The man fled. Now out of striking range, Gryffyn’s sister and father watched him with a good deal of trepidation. A big man, Gryffyn was violent and unstable. What happened this afternoon had happened a hundred times before. Gryffyn did not care who he struck in anger or annoyance; his father, his sister or a servant were all the same to him. There was no telling his mood from moment to moment.
Chrystobel d’Einen knew that all too well. Her cheek was red as a result of a simple misspoken word to her volatile brother. She didn’t even know what it was. One moment they were speaking, the next moment he snapped. It had been thus for as long as she could recall. She spent a good deal of time avoiding the man and the pain he inflicted. It was one of the darker secrets they endured in the place the locals called the Nether World.
“What of Izlyn?” she whispered to her father. “I will not allow her to stay in the vault one moment longer. She has done nothing to warrant being caged in that awful place.”
“Shush,” Trevyn d’Einen put his fingers to his lips in a hushing motion. He didn’t want Gryffyn to hear their conversation. “She has done nothing except to have been mute all of these years. That is enough for your brother.”
Tears threatened Chrystobel but she fought them. “God damn him to….”
Trevyn shushed her again. “I will release your sister, have no fear. Your brother will be occupied with the English and his thoughts will not be on your little sister. I would suggest that you see to the meal and stay clear of your brother for the time being.”
Chrystobel nodded. “Aye, Father,” she murmured. Her gaze lingered on her brother a moment before returning her attention to her father and lowering her voice. “Perhaps you should also clear the hall.”
Trevyn shook his head, rubbing his jaw where his son had struck him. “In a moment,” he said with more bravery than he felt. “You will go and see to the meal.”
Something in Chrystobel’s gaze begged her father to leave with her, but the man refused to go. This was his hall, after all, and he would not be chased out by his bullying son. Chrystobel knew this. With a soft sigh of resignation, she turned back to her brother.
“Do you have any requests for supper, Gryffyn?” she asked politely.
Gryffyn had reclaimed the chalice so carelessly tossed aside and was in the process of pouring himself more wine. His mood shift was instantaneous, back to an almost pleasant countenance.
“If the parsnips are bitter you shall feel my wrath,” he said steadily. “Do we have honey?”
“Aye.”
“Then I would have honey cakes with walnuts.”
“As you wish.”
With a last glance at her father, Chrystobel quit the hall just as an unfamiliar soldier entered. She steered well away from the man, hardly giving him a glance as she quit the great hall and headed for the kitchens on the opposite side of the keep.
There was a storm brewing overhead and she glanced up as a few stray raindrops pelted her face. They felt cool and soothing on her red cheek which, she knew from experience, would not fade before the English arrived. Since she was well aware that she would be meeting her future husband upon that event, she silently cursed her brother for his beastly actions. She was always silently cursing him but that was as far as it went. Anything more and he might seriously hurt her. She could not take the chance.
So she struggled to move past the latest slap her brother had brought against her and focus on the meal. Now the English were coming and Nether Castle would be garrisoned for William Marshal. Gryffyn had been furious that his father had consigned their ancestral home to the English, but with the promise of richer English lands and coinage, Gryffyn’s anger had soothed. Still, he wasn’t entirely happy about the English at Nether Castle. His mood swings had been worse since his father had struck the deal. Chrystobel felt some resentment that Gryffyn was so incensed about the deal when she had every right to be the incensed party in the proposal. She was the one, after all, who had been made part of the bargain.
The thunder rolled overhead and a few more drops pelted her face. Chrystobel crossed through the smaller inner wall that sectioned off the kitchen yard from the rest of the castle. She could see the kitchen straight ahead, a structure with a roof and three walls. One entire side of it was open to the elements, but it was a cozy and functional place nonetheless. As she approached, the slender cook with only one good eye informed her that the meal was well underway. A sheep was being turned on a big spit, fat from the carcass dripping into the open flame and creating bursts of flame. Chrystobel spoke to the one-eyed cook long enough to inform the woman that Gryffyn had requested honey cakes with walnuts. The woman listened but seemed more interested in inspecting Chrystobel’s red cheek.
It wasn’t bad enough that her brother struck her but that the servants, long-time pledges of the d’Einen household, could not be discreet about the marks she bore. Most of them had known Chrystobel since she had been born. They had watched the little bully Gryffyn grow into the bigger, stronger bully who seemed to take delight in taking his frustrations out on his sisters. The eldest, Chrystobel, was a glorious goddess of beauty while the younger girl, Izlyn, was a mute; sweet, silent, lovely little Izlyn. They were all extremely protective of the girls and they had all paid the price at one time or another. Gryffyn viewed it as interference in his world and he would not tolerate it from anyone, not even their father. Trevyn was the recipient of his son’s wrath as well.
Chrystobel left the fretting cook, not wanting to get sucked up into the woman’s emotional turmoil. Her first impulse was to leave the kitchen yard and go back to the hall to make sure the room was prepared for the English, but she remembered that her brother was there the last time she saw him and she did not want to run into the man again. She couldn’t take another welted cheek. The postern gate was to her left, tucked into the wall of the kitchen yard, and she made way for it immediately.
The tunnel that passed through the twelve-foot thick outer wall led to an iron door that was implanted into the exterior edge of the wall. She threw the three bolts on the inside of the gate and shoved it open, emerging into the rocky area outside the great walls of Nether. The castle had been built on a rocky mountain that had been somewhat graded down so that a structure could be built on the strategic pad. And strategic it was. The castle commanded a spectacular view over the surrounding countryside, surrounded by a sheer cliff on the north side, mountains on the east side, and a steep slope on the south side. The west was the entry, facing a mountain road called the Nether Pass. It was dramatic scenery at its best, a mountain fortress nestled deep in the wilds of Wales.
Chrystobel was well aware of the location of her home. She loved the isolation, the green, the pure beauty of her valley to the south. She stood on the edge of the steep slope, her gaze falling over the vast valley below, her thoughts wandering from her welted cheek, to her sister, and to the husband she would be meeting this day. She had always been the pragmatic sort. Trouble was, she wasn’t so sure she wanted to make peace with the idea of an English husband. She’d known about it for weeks but that didn’t make it any easier to accept. It would be so much easier to simply wind her way down the mountain trails and wander off into oblivion.
Something caught her attention off to the left and she could see a wounded rabbit picking its way down the rocky crevice known as the Gorge of the Dead. It was really the fancy name for the moat that had been hacked out over a hundred years ago by her ancestors who had built Nether Castle. It was a deep, rocky and treacherous pit where the bodies of the enemy were once thrown. But there was a path that cut across it and she followed the path, watching the little creature as it limped its way across the rocky trail. When she reached the bottom of the gorge, she came close to catching it but it scampered away on three good legs. She followed.
The path came up on the other end of the gorge and wound its way down the lush, green slope. It was about three hundred feet down to the valley below and Chrystobel took the path carefully
, keeping an eye out for the rabbit as the wind whipped her about. She ended up grabbing her long blond hair in a bunch and holding it tight because the winds had teased it into a frenzy. The raindrops had increased and she now found herself in a full-blown rainstorm. Knowing she needed to return to the castle whether or not she wanted to, she turned around on the muddy slope and promptly lost her footing.
Down the hill she slid.
Keller saw her coming.
At first, he wasn’t sure what it was. The rain was somewhat blinding him but he could see something sliding down at him from the slope above. He reined his charger to a halt on the narrow path as the object came closer and he soon realized that it was a woman. She was trying frantically to stop her momentum but she was gaining speed by the second. Keller knew that if he didn’t stop her, she would slide a very long way down to the valley below. It wouldn’t kill her but it would surely be an uncomfortable and frightening trip. Dismounting his charger, he put himself on an intercept course.
He managed to grab the woman just as she slipped past him. He had ahold of her arm. She shrieked when he grabbed her and her body snapped with the abrupt halt, but Keller had a strong grip. The woman threw up her other hand and grabbed hold of him as he pulled her up and onto the path. Even then, she didn’t let go of him. She struggled to catch her breath, still holding him with a death grip.
“My thanks,” she breathed heavily, pushing the hair from her eyes. “How fortunate that you were here to save me.”
Keller gazed down at the woman. She was petite with gold-colored hair that fell in great silken sheets. In spite of the fact that the rain had dampened it, it was the most beautiful hair he had ever seen. But when she shoved the hair from her face, he was doubly-intrigued. Her face could only be described as exquisite. She looked up at him with great brown eyes, big and round with a fringe of dusky lashes. Her features were delicate and lovely, her cheeks red from the weather. For a moment, he was speechless. It actually took him a moment to move past the wonder of her beauty to realize she had spoken to him.
“I would say it was most fortunate,” he replied, tearing his gaze away from her to look up the slope. “Where did you come from?”
She struggled to stand and he held on to her a moment while she steadied herself. “Up there,” she pointed to the obvious. “I was chasing a wounded rabbit.”
“For supper, no doubt.”
She gave him a lopsided grin. “Not really. I felt sorry for the poor little thing.”
“And you were going to heal it rather than eat it?”
“That was my intention.”
“Seems like an incredible waste of effort.” Keller took his hands from her because she seemed steadier. Still, his gaze moved over her. He couldn’t help it. She was magnificent. “You are from the castle.”
Chrystobel returned his gaze, curious about him now that her fright had eased. “I am,” she replied. “And you are with the Marshal’s men.”
“How would you know that?”
“Because you are not from Wales. I can tell by the way you speak, your manner of dress, your fine charger, your….”
He held up a hand to silence her, though it was done in a light-hearted way. “I can see you are a bright woman. Clumsy perhaps, but bright.”
She laughed softly, displaying a beautiful set of white teeth with slightly prominent canines. Keller was instantly captivated.
“I am not always clumsy,” she informed him, her brown eyes warm with humor.
Keller regarded her a moment. In truth, he couldn’t seem to stop staring at her. “Beth ydy’ch enw chi?”
Her delicately arched eyebrows lifted with surprise. “Your Welsh is perfect,” she commented. “To answer your question, I am the Lady Chrystobel d’Einen of Nether Castle. May I know your name also, my lord?”
Keller stared at her, the surprise of her identity not lost on him. His first reaction was one of resistance followed just as quickly by one of great interest. The two responses tumbled over in his mind, crashing into one another until all he felt was confusion. But the lady was expecting an answer and he struggled to give her one that didn’t sound too extreme one way or the other.
“I am Sir Keller de Poyer,” he replied after a moment.
He was positive she would know the name, the stranger who was to become her husband, and was somewhat surprised when she did not react. She continued to gaze at him with a politely friendly look on her face.
“How long will you be part of the English contingent posted at Nether Castle?” she asked.
He was puzzled by her response and he was also strangely offended. He cocked his head. “Does my name not mean anything to you?”
The polite smile was fading. “No, my lord, it does not. Should it?”
He scratched beneath his visor. “Aye, it probably should. It is the name of your husband.”
That bit of information received a reaction. Her smile faded completely and her eyes widened. “You… you are my husband?”
He nodded. “Now tell me what you were really doing out here. Were you running away?”
She appeared struck. “Why would I run?”
“I should think that would be fairly obvious.” When she continued to look deeply confused, he elaborated. “From me. From our marriage.”
She shook her head emphatically. “No, my lord. It is as I told you. I was chasing a wounded rabbit and slipped. There is a trail upslope,” she pointed up the mountainside, “that leads from the postern gate of Nether.”
He glanced up the side of the mountain, seeing a small sliver of black as it cut through the green of the slope. His gaze returned to the petite, beautiful woman in front of him. If he could admit one thing to himself at that moment it would be that he was glad she was lovely. It made this honor forced upon him a little easier to bear. He realized he was a little less reluctant than he was just moments earlier. Additionally, he was glad that she had not been attempting to run away. Even if he had been…well, almost.
“Very well,” his gaze moved up and down her muddy body. From what he could see, it was as exquisite as the rest of her. “Let us return you to the castle and get you into some dry clothing before you catch chill. It would not do for the bride to be ill on the event of her wedding.”
Still reeling from the fact that her mystery savior was, in fact, her betrothed, Chrystobel obediently began to move down the muddy path, heading towards the distant road. Keller carefully turned his horse around and began to lead the beast after her.
He watched her lowered head, her slumped shoulders, thinking that perhaps he had been too harsh in accusing her of running away. But it had been the first thing that had popped into his mind and he knew, from past experience, that his manner with women had never been particularly smooth. He was apt to say the wrong thing more than the right. He did not want to start this marriage out on the wrong note.
“My lady,” he said, watching her pause and turn around. He walked up to her, gazing down into her chapped face. “I apologize if I offended you by asking if you were running away. I did not mean to insult your honor.”
She cocked her head slightly, wiping the rain from her brow. “You did not. But I was truthful with you; I was not running.”
“I believe you.”
“I do, however, have a question for you, my lord.”
“What is it?”
“What were you doing here? The castle entrance is not this direction.”
He just looked at her. There was a faint glimmer in the dark eyes as he pondered his reply. “I was chasing a wounded rabbit.”
“For supper?”
“Hopefully you will provide something more substantial than that.”
Her smile was back. She had a very easy, and very lovely, smile. “Indeed I will, my lord.”
It was clear she did not believe his evasive answer but she gave him the courtesy of not questioning him further. It made Keller feel worse about dodging her query. She had been truthful where he had not. To be
honest, he wasn’t sure why he had taken the muddy path along the mountainside. It seemed like a good idea at the time to help clear his head to prepare for the inevitable. But now he felt guilty about it.
His guilt, however, did nothing to either ease or reinforce the confusion he felt as he followed Chrystobel’s gently swaying hips all the way back to Nether Pass.
CHAPTER THREE
He is a very big man.
That was Chrystobel’s first thought when she saw de Poyer, without his helm and most of his armor, in the great hall for supper. He had come with a cluster of English knights, haughty men with a haughty manner and big weapons. They were all big and sturdy, war machines for William Marshal’s conquest of Wales. She wasn’t sure she liked them in the halls of Nether, yet she had little choice. She had instructed the servants to begin serving food as soon as the knights entered the hall and they did so with flighty efficiency.
De Poyer didn’t sit right away even though his men did. As Chrystobel watched from an alcove, de Poyer moved to the hearth to inspect it, pacing the room slowly as his gaze moved over every facet of the hall as if biting it off, chewing it, and digesting it. He had a very intense gaze. His perusal of his new acquisition gave Chrystobel a chance to inspect him. As she had initially noticed, he was a large man with a big, muscular body. He had enormously wide shoulders and arms. He wasn’t obviously handsome but he had rugged, strong features that she found intriguing. He had dark, dusky eyes and closed-cropped dark hair with flecks of gray near the temples. She wondered how old he was. He wasn’t young but he wasn’t particularly old. It seemed to her that he was a man who had seen much in life because his manner seemed oddly weary.
A servant swept past her through the alcove, coming from the small exterior door that led off towards the kitchens, and nearly dropped a platter of boiled apples as she went. The woman panicked because she thought Gryffyn, who wasn’t even in the hall yet, might have heard the commotion. He did not tolerate clumsiness. Chrystobel caught the platter before it could crash and took it out into the hall herself. No use in hiding herself any longer.
The Agents of William Marshal Volume II: A Medieval Romance Bundle Page 86