gryffyn had been holding against him but at the moment, it didn’t matter. He was no longer willing to play the dazed victim.
Keller was unsteady, and his ears were ringing badly, but the time had come to fight back. When he caught a glimpse of Gryffyn’s legs off to his left, he lashed out a massive boot and swept the man’s legs out from under him.
Gryffyn hit hard on his back on the wet stone surface of the entry and the dagger in his hand went flying. Keller pounced on him, using his big fists to pummel the man’s head. The first blow shattered Gryffyn’s nose and the second blow dislodged six teeth. Gryffyn threw up his hands, trying to defend himself, but Keller was all over him, beating him senseless.
Unfortunately, some of the Welsh that were in the bailey also saw the beating and ran to help. Gryffyn was the man who had promised them riches from Nether and they assumed that saving the man’s life against his bitter enemy would garner them more reward. Keller soon found himself swamped with Welshmen and, without his broadsword, it was his bare strength against six or eight of them. The Welshmen pulled Keller off Gryffyn, but d’Einen was seriously dazed and bloodied. He lay there a moment, watching Colvyn’s men beat away at Keller.
Keller and the writhing mass of Welshmen rolled down the keep’s steps, ending up in a muddy pile at the bottom. William, having just fended off several Welsh, ran to Keller’s aid and began slashing away at the Welshmen who were still beating on him. Some of them had weapons and at least two of them had slashed Keller, wounding his right forearm fairly seriously as the man fought for his life. Because Gryffyn had stripped him of all his weapons, he had nothing to fight back with except his bare hands, and those were taking a serious lashing.
As Keller battled the Welsh, Gryffyn was struggling to sit up when the door to the keep suddenly lurched open. Startled, Gryffyn looked up to see Izlyn standing in the doorway. She just stood there, looking weak and vulnerable. When their eyes met, Gryffyn’s expression was a mixture of surprise, glee, and fury.
“Izlyn!” he gasped, struggling to his knees. “You little fool! How good of you to let me in. Where is your sister?”
Izlyn stood just inside the doorway, backing up as Gryffyn labored to his feet. “Inside,” she said. “Come in.”
Gryffyn froze, his eyes wide at her. “You speak?” he said, astonished. “You actually speak? By all that is holy, I knew you could! All this time, I knew you could but you were simply being difficult, weren’t you, you little chit? In fact, I am very angry at you for it and shall punish you severely for your insolence!”
Izlyn was still backing up as Gryffyn, now on his feet, began to move towards her. He was utterly focused on the young girl, furious to hear her speak after all this time. Izlyn continued to back up, luring him in through the doorway. The moment he set foot into the keep, the fates of retribution enveloped him in their discourteous fold. He was trapped and he didn’t even know it yet. He had no idea that a lifetime of brutality against the weaker sex would now cost him his life.
While Gryffyn was focused on Izlyn, the form of vengeance was Chrystobel. She emerged from the shadows off to his right, charging out of the darkness with the iron sconce wielded like a spear. Five dagger-sharp points meant to secure tapers rammed into Gryffyn’s back, puncturing deep, and sending the man crashing over onto his left side.
Chrystobel was mad with panic. She knew if she didn’t kill her brother, he would rise up and murder her, so she yanked the sconce out of his body and stabbed him again, listening to him wail with pain and anguish.
Kill him or he will kill you!
His cries of pain held no meaning for her. She pulled the sconce out of his body one more time, using it to beat him over the head. The sconce was blood-covered, and very heavy, and she pounded it over Gryffyn’s skull, repeatedly bashing his head, until the man stopped struggling and finally lay still. Even then, she continued bashing, beating the man’s head, caving his skull in. Every blow had her name on it, or Izlyn’s name, or her father’s name. Every blow for the dozens of times Gryffyn had abused them, breaking bones or drawing blood. Every blow was meant for her life, Izlyn’s life, and now her husband’s life.
She was mad with the feeling of freedom, free forever from the fear of Gryffyn, and now it had become a frenzy. She was slashing him and beating him right into the stone, and with every strike, her terror seemed to fade, further and further, until it was nearly gone. But Chrystobel didn’t stop beating Gryffyn’s head until someone came up behind her and grabbed the sconce, preventing her from leveling yet another blow on a clearly dead man. Finally, her vengeance had come to a halt. Finally, it was over.
Keller stood behind his wife, holding her wrists as she wielded the sconce. His hands and arms were bloody and torn, his face bloodied from the fist fight outside the door, but it didn’t matter. When Chrystobel turned to see who had prevented her from turning her brother’s head into pulp, a gasp of genuine joy escaped her lips. The sconce crashed to the floor, next to Gryffyn, as she threw herself into her husband’s arms, weeping tears of terror and relief.
Keller held his wife tightly, his face buried in the side of her head, his eyes stinging with tears. She was safe. He was safe. They were all safe. Words of alleviation defied him at the moment.
“Are you well?” he asked tightly, a lump in his throat. “He did not injure you in any way?”
Chrystobel shook her head adamantly. “He never had the chance, not this time,” she wept, pulling away from the man to run her hands over his face, inspecting the damage. “But you are bleeding.”
Keller shook his head to downplay the damage, leaning forward to kiss her as deeply and as passionately as he had ever kissed her. His joy, his relief, went beyond words.
“I will survive,” he muttered.
“Please,” Chrystobel begged softly, trembling as she touched his face. “Let me tend you.”
He kissed her fiercely. “Later.”
With that, he glanced over her shoulder to the bloody, brain-splattered mess that used to be Gryffyn. It was horrifically gory and he caught movement out of the corner of his eye, seeing Izlyn standing there, looking impassively down at her brother’s remains. She had been a party to this just as much as her sister had and Keller wondered at the depths of relief as well as confusion they must have been feeling. To finally have ended their brother’s reign of terror must have been an overwhelming realization.
But their joy in such things would have to wait. Grasping both women and trying to keep them away from the sight of Gryffyn’s bloodied corpse, he directed them toward the stairs. He wanted to get them back up to their room and lock them in so he could return to chasing the Welsh from Nether. D’Einen was dead, but there was still the matter of the men he brought with him. Keller couldn’t truly celebrate the man’s elimination until everything was under control.
As they reached the steps, William entered the keep. He looked at Gryffyn with surprise, a rather gruesome sight on the floor, before calling out to Keller.
“D’Einen is dead?” he pointed to the body.
Keller paused. “Indeed he is,” he said, his gaze moving over Chrystobel. He truly wasn’t surprised by her actions. He was very proud the woman had learned to fight back. “If there is any justice in this world, it has just been s
erved here today.”
William pondered that a moment. Of course, he wanted to know how it happened, but such details would have to wait. There were more important things at hand.
“The Welsh are leaving, Keller,” he said. “You’d better come.”
Keller looked at the man with some surprise. “Leaving?” he repeated. “Last I saw, they were battling quite strongly.”
A flicker of a smile crossed William’s lips. “I know,” he said. “But reinforcements have arrived in the form of George and Aimery. Evidently, they didn’t listen very well. They have returned early from their jaunt to Shropshire, and thank God for it.”
Keller shook his head in both frustration and approval, an odd combination. “Return early, indeed,” he grumbled. “George never was very good at telling time. Tell the man to stay away two days and he stays away one.”
“Fortunate for us,” William grinned. “Rhys just had the men open the gatehouse and another two hundred and fifty English soldiers are pouring in. It would seem that the Welsh are afraid of that.”
Keller grinned, saying a quick prayer for the early return of the Ashby-Kidd brothers. Timing was everything. He sighed heavily and waved William off.
“I will be there in a moment,” he said. “Let me settle the women first.”
William ducked out of the keep, heading into the bailey where the two hundred and fifty fresh soldiers were making short work of any remaining Welsh. Men were bottled up, chased off, and otherwise defeated.
Keller, inside the keep, continued to direct the ladies up the stairs. In truth, he could hardly believe the course the night had taken. The results were as he had hoped but the means to get there had been somewhat complex. As they hit the second floor landing, Keller paused and pulled Chrystobel into his arms once more. He just had to feel her, safe and whole, against him once more. Chrystobel clung to him.
“Are you sure you are well?” he whispered.
Chrystobel nodded. “I am,” she confirmed, gazing up into his dusky eyes. “I simply… I cannot believe it is over. I have never feared anything so much as I have feared my brother and now that he is gone… I still cannot believe it.”
Keller smiled at her. “As I said to William,” he said quietly, “if there is any justice in the world, it has happened here tonight. Your brother took everything from you – your dignity, your peace, your life. Tonight, you took it back. It was your right.”
Chrystobel thought on that a moment. “In truth, all I could think of was saving you,” she said. “I could not let Gryffyn hurt you. There was such rage when I attacked him, Keller. So much rage….”
Keller kissed her on the forehead. “That rage is gone,” he assured her. “Gryffyn is gone. You did what needed to be done to save yourself, to save me, to save Izlyn, and ultimately to save Nether. You are a brave woman, Lady de Poyer, and I am very proud to be your husband.”
Chrystobel smiled modestly, absorbing his adoration, perhaps absorbing all of the events that the night had brought. There was much to take in, much to deal with, and much to reconcile.
As Chrystobel and Izlyn retreated to the smaller chamber and bolted the door, Keller went back down to the keep entry where Gryffyn lay, blood and brains coagulating around his bashed head. Keller just looked at the man, resisting the urge to kick the corpse. For all of the terror he had caused, for the patricide had had committed, Gryffyn d’Einen deserved everything that had happened to him and more still. His evil had infected Nether Castle, creating a Netherworld that Keller had managed to bring into the light.
Keller crouched down next to Gryffyn’s body, his gaze moving over the man. After this moment had passed he would never look upon him or think of him again.
“I hope you are enjoying Hell, you worthless bastard,” he muttered. “I hope you are enjoying the real Netherworld, which I am sure is now your happy home. For all of the pain you have caused this family, I sincerely hope that Satan has a special place reserved just for you.”
With that, he stood up and walked from the keep, out into the night where the rain had started to clear up and the English were now corralling the Welsh stragglers. The stars were peering out from behind the parting clouds and he looked up at them, seeing their brightness and feeling as if the world was suddenly bright and new. No more threat, no more terror. Finally, the Netherworld was no more.
Finally, Nether Castle would know peace.
The magic of a new beginning.
EPILOGUE
1204 A.D.
It was a bright day in August and surprisingly warm. The door to Nether’s keep was open and a balmy breeze blew through the cold stone rooms, warming them. Keller was sitting at the feasting table in the small hall, peering at an updated map of the marches he had purchased in Gloucester a few months ago. He had taken his two oldest children with him, Caledon and Stafford, and the boys had gotten into a good deal of trouble that Keller still hadn’t told his wife about. The twins reminded him a good deal of George and Aimery Ashby-Kidd in that if there was disorder to be had, those two would find it. He never thought he’d see the day when he’d have two troublemaking twins.
Even now, they were under the table trying to light the dogs’ tails on fire. He kept having to stamp on the small pieces of kindling, extinguishing the fire, before the boys could get to the dogs.
“Lads,” he finally muttered, his gaze still on the map. “If one of those dogs ignites, I will blister you both. Is that clear?”
Two blond heads popped up from underneath the table. Identical brown eyes looked at their father innocently. “We were not lighting the dogs, Papa,” Staff insisted. “We were just playing.”
Keller looked up from the map, his eyes narrowing at his six-year-old son. “I know you were playing,” he said. “You were playing with fire.”
Cal nodded his head seriously. “We were practicing, Papa.”
Keller didn’t believe his child for a minute. “Practicing what?”
Cal was animated. He stood up and raised his arms in emphasis. “When we are great knights, we will capture a castle,” he said. “We must know how to burn the drawbridge down.”
Keller fought off a grin. His boys had a wild imagination, but they were sweet little terrors and it crushed him every time he had to discipline them, which was often. Everyday saw them stealing chicken eggs, or fist fighting each other to the point of bloody noses, or pulling their sisters’ hair, which often garnered their mother’s displeasure as well.
“You will not be burning down drawbridges any time soon,” Keller said, holding out a hand. “Give me your kindling.”
Unhappy, Cal came out from underneath the table, begrudgingly placing a few sticks of kindling in his father’s hand. Staff, on his brother’s heels, did the same. But Keller kept his hand outstretched.
“The flint, please.”
Cal frowned terribly, producing a small piece of flint he’d been keeping in his other hand. Both boys started to walk away but Keller grasped Staff, preventing him from going any further, and frisked him until he found a second flint stone. He eyed his boys sternly.
“No more fire,” he told them, calmly but firmly. “If I find that you have been playing with fire again, I will punish you. Is that clear?”
The boys nodded, frowning faces and averted gazes. As Keller leaned forward and kissed both boys, Cal on the forehead and Staff on the cheek when the child squirmed, he heard footsteps coming down the stairs from the second floor above.
Chrystobel descended the stairs with a baby on her hip, a small girl in one hand, and another small girl trailing after her. She helped her second youngest child off the stairs and the little curly-haired lass ran straight for her father, who picked her up and hugged her. Chrystobel stood at the base of the stairs as her middle child, a daughter with her blond hair and Keller’s blue eyes, carefully made her way down the steps. When the little girl got to the bottom, she ran to her father just as her younger sister had. Four-year-old Iselle and three-year-old Genevieve were
quite attached to their father, and he to them. He hugged his little girls happily, forgetting all about the map and his naughty boys.
Chrystobel, with her one-year-old son Tallys on her hip, smiled as she watched her husband with the girls. He was really quite sweet with them, spoiling them with hugs and kisses and gifts. In fact, he did that with all of the children. The man was a giver, in every sense. But he could also be very stubborn and she braced herself for that possibility as she prepared to deliver some news.
“I have something to tell you,” she said, watching him bounce Genevieve on his knee.
Keller glanced at her. “What is it?”
“George is here,” she said. “I have been watching him for quite some time. He is now heading up the hill and should be here shortly.”
Now, Keller’s gaze fixed on her. “How do you know it is him?”
“Who else could it be?”
Keller shrugged. Already, Chrystobel could see the scowl coming. “It does not have to be George,” he insisted. “It could be anyone.”
“He is coming from the south, from Pembroke Castle where he is now stationed.”
“It is probably just a bachelor knight, wandering from castle to castle.”
Chrystobel sighed faintly. “Keller,” she admonished softly. “You told George and Izlyn that they had to wait until she was eighteen. She turned eighteen almost a year ago. George wrote you six months ago and said he would be coming for Izlyn around her nineteenth birthday, which is next month. You must face facts, my love. George has come for her.”
As Keller sat and looked at the two babies in his lap, pondering the fact that George had finally come to marry Izlyn, the young lady in question came bounding down the steps. Keller could tell her steps. She always sounded as if she was scurrying. Izlyn scurried down the great stone steps from the floor above, racing into the small hall and throwing her arms around her sister and baby nephew.
“He is here!” she exclaimed. “George has come!”
Chrystobel was thrilled for her sister but still aware of her husband’s feelings. Keller had been terribly protective of Izlyn since the day he married Chrystobel and basically treated the girl like a daughter. Izlyn had spent her formative teen years not fostering in a cold household, but living with her sister and husband, deeply loved. Therefore, Keller felt as if he was losing a daughter.
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