Kathryn Le Veque (3 page)

“They are indeed,” Keller drew in a long, pensive breath. “I suppose I can always look at the positive; should I grow weary of fighting the Welsh, I can always become a sheep farmer.”

William laughed softly. “Cheer up, de Poyer. You are a fortunate man.”

Keller’s response was to spur his charger away from William and to the front of the column. It was apparent he didn’t wish to speak further on the matter and Wellesbourne was sorry that he had chased him off. Keller remained at the front, riding alone, until the talk, dark-stoned bastion of Nether Castle came into view.

At first, it was difficult to tell the castle from the dark clouds that hovered over the mountains. They blended in to each other. Then, the distinct outline became more apparent and the desolate fortress that was Nether Castle distinguished itself from the angry sky. Perched on the crest of an enormous mountain, Nether Castle was a bleak and foreboding place. It could be seen for miles, riding the summit of the mountain like a great preying beast.

A sliver of road could be seen leading up to it, hugging the side of the mountain precariously. The scattered clouds in the sky seemed to be clustering over the castle, great sheets of gray rain falling upon it. The party from Pembroke could see the storm over the castle, brewing for the approaching guests. It made the countenance of the place most uninviting.

Nether Castle was the seat of the Carnedd baronetcy, an expanse of land nestled in the heart of Powys near the Dovey Valley. It was referred to as “The Wilds” because of the dramatic and desolate landscape, far removed from the marcher lordships that dominated the contention between England and Wales.

Nether, however, was a fortress in the center of turbulent lands. Lesser Welsh princes claimed to rule over the lands, which complicated the issue when the Lord of Nether surrendered the castle to William Marshal in exchange for a very small parcel of more prosperous English property. Still, the exchange of lands came with a good deal of haggling in the form of an arranged marriage. The Lord of Nether, Trevyn d’Einen, had made his daughter part of the bargain. It kept a family tie still linked to the property even though it no longer belonged to his family.

None of the Englishmen knew the details of the deal save de Poyer. It wasn’t their business, anyway. But there were various whispers of dread and reluctance from the men. But they knew that the dark and stormy castle was their destination, like it or not. George and Aimery looked to seasoned William, but the blond knight’s gaze was fixed upon the distant castle in a noncommittal manner. They all knew better than to comment within earshot of de Poyer, who continued to ride alone several feet ahead. Knowing the man’s mood as they did, they suspected it was darker than the clouds above.

Little did they know that it was darker even than that. As the army began their ascent up the road, de Poyer suddenly spurred his animal down a small goat path that led off across the base of the hill. It was parallel to the castle. He wasn’t heading away from the structure but he wasn’t heading towards it, either. Wellesbourne watched him go.

“Where is he going?” George reined his charger next to William.

Wellesbourne shook his head. “I have no idea.”

“What should we do?”

“Continue to the castle. He will meet us there.”

“Are you sure?”

Wellesbourne wasn’t. With a lingering glance at de Poyer as the man ripped across the slick green hillside, he turned to the column of men and began shouting encouragement to motivate them up the muddy road.

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CHAPTER TWO

“She’ll be greeting her husband with a bruise on her face,” said an older man, well dressed, who was bent over a woman seated at the table in the great hall. She had her hand over the left side of her face as the old man tried to inspect it. He could already see the welt rising and he turned furious dark eyes to the man standing near the hearth with a chalice of wine in his hand. “Why did you do this? She has done nothing to deserve it.”

The man with the wine looked lazily at the older man. “She is a woman, is she not?” he fired back. “That is reason enough. And you’ll stay out it.”

The older man straightened up, his expression nothing short of rage. “I’ll not stay out of it,” he seethed. “She is my daughter. And you are my son. You have no right to strike her.”

Gryffyn d’Einen tossed the chalice into the blazing hearth, hearing the hiss as the liquid hit the fire. His face contorted with anger as he stomped towards his shorter, weaker father.

“Stay out of it,” he repeated, shoving a finger into his father’s face. “It is none of your affair.”

“Strike her again and you will regret it.”

Gryffyn lashed out, striking his father with a closed fist in the jaw. The man went reeling as the woman jumped up from the table, going to the aid of the older man.

“Gryffyn, no!” she cried. “Leave him alone!”

Gryffyn swung on his younger sister. “Have you not learned your lesson?” he reached out and grabbed her hair, viciously yanking the silken blond strands. “If I need to….”

He was cut off by a servant standing in the doorway of the great hall. “My lord,” the old servant delivered in a trembling tone. “We have received a rider.”

Gryffyn’s wrath was diverted from his sister, his dark eyes focusing on the cowering servant. “Who is it?”

“English, my lord,” the servant was moving out of the door even as he delivered the message. Everyone at Nether Castle feared Gryffyn, especially when he was in the midst of a rage. “The party from Pembroke will be here within the hour. They demand their supper and a priest upon their arrival.”

Gryffyn released his sister’s hair, hardly noticing when she ran to their father to help the man off the floor.

“Is the messenger still here?” he demanded.

The servant bobbed his scraggly head nervously. “Aye, m’lord.”

“Send him to me quickly.”

“Aye, m’lord.”

The man fled. Now out of striking rage, 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 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.