Dark Deceptions

by Christi Caldwell

  He’d managed to make it from the kitchen to the stables without being noticed. The fact that de Poyer had saturated the castle with his own men worked in Gryffyn’s favor. None of the English soldiers recognized him and he was able to move past them relatively unnoticed. Once inside the stables, he climbed up into the loft above and buried himself in the dried grass used to feed and bed the animals. Heart racing with fear and excitement, he planned his next move among the smell of grass and horses.

  Stable servants moved around underneath him, tending the horses, and he listened to their inane chatter. Unfortunately, they didn’t speak of anything useful so he continued to plot on his own, knowing that whatever he did had to be accomplished before the English knights returned to the castle which, he assumed, would be before nightfall. So he lay there, buried under grass, and waited for the servants to move out so he could leave the stables and make his way to the keep.

  But that wasn’t an instantaneous happening. In fact, he had no idea how much time had passed while he wait, for he actually fell asleep at some point, exhausted from the mayhem of the past two days. It was a dreamless sleep, like the kind of sleep he had when he was young and without care. The smell of dried grass reminded him of those days. When he finally woke some time later, it was to the sound of Chrystobel’s voice.

  Startled by the familiar tone, he struggled to gain a view of her and not make too much noise or commotion in the process. Grass was noisy, and crunched, so he eventually lay still because he knew he was creating too much noise and didn’t want anyone heading into the loft to see what was causing the disturbance. So he remained immobile and realized he could see part of the stable entry through the slats in the loft. He strained to catch a glimpse of his sister as she spoke to someone about a coffin for Trevyn.

  She is here! He thought to himself gleefully as he spied her at the mouth of the stable entry. Already, he could feel her soft flesh in his hands as he squeezed her neck just as he had squeezed the cook’s. To think of Chrystobel breathing her last as he gazed into her eyes, watching her life slip away, thrilled him beyond compare.

  His hatred seemed to fixate on her more than anyone else, the foolish wench who looked so much like their mother. The bitch had died shortly after Izlyn had been born. He should hate Izlyn more for killing their mother, but he found his hatred focused on Chrystobel because she looked and sounded just like Elyn. Elyn had been the only person Gryffyn had even remotely loved, and when she died, his hatred and anger had become mainplace. It blackened his heart. Anger and hatred towards the world in general, and mostly towards a sister who looked like the woman he had loved and lost. Chrystobel reminded him of his loss on a daily basis.

  But no matter, Gryffyn shook himself of his bitter and sweet memories, of a mother he tried not to remember. He hated her now and that was all that mattered. Hated her for dying.

  Below him, Chrystobel’s voice distracted him again and he peered at her through the slats, listening to her speak to someone regarding funeral services for Trevyn at St. Peter’s in Machynlleth. A funeral, he thought, as if a great idea had just occurred to him. She would be out of the castle and it would be easier to get to her, stealing her out from under de Poyer’s nose. Aye, that would be a much smarter move than trying to corner her here in the castle. In Machynlleth, there would be knights and soldiers about, that is true, but if he employed Colvyn and his personal Welsh guard to assist in the covert operation, men who were sly warriors and who could distract the knights while Gryffyn captured his sister, then success would be guaranteed.

  Gryffyn rolled over onto his back, listening to the sound of his sister’s voice. Soon, that voice would be silenced. Now, he knew what he had to do. His plans had been laid for him.

  He eagerly anticipated the day.

  * * *

  The priests at St. Peter’s spoke the harshest Welsh Keller had ever heard. In fact, he wasn’t even sure it was Welsh until they spoke a few words that he recognized. After he began to understand their accents, it was easier to have a conversation, and soon he had made arrangements for Trevyn d’Einen’s funeral mass to be held on the morrow.

  St. Peter’s was a lovely old church, low and squat, and built with the gray granite stone that was so prevalent in the Welsh mountains. The priests pointed out Lady d’Einen’s crypt and he found himself gazing at the effigy of the woman who gave birth to both Chrystobel and to Gryffyn. How one woman could spawn two diametrically opposed individuals was something of a curiosity for him. Heaven and hell sprang all from this woman, in his opinion, so he wasn’t sure if he revered or reviled her.

  Seeing Lady d’Einen’s effigy caused his thoughts to linger heavily on Chrystobel. He could only pray that her anger would cool and she would eventually forgive him. He wondered if his poem had done any good, if it had accomplished his purpose and managed to cool the fire of fury. He spent a good deal of time praying in that church about it, softly in his mind, even as he carried on a conversation with the priests about Trevyn’s funeral. His prayers were for his relationship with his wife, one that he hoped wasn’t over before it truly began. He was both eager to return to Nether Castle and terrified of it. Terrified to discover she was still angry with him. Terrified to discover whatever trust that had been building had been lost.

  So he braced himself for the possibility, but he also decided to do what he could to ease the woman the only way he knew how – with gifts. Keller was a gift-giver when the mood struck him and had been known to spend copious amounts of money at one time. He’d brought more than enough money with him today. Mayhap if he plied Chrystobel with enough finery, she would soften and forgive him. It was worth a try and, at this point, he felt that he was out of options. He was in groveling mode.

  When he was finished making arrangements with the priests and paid them several silver coins for their services, he quit the church with his knights in tow, out into a morning that was becoming increasingly threatened by rain. As he stood next to his charger and tightened up his gloves, Rhys came to stand next to him, gazing up at the angry pewter sky.

  “Rain is coming,” Rhys said. “But I suppose it does not do anything else here. This entire country smells like a rotten egg.”

  Keller grinned, glancing up at the sky. “I am sure there are a few people around here who would disagree with you,” he said. Then, he started looking around, up and down the muddy street that ran from one end of the town to another. “I must find a goods merchant.”

  Rhys began looking around, too, because he was. “What do you need?”

  Keller’s dark eyes focused on the western end of the town where there seemed to be several people milling about, doing business. “Down there,” he said, ignoring Rhys’ question. “It looks as if there is some commerce going on down there.”

  He mounted his charger effortlessly, spurring the animal down the street. William, who had already mounted his charger and had not heard the conversation between Rhys and Keller, reined his charger next to Rhys as the man mounted his steed.

  “Where is Keller off to?” William asked.

  Rhys pointed down the street. “To find a goods merchant.”

  “Why?”

  “He would not tell me.”

  William’s gaze lingered on Keller as the man charged off down the road. “I would suspect a peace offering for Lady de Poyer.”

  Rhys looked at him. “Did they have a row?”

  William shrugged and looked at Rhys. “The man spent the night passed out on the table in a drunken stupor and not with his new wife, which is where he should have been,” he said. “If you were Keller’s new wife, how would you feel about it?”

  Rhys grunted heavily and turned his gaze to Keller down the road. “I would be furious.”

  William nodded in agreement. “As I am sure she is.”

  “I am never getting married.”

  “Then you are destined for a lonely life, my friend.”

  They didn’t say anything more after that, taking the ten men-a
t-arms down the road, following Keller, as Aimery brought up the rear. Once they reached the busier part of town with waddle and daub huts, and merchant stalls made of the big granite rocks that were plentiful in the fields and mountain, they slowed their pace and began to inspect their surroundings.

  Since Machynlleth was a small village, there wasn’t a great selection of merchants and most of those were agricultural or farming. There was a man selling sheep, a few men selling vegetables and big grass baskets of grains. There was also a merchant who had iron pots all stacked up in front of his shop, while inside the shop, there were bundles of heavy woolen fabric and other odds and ends.

  It was this merchant that interested Keller. He dismounted his horse and entered the stall, nearly too big to move around in the small space, as outside, the clouds overhead that had been threatening rain most of the day began to let loose of a heavy mist. When that began to happen, the shopkeeper raced past Keller from well back in the stall and began dragging the heavy iron pots inside so they would not rust. He was a small man with a bent back, so Keller politely helped the man pull in all of his pots. When they were finished dragging them into the stall, the man was very grateful to Keller.

  “Diolch,” he said. “Sut ga ’fod o wasanaeth?”

  How may I be of service? The man had a very heavy Welsh accent. Keller replied in his perfect Welsh. “I am looking for a gift for my lady wife,” he said. “Would you have anything that a woman might appreciate?”

  The merchant cocked his head, perhaps dubiously. “How much are you willing to spend, my lord?”

  “More money than you’ve seen at one time, I assure you.”

  The merchant didn’t doubt him by the way he was dressed or by the fine steed he traveled on. His doubt turned to the thrill of perhaps making a great sale, which were far and few between in this little berg. Swiftly, he turned for the rear of his shop.

  “I keep my precious items away from the street,” he said. “The villagers cannot afford them and I do not want to invite robbers.”

  Keller wondered what the man had by way of “precious items”. By the looks of the stall, he was certain it wasn’t much and prepared himself for disappointment. When the merchant reached the rear of the stall, he fumbled under a pile of goods and pulled forth a medium-sized strong box reinforced with an iron cage. There was a lock on it and he pulled a string of keys out of his pocket and located the one he needed. Turning the tumblers on the big iron lock and sliding the bolt, he opened up the box.

  Keller was rather surprised to see what the man had. He pulled forth an emerald and pearl necklace that was exquisitely made, set in dark gold. He also withdrew three or four gold rings, with different colored stones, and also removed another pearl necklace that was set with garnets.

  The last item he pulled out was a big, heavy necklace made entirely of gold, with one hooked clasp at the back of the neck, and three strands of golden chain, each chain longer than the previous. When on a woman’s neck, it gave the illusion she was wearing three necklaces. Each strand of the necklace was magnificently done. One had purple amethysts, one had sapphires and pearls, and the longest strand had gold beads that were shaped like a cross intermingled with pale green stones. It was absolutely breathtaking and Keller held it up, inspecting it in the weak light.

  “Where on earth did you come across items such as this?” he said. “I have seen jewelry like this in large cities with fine merchants. These do not usually come from small villages such as this one.”

  The merchant watched him scrutinize the jewelry. “I received them in trade from a local noble family.”

  Keller glanced at the man. “This is very fine work,” he said. “It must have cost a small fortune to commission. Who is the family?”

  The merchant was eager to tell the tale. “The ap Gwynwynwyn family,” he said. “The last kings of Powys. They used to be quite wealthy, but the family has grown more destitute over the years and from time to time has come to me to trade some of their more valuable items for things that they need. The necklace that you are holding bought them four barrels of barley, two sacks of beans, an old sow, and six sheep. They come down from the hills every year, usually with some manner of jewelry as you see, and trade it for sustenance.”

  Keller glanced at the man. “And this is all from the same family?”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  Keller’s gaze returned to the exquisite piece of jewelry. As he gazed at it, he turned his head slightly so he could shout out of the stall.

  “Rhys!” he boomed in English. “William! Attend me!”

  He was still holding the necklace when the knights appeared, struggling to move their bulk into the shop. Rhys in particular was having a difficult time because he was extraordinarily wide. Keller held up the big necklace in front of them.

  “What do you think about this?” he asked. “Do you think any woman would be proud to own it?”

  Rhys cocked a dark eyebrow, thinking that he was no judge of jewelry, but William reached out to finger it.

  “Magnificent,” he said quietly. “I know my wife would love to have it. Are you thinking of purchasing it for Lady de Poyer?”

  Keller nodded, looking back at the other jewelry laid out on a bundle of wool fabric. “I am,” he said as he picked up the emerald and pearl necklace. “This, too. What do you think?”

  William was interested in the goods only because he had a wife that he often purchased things for. Rhys, however, was bored silly.

  “It is quite beautiful,” William concurred. “I am sure Lady de Poyer would be thrilled with any of it.”

  Keller was looking at the small gold and garnet necklace, thinking it might be a nice gift for Izlyn. He picked it up to inspect it. “Enough to cause her to forgive a drunkard of a husband?”

  William looked at him. “So she is indeed angry with you for drinking too much last night?”

  Keller sighed heavily as he set the garnet necklace down. “I pray that is not common knowledge.”

  “It is not, although I had suspected.”

  Keller cast the man a sidelong glance. “If I ply her with enough gifts, mayhap she will forgive me.”

  “Why didn’t you just apologize?”

  Keller gave him an impatient expression. “I did,” he said. “It was not enough.”

  William fought off a grin. For a man who was as uncertain with women as Keller was, the reality of an angry wife must have been torture. “Then you had better get all of it,” he said, pointing to the jewelry. “I would leave nothing to chance.”

  Keller took his advice. He bought everything the man had, a purchase which came to a staggering amount – 10£ for the big necklace, 4£ for the garnet and pearl necklace, and 4£ 10p for the emerald and pearl necklace. Each ring cost him 2£, and he bought all four – a garnet, a ruby, a blue sapphire, and an emerald. The merchant also threw in three scarves made from a fabric called albatross, a very fine fabric from France, and an alabaster phial of perfumed oil that smelled of roses and lavender spikes.

  The last purchase he made was something called a “splash” or “waters” (used interchangeably, Keller found) that were fragranced waters distilled with a mixture of water, wine, and herbs that were used for bathing or cleansing the face. The merchant happened to have a corked gourd containing “splash” that had come from Ireland, fragranced with lavender, sage, and clove. It smelled earthy and strong, so he purchased it as well.

  Keller ended up paying the man eight gold crowns for his purchases which was, as he had said, the most money the old man had ever seen at once. It was a small fortune. But to Keller, it was worth every last pence as a peace offering to his wife. The jewelry, the “splash”, and the perfume, wrapped up in the scarves, went in Keller’s saddlebag and he was looking rather eagerly to the returning home to presenting Chrystobel with such beautiful gifts. Keller recollected that she had mentioned that Gryffyn, being the heir, believed any excess funds should be spent on him, meaning Chrystobel and Izlyn more tha
n likely never received anything other than basic necessities. He was very happy to be able to provide them with something that wasn’t a necessity.

  As he pondered that thought and prepared to mount his charger, something swift and deadly passed over his head, sailed between the two men-at-arms behind him, and hit an innocent peasant standing across the road. The knights turned swiftly to see that the man had been struck by an arrow. It had come from the south, behind the merchant stalls.

  There was instant chaos in the air. As the peasant fell to the road and the man’s wife began to scream, men came hurling out from between the merchant stalls with weapons raised. Keller had to duck to avoid being decapitated as he unsheathed his broadsword. Using a massive fist, he plowed it into the face of the man who had aimed for his head and, with blood spurting in all directions from a broken nose, shoved the man to the ground next to his horse. Keller’s charger, smelling a fight, finished off the man with his heavy, sharp hooves to the head and chest.

  Men were screaming in all directions and the fight was bad from the onset. William had been ambushed by two men and had managed to dispatch one, now in a nasty sword fight with the other. His opponent had an old double-headed battle axe, still quite viable, and he was swinging it with some power at William’s head while the knight mostly stayed out of his way. The battle axe was a heavier weapon but the sword had more range, so it was only a matter of time until William saw an opening and plunged his blade into the man’s ribcage. With both opponents down, he went to help the men-at-arms who were swarmed by fast-moving Welsh and their smaller, but just as deadly, weapons.

  Rhys, too, had been attacked by two men at a time but in his case, it had been a foolish tactic by his opponents. Rhys was a rarity in that he fought with dual blades, custom-made broadswords that he carried in a double sheath strapped to his back, so when he was attacked by two men, the dual blades flew into action and in little time he’d had both men put down. Then he went to help Aimery, who had been caught by a spear in the thigh, creating a bright red stream of blood down his left leg. When Rhys leapt into the fight with the dual blades flying, both of Aimery’s antagonists wisely fled.