“My brother stabbed him,” Chrystobel clarified since Keller seemed inclined to make light of what was a very harrowing incident. “He has a wound in his back.”
William gazed at Keller with great concern. “How bad is it?”
“It is bad!” Chrystobel answered for him. “He seems to think that he only needs a stitch or two, but it was a deep gash. He should rest today at least so the bleeding will stop.”
William was rather amused that Chrystobel seemed to be doing all of the talking, forcing Keller to stand there and wriggle his eyebrows in submission. In fact, it was a rather stunning situation because William knew Keller de Poyer to be anything but submissive. Yet with this woman, now his wife, that was exactly what he seemed to be. It was odd behavior coming from the usually humorless and rigid man. But, then again, the past two days had seen some remarkable behavior from him. Perhaps it was as William had mused. Perhaps, somehow, the man was learning to be human and the walls of protection were crumbling.
“Lady de Poyer will see to my wound,” Keller told William, “but I want you to take charge of the capture of Gryffyn. The man is deadly and needs to be dealt with. Put him in the gatehouse and await further instructions from me.”
William acknowledged the order but continued to aid Chrystobel in assisting Keller into the keep. The man took the narrow stairs slowly to the second level where several of his soldiers were still gathered to protect the door of Chrystobel’s chamber. It seemed rather useless to have them all there now, so Keller ordered them away, all but two, and the men disbanded. William followed them with the promise that he would send word to Keller once Gryffyn was secured.
Satisfied, but increasingly weak, Keller followed Chrystobel into her comfortable chamber where Izlyn was now sitting next to the fire, playing with some sticks on the ground in front of her. When she looked up and saw her sister and the English knight, she ran to the other end of the room and cowered against the wall.
“Izzie,” Chrystobel tried to soothe her sister as she helped Keller to sit on the bed. “Sir Keller is injured and I will need your help. Will you do this for me, please?”
Izlyn remained on the other side of the room but managed to nod. Chrystobel smiled at her sister. “Thank you, sweetheart,” she said. “Now, I am going to need some very hot water and clean linen. I will also need for you to bring me my sewing kit.”
It took Izlyn a moment to come away from the wall and, hesitantly, move to the big wardrobe. She pulled open the doors, revealing the neatly-stacked items inside; shawls, shoes, belts, and other boxes containing possessions. As Izlyn retrieved the sewing kit, Chrystobel began removing Keller’s clothing, very carefully. His heavy green and yellow Pembroke tunic was first.
“Will one of your soldiers escort Izlyn to retrieve the hot water?” she asked, gingerly pulling the tunic over his head. “I need to cleanse the wound.”
Keller grunted as it pained him to lift his right arm. “I will send one of my men for it,” he said. “With all that his happening around the fortress, it would be safer if she remained here.”
Chrystobel nodded and, once the tunic was off, went to the chamber door and opened it. A soldier stuck his head inside in response to Keller’s summons and the man was soon off on a mission to retrieve hot water. When the man was gone, Chrystobel returned to her patient.
His tunic was in a pile on the bed beside him as she stood back, inspecting the mail coat for the best way to remove it. Keller surmised what she was doing.
“The best way to remove the mail is for me to bend at the waist as you pull it over my head,” he told her as he stood up, towering over her by head and shoulders. “I will bend over and you can pull.”
Chrystobel had never removed a knight’s mail before, so this was an entirely new project for her. In fact, she felt a little giddy and daring, undressing her new husband, even if it was only moderately so. Keller bent over and extended his arms, grunting because his back pained him, and instructed her to take hold of the shoulders first. She did and pulled, moving the mail over his big body incrementally. The mail was ungiving and wanted to bunch up like a log jam in places, so Chrystobel found herself working it in sections. Keller, in excruciating pain with the angle of his body, never uttered more than soft encouragement to her.
It was a new experience for them both. Keller could only see her lower body as she worked with the mail, which would have come off much easier with the help of someone who knew how to do it, but Keller was showing remarkable patience for a man who usually had none. When Izlyn brought over the sewing kit and set it upon the table next to the bed, the young girl actually attempted to help her sister with the task, and soon Keller had two rather weak females pulling at his mail in all the wrong places. They tugged and shifted, and all they managed to do was bunch it up round his head and shoulders so that the weight of it was nearly bending him in half. Chrystobel could see what they had done and she was mortified.
“It is stuck,” she gasped, tugging on the arms with all her might. “God’s Bones, I managed to twist you up in your own mail coat.”
Keller was in a bad way with the mail. “It might help if you try to move the arms off first,” he said patiently. “The rest should follow.”
At Chrystobel’s instruction, Izlyn took one arm and she took the other. There was a good deal of grunting and groaning going on as the two women struggled to pull the mail coat off, and somewhere in the midst of it, Keller found himself grinning at the activities. Izlyn was literally jumping up and down as she pulled, dramatically struggling with the heavy mail, and Keller had to bite off the giggles at her antics. It was really quite humorous to watch and it was the most animated that he’d seen the child since he had first met her.
He was watching Izlyn’s great struggles when Chrystobel’s portion of the mail suddenly slipped free and Keller went right along with it. He lost his balance and pitched forward, sending them both to the ground. His full body weight came down and Keller ended up on top of her, gazing into her painful expression.
“God’s Bloody Rood,” he grunted, bracing his hands on either side of her and pushing himself up. “Are you well? Did I hurt you?”
Chrystobel groaned softly as his weight lifted from her. “You did not hurt me,” she said, rubbing the back of her head where it had hit the floor. “I am well. Are you? I did not hurt you, did I?”
Keller rolled back on his haunches, grasping Chrystobel by both arms and pulling her to a sitting position. “I am well enough,” he said, glancing at Izlyn, who was standing a few feet away with a fearful expression on her face. “’Twas your sister and her amazing strength that did this. She is a fearsome wench.”
A smile bloomed on Chrystobel’s lips and she looked at her sister, who was looking rather confused by Keller’s statement. “Aye, that she is,” she agreed, rising to her feet and helping Keller as he struggled to his. “She is very fearsome, indeed.”
Keller eyed the younger girl as he pulled the rest of his mail coat off. “Do you think the fearsome wench can find me a chair to put this coat on?” he asked. “It should be left to dry.”
Chrystobel turned to her sister, who had heard the request. She still appeared rather fearful and confused, but she dutifully went on the hunt for a chair. There was one near the hearth and she dragged it over, presenting it to Keller with the greatest timidity.
Keller took it and thanked her politely, which almost sent her cowering to the wall again because the man had spoken directly to her. But she didn’t get too far. In fact, her curiosity was overcoming her fear of the great English knight. He hadn’t been cruel to her and he certainly hadn’t been cruel to her sister, so her nervous edge was easing somewhat. She began to creep closer to the bed but backed up when Keller noticed her movement. When he looked away, she would resume inching forward.
Keller was aware of Izlyn’s game. He was trying very hard not to smile as she shuffled discreetly in his direction. Every time he looked at her, she would stop, pretending that
she was doing nothing more than casually standing there, but then he would look away and he could hear her shuffling feet again. He looked at her quickly one time and she nearly fell over in her haste to come to a stop. It was a cute little diversion and he was content to play along, but in truth, there was something more prevalent on Keller’s mind.
As Chrystobel helped him remove his padded tunic, revealing the naked and muscular torso beneath, it began to occur to him that he was now only half-dressed with two women in the room, one being his new wife whom he had yet to have marital relations with. He was an inherently shy man, reserved, and had never been particularly comfortable with opposite sex. He knew some men were content to walk around in the nude no matter what the circumstances, but he wasn’t one of them. He was, kindly put, a prude.
Consequently, he hadn’t had his first sexual experience until he was a seasoned knight, twenty-seven years of age to be exact, and that experience had occurred in a tavern because he had been exhausted and drunk after a battle march. A serving wench had taken advantage of his state and he’d soon found himself in bed with not one but two women. They had both pleasured him and he’d ended up having sex with both of them, one after the other, and the women told him repeatedly that he had the biggest member they had ever seen. It was supposed to make him feel manly but it just made him feel self-conscious.
He’d awoken the next morning with both women snuggled up next to him, feeling rather shocked and embarrassed at his wild behavior. He’d slipped out of the tavern half-dressed because he hadn’t wanted to wake them, putting on the rest of his clothing and protection while on the road. His colleagues had made great sport of his embarrassment and, to this day, it made his cheeks flame to think on that shame. He’d been the butt of jokes for months afterwards. Have you heard about de Poyer? The man has such a mighty rod that it takes two women at once to satisfy him! Beware your sisters and daughters around him, for he’ll take his pleasure with them and blow the top of their heads off with his virility!
God, he’d just wanted to die of shame from all of the ribald comments. Those same knights who had taunted him ended up in his command years later and he made sure they felt his wrath. But fourteen years later, he was no more comfortable with women than he had been those years ago. He’d had a few more sexual encounters since then, with paid women, but they had been few and far between. Consequently, he wasn’t very experienced with intimacy and as he sat on the bed, his naked torso exposed, he found that he was actually embarrassed. Perhaps it wouldn’t have been so bad if the younger girl wasn’t there, but as it was, he was vastly uncomfortable. But he couldn’t very well send the child away. Meanwhile, he tried not to appear too uneasy as he sat there and popped his knuckles absently.
“It would be better if you lie on your belly,” Chrystobel’s soft voice broke him from his train of thought. “Would it be too painful for you to do that?”
“It would not,” he said softly. “If it makes tending the wound easier for you, I am happy to comply.”
Chrystobel smiled at his kind words as Keller stopped cracking his knuckles and rolled onto this stomach, his face buried in coverlets that smelled of violets. He could feel Chrystobel’s gentle fingers on his back, the tender touch of an angel soothing him. Thoughts of discomfort and embarrassment faded, and he was asleep before he realized it.
It was the first time in two days that he felt at ease enough to sleep.
Chapter Ten
Castell Mallwyd
Lair of Colvyn ap Gwynwynwyn
Situated deep in Powys among some of the most dramatic scenery in all of Wales, Castell Mallwyd sat amongst a series of foothills, riding the crest of one of the tallest hills like a great figurehead at the bow of a mighty ship. It could be seen for miles, perched atop its towering hill, and the castle was difficult to reach even in the best of conditions. In winter, it was nearly impossible.
The castle belonged to Colvyn ap Gwynwynwyn, the illegitimate son of the last king of Powys, Gwynwynwyn ap Owain. His father had been very old when he had been conceived, his mother being the fourteen-year-old granddaughter of one of Gwynwynwyn’s advisors. His mother had died in childbirth with him and in order to avoid a devastating and costly civil war within his kingdom, Gwynwynwyn had given the advisor a castle and lands of his own, property that now belonged to Colvyn.
But it was a dirty place, with crumbling stone, skinny dogs, and a great hall that could only contain twenty people at the most. A great pit in the middle of the dilapidated hall served as its fire pit, with smoke escaping through holes in a roof that needed to be repaired. Colvyn didn’t spend much time in the hall. He preferred the gatehouse where he had a sturdy room with a good roof and a hearth, and a buxom servant woman to fill his bed. But on this late night in October, he found himself sitting in his hall, watching Gryffyn d’Einen slurp down a thin stew made from rabbits and field mice, and watered ale.
The man had come to Castell Mallwyd earlier in the day, exhausted and nearly hysterical. He rode a horse bearing English tack, which was puzzling to Colvyn until Gryffyn began spouting his story in between ravenous bites. Then, it all started to come out.
The English had taken over Nether Castle. Trevyn d’Einen had been killed in the battle and Gryffyn’s sisters had been taken hostage, including Chrystobel, whom Colvyn had his eye on. It was disturbing news to say the least, and Colvyn sat and listened to Gryffyn, who seemed genuinely upset about the English onslaught. Gryffyn had barely escaped with his life, and was only able to do so after stealing an English soldier’s horse. The more Gryffyn spoke, the more concerned – and doubtful – Colvyn became.
“Why Nether?” Colvyn demanded. “It is not as if the castle in in the marches and is of contention between the Welsh and the English. It is thirty bloody miles from the marches, so to attack Nether makes no sense at all.”
Gryffyn slurped down the last of the watery stew. The flavor had been terrible but it was warm, and that was all that mattered. “William Marshal desires it,” he told Colvyn. “The man desires a foothold in Powys and now he has it.”
“A foothold for what?”
Gryffyn sucked the scraps of meat from his bowl and tossed it aside, watching the dogs fight each other for the privilege of licking it.
“Long have the Normans desired to conquer Wales,” he said, eyeing the short, dark man across the table from him. “You know this. They have already conquered southern Wales and now they move north. Today it will be Nether; tomorrow, mayhap it will be Castell Mallwyd. You must send word to your teulu for more men so that we can take Nether back and vanquish the English from our region. If we do not strike now and strike fast, all will be lost.”
It was an impassioned plea but Colvyn, unlike Gryffyn, was not quick to react. He was more methodical, and frankly, the story seemed a little far-fetched. He’d never heard of English attacking a fortress this deep into Wales, at least not without good reason. Conquest of the region, especially with winter bearing down on them, seemed odd. All skepticism aside, however, it was not an entire unlikely prospect. The English had been known to do stranger things. Torn between real possibilities and Gryffyn’s dramatics, he sighed heavily.
“There is some truth in what you say,” he replied. “I can think of no other reason for the Saesneg to attack Nether other than it must be a part of a greater plan. Mayhap of conquest, as you said. And you say your father was killed in the attack?”
Gryffyn nodded, appearing properly grieved. “The Saesneg warriors killed him because he resisted,” he replied. “Then they took my sisters as a prize.”
“But you escaped?”
“Only by the grace of God was I able to,” Gryffyn said, sounding properly convincing. “They tried to restrain me but I was able to break free. See this broken wrist? This is proof of their brutality.”
He was holding up his heavily bandaged wrist, one that Colvyn’s soldiers had set because Colvyn didn’t have a physic. His castle was too poor for that. Eyeing the wrist, Colvyn diges
ted the story. He had known Gryffyn d’Einen for many years and they were friends, although Gryffyn at times had tested that friendship. He was a nasty man with a brutal streak and there were times that Colvyn had been disgusted by his actions.
Once, on a visit to Nether, he caught Gryffyn slapping Chrystobel, but Gryffyn had come up with a very plausible and convenient excuse for the action, and Chrystobel had kept her mouth shut out of fear. She’d neither condemned nor defended her brother, but the incident had left a bad taste in Colvyn’s mouth. Still, men had a right to discipline their women and Gryffyn was no exception. Colvyn gave him the courtesy of not questioning him further on the matter, even when he saw Chrystobel the next day with an eye swollen shut.
However, facts were facts – Gryffyn had never shown any real concern for his family, so his story of the his family at the hands of the English seemed questionable. Colvyn had been listening to it for over an hour. With that in mind, Colvyn contemplated his next volley of questions.
“That may be true,” he said. “They are a brutal race. But why have you come to me for help? You hold no real love or affection for your family, Gryffyn. Do you panic because the English seek to steal your legacy? Surely you do not wish for me to save your family from their clutches. They are probably better off with their Saesneg captors than they are with you.”
As he laughed quietly into his cup, Gryffyn struggled not to become enraged. If he did, Colvyn would throw him out and he would have nowhere to go. More than that, if he offended the man, he would lose his only real ally. Therefore, it was imperative to convince Colvyn that the English were bent on conquest of the region. There was no other way to force Colvyn to rally his men and, consequently, his very large teulu. The Gwynwynwyn teulu had hundreds of members at the very least. With that in mind, he decided to go for the man’s heart. It was the only way to get what he wanted and Gryffyn was a man who did not like to be denied his wants.
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