Kathryn Le Veque (20 page)

“I appreciate that.”

She was gazing up at him still but it was apparent there was much on her mind. “About my father,” she ventured, her expression gradually becoming distressed. “We must bury him. Where is he?”

Keller squeezed her hands gently. “We put took him to the stables yesterday but I do not know if he has been moved,” he said. “I will discover where he is and then we can plan his mass. Where would you bury him?”

Her eyes grew moist, thinking about her father, her regrets with him, her sorrows. “My mother is buried at St. Peter’s in Machynlleth,” she said. “It is a few miles to the west. I will send word to the priests to make arrangements for my father.”

“I will do it,” Keller replied. “I will ride into town on the morrow and make the arrangements, unless… unless you would like to accompany me?”

Chrystobel’s expression brightened. “Aye, I would like that,” she said. “Moreover, I think I should. You spoke excellent Welsh to me when we first met, but are you able to carry on a conversation with it?”

“Yr wyf yn,” he said in perfect Welsh. “Pam ydych chi'n gofyn?”
I am. Why do you ask?

Chrystobel grinned. “Because I believe the priests only speak Welsh,” she said, cocking her head. “How is it that you speak my language so well?”

He shrugged. “I was the garrison commander at Pembroke Castle for many years,” he told her. “I learned Welsh long ago in order to effectively deal with the local chieftains. I can probably speak it better than you can.”

Chrystobel laughed. “I do not think so,” she said. “I learned it at birth. I did not learn English until I was six years old, when I went to foster at Chirk Castle. And then, I had to learn it quickly because the lord’s wife only spoke English.”

He was grinning at her. “I am sure you were a good student.”

Chrystobel smiled modestly, her hands still holding on to his fingers, feeling giddy and silly in his presence now. The conversation was flowing so wonderfully, better than it ever had in spite of the subjects of her father and brother, and she was thrilled. When Keller wasn’t being cold and distant, he had a hint of charm in his manner that was boyish and sweet.

“I tried,” she said, realizing the dialogue was coming to a close and not wanting it to. But there were tasks to be accomplished and she gave his big hand a squeeze. “I suppose I should go and make preparations for your visitors now. May I travel unescorted now that my brother is no longer a threat?”

Keller didn’t see any harm in it. “You and your sister may both travel unescorted,” he said. Then, his thoughts began to linger on the sister, the small and silent child who seemed so terrified of everything. “Tell me… how long did your brother lock her in the vault because she is mute?”

Chrystobel’s smile faded. “Years,” she said softly. “My father did not send Izlyn to foster because she would not speak, so she has always lived here at Nether. I have educated her as best I can from what I was taught at Chirk, and my father educated her as well. She is an intelligent girl and can read and write Welsh, French, and English, but the fact that she was bright only fueled my brother’s rage towards her. He was convinced that in her lack of speech, she was simply being stubborn. She would spend days in the vault on end, at least until my father would release her, but Gryffyn would grow angry with her again and lock her back up. She has been in and out of the vault weekly since she was eight years of age.”

Keller was grim. “How old is she now?”

“She has seen twelve years as of last month.”

Keller breathed lightly. “Then she will benefit the most from your missing brother,” he said. “Mayhap she will finally begin to enjoy life a little, as a young girl should.”

Chrystobel thought of her little sister, of her horrific life up until that point, and her eyes grew moist. “I sincerely pray for that.”

“It is my intention to make sure you both enjoy life now that I am here.”

Chrystobel smiled gratefully and Keller kissed her hands again, but he didn’t stop there. Her lips were soft and inviting, and he gently slanted his mouth over hers, suckling her lips gently. Her response was timid at first, but very quickly, she gave in to his attention and the kisses became more powerful as she wrapped her arms around his neck. Keller pulled her against him, his torso against hers, as his kisses turned to fire. She was incredibly soft and warm, and the feel of her in his arms roused him like nothing he had ever known. He never realized a kiss was supposed to be this sweet or this alluring. At this moment, it was the most powerful thing he had ever experienced. She was the most powerful thing he had ever known.

But that blissful moment was cut short when the chamber door next to them rattled. Suddenly, Keller was standing a few feet away from Chrystobel as the door opened and Izlyn stood in the doorway. He didn’t even know how he got there. All he knew was that the door movement had startled him as if he had been a silly stable boy stealing a kiss from a serving maid, fearful he’d been caught doing something clandestine. When he realized how he had reacted, he felt like a bloody idiot.

Keller looked over at Chrystobel, who seemed flushed and dazed as she took her sister by the hand and told the girl that they had visitors to prepare for. She smiled at Keller as she disappeared into the lower levels to make arrangements for their guests, and Keller followed at a distance, his wits still not completely gathered. Their kiss had left him scatterbrained to say the least, and it was a full minute before he even remembered the task that lay ahead of him. He had visitors to greet, great knights from the stable of de Lohr.

Still lingering in the effects of that heated kiss, he headed out to meet them.



CHAPTER ELEVEN

Sir Gart Forbes was an enormous man with piercing green eyes, a bald-shaved head, and hugely wide shoulders. And the man didn’t walk. he stalked. He had the look of a hunter about him and he literally stalked as he dismounted his charger and went to greet Keller. Their handshake was so powerful that it would have toppled a lesser man, but Keller simply grinned. A heavy-handed handshake was Gart’s way of declaring one was worthy of his attention.

Sir Rhys du Bois, the second knight to wearily dismount his charger, didn’t have the look of a hunter. He had the look of a trained killer. Nearly as tall as his hunter counterpart, he was broader and more muscular, with black hair and brilliant blue eyes. Every woman whose gaze was fortunate enough to fall upon Rhys du Bois would swear he was the most handsome man in all the world, which was mostly true. He was a fine example of male beauty coupled with intelligence and skill.

Keller, however, saw beyond the Adonis-like knight and the stalking hunter. He saw his old friends. Rhys grinned as he took Keller’s hand when Gart finally released it, and Keller shook the man’s hand firmly. He’d known the men since he had been a young man, newly knighted in the service of the aged Henry II, and they had kept in touch with each other even though he’d not seen them in over a year. They were a most welcome sight.

“So de Lohr sent you two?” Keller said, shaking his head. “What happened? Did he run out of excellent knights to send?”

Rhys laughed softly. “No one wanted to come so we had to draw lots,” he said. “Gart and I lost.”

Keller was grinning, smiling more than he had in months. “You serve Christopher and Gart serves his brother David,” he said, looking between the two of them. “You normally do not serve together. How is it you ended up as motley pair?”

Gart was pulling off one of his massive leather gloves, his trained gaze moving around the bailey as he did so. “The de Lohr war machine is involved in the baron’s revolt against John,” he said. “We were spared to come to Wales because Christopher fears that while most of the English barons are preoccupied with civil unrest, the Welsh might decide it is a perfect time to create problems. He wants us here, with you, in case that happens.”

Keller’s smile faded. “I’ve not seen Richard in a few years,” he said. “I was with him all through the great quest to The Levant, but once he gifted me to William Marshal, I was sent to Wales and in Wales I have remained. This has not been my choice to be in this land of endless mountains and pewter skies.”

Gart and Rhys knew that. Keller had been a very great knight for Richard and much decorated for his heroism in the Holy Land. To tuck this great knight far away in the wilds was nothing short of criminal. Keller was someone they both greatly respected.

“William Marshal must have a purpose for putting you here,” Rhys said. “He is not foolish. I am sure he wants you here for the same reason de Lohr has sent us to support you. With England eating itself up from the inside, if the Welsh decide to take advantage of the chaos, it would be very bad not to have a foothold here.”

Keller knew that all too well but he still wasn’t happy about it in spite of the fact that he now had an impressive castle, titles, and a beautiful wife. But it was not in his nature to complain. He was a knight and knights did as they were told.

“I just came from Southern Wales,” he finally said. “It is calm for the most part. I heard no stirrings of revolt.”

Gart grunted. “All the Welsh do is revolt,” he muttered. “The Scots, too. And the French. Can no one simply do what they are told these days by those who demand to rule them?”

Keller was back to grinning. “You have spent enough time in the wars in France to know the answer to that,” he said. “No one wants to be subjugated these days.”

“Speaking of subjugated,” Rhys said as he peeled back his hauberk, revealing the sticky black hair beneath. “How has it been for you around here? Any excitement?”

Keller just looked at him.
Where to start
? After a moment, he simply shook his head. “Let us go into the great hall and I will tell you the madness that has been commonplace here since my arrival.”

Gart looked interested. “Madness?” he repeated. “Have we missed something?”

Keller could only lift his eyebrows. “That would be a simple way of putting it.”



Chrystobel presented a lovely meal for Nether’s newest guests. After being introduced to Sir Gart Forbes and Sir Rhys du Bois, she had run back to the kitchens were the servants were preparing a great feast. Great pitchers of ale, made from barley from their own fields, appeared on the tables and were quickly consumed by the two big knights and over one hundred senior soldiers they had brought with them into the great hall. The rest of the English mingled with Keller’s forces to the north side of the bailey and near the gatehouse, swelling the ranks of the English to almost eight hundred men. Nether was a big place and was able to accommodate the crowd, but the d’Einen soldiers were rather outnumbered. The sight of so many English made them nervous.

When Chrystobel sent the ale to the hall, she also made sure to send barrels of ale out to the soldiers in the bailey, English
and
Welsh. She didn’t want to neglect any of Nether’s inhabitants, and especially the Welshmen who were not overrun by the English. Meanwhile, the cook and two of the kitchen servants began making loaf after loaf of dense brown bread and, piping hot, the loaves were sent out in waves to the great hall and troops outside. Butter went with the loaves, giving the men something to eat while the cook worked on re-heating roast mutton and covering it with a rosemary-peppercorn gravy made from the rosemary in Chrystobel’s garden. As the mutton was being sauced, an old kitchen servant was making a great, hearty stew made from dried peas, barley, and carrots over an open flame in the kitchen yard in an iron pot big enough for a man to bathe in. The stew was thick and delicious, seasoned with onions and precious salt, and soon everyone was partaking of the mutton and of the stew. It was a glorious feast, indeed.

With everything running smoothly, Chrystobel stood in the corner of the hall, watching her husband, William, George, Aimery, and the two enormous English knights as they devoured the meal. The hall was rather lively, being so crowded, alive with conversation and filled with smoke from the hearth and the wanderings of hungry dogs. Men were laughing and talking everywhere.

At the end of the long feasting table sat Keller and the other knights, having a serious conversation from what Chrystobel could see, which was why she hadn’t joined them. She assumed, correctly, that they had a great deal to talk about so she focused on her kitchen duties to ensure that everyone had enough to eat. She wasn’t comfortable enough, or bold enough, to join the knights’ conversation.

The feasting and the conversation went for most of the day and on into the early evening. Everyone seemed quite caught up in their conversation and ale. As the evening meal approached, the cook prepared a large quantity of mice pies – literally, pies filled with cooked, de-boned mice, onions, turnips, carrots, beans, and garlic, baked until the crust of the pie was a deep golden brown. Mice were very plentiful at Nether and the cook had managed to find a way to utilize the pests, cooking them into a tasty pie. Like rabbit or any other rodent, the Welsh cooks made use of what they could find and the result, in this case, was a clever and delicious result.