Kathryn Le Veque (32 page)

“I brought my razor,” he said, holding up what looked like a dirk in a sheath. “I have a feeling I could use a shave as well.”

Chrystobel smiled. “You do look a bit ragged.”

With a grin, Keller pulled the smelly tunic off and tossed it to the ground. “Then I am in your hands, Lady de Poyer. Do with me as you will.”

She did. She had Keller bend over the table, over the big bowl of scented water, and proceeded to scrub him with a horsehair brush she had that was used solely for bathing. She also used a bar of lumpy white soap that smelled of roses because it was the only thing she had, and she scrubbed the man’s head, face, and upper torso with it. Using a linen rag, she wiped the soap off his skin, rinsed out his hair with the heavily-scented “waters”, and proceeded to use the soap on his face again to lather up his beard. But that was where she stopped.

“You will have to shave yourself,” she said. “I have never shaved a man before.”

His dusky eyes glittered. “Then perhaps you should learn,” he told her, removing the razor from its sheath. He handed it to her. “I will sit down. The best way for you to learn is to stand over me, with my head against your belly, and drag the blade up my face towards you.”

Chrystobel wasn’t too sure about it but she did as he asked. When he was seated, she came up behind him and he rested his head back against her breasts. Holding his chin with her left hand, she proceeded to drag the sharp razor up his left cheek, scraping off a portion of his beard. With a few more drags, she grew confident and proceeded to very carefully shave his entire face without a single nick. She even shaved his neck. Thrilled at her first attempt, she used more of the “waters” to wipe off his face, cleaning it of the slimy soap, and stood back to inspect her handiwork.

It took Chrystobel a moment to realize that it was the first time she had ever seen her husband clean-shaven. His skin was rough and weathered, but removing the sprouting beard gave her a clear view of his full, smooth lips and square jaw. She found the entire vision extremely handsome and her heart beat perhaps just a bit faster in her bosom. Keller didn’t have the overt beauty that Rhys had, or the smoldering sensuality that Gart had, or even the gentle good-looks that William had, but he certainly had something that made her heart race.

“Well?” Keller said, breaking into her train of thought. “Am I presentable yet?”

Chrystobel nodded, setting the damp linen rag onto the table. “You are indeed,” she said. “Thank you for allowing me to help you bathe.”

He stood up, picked up his tunic from the bed, and bent over to kiss her gently on the lips. “My thanks to you, Lady de Poyer,” he murmured against her mouth, kissing her again because she tasted so good. “I have a feeling this will not be the last time.”

Chrystobel blushed furiously, giving in to his kisses so much that when he pulled away to put the tunic over his head, she nearly fell over. She had to catch herself. A bit addle-brained from his sweet kiss, she struggled to focus, collecting the wet linen and taking the bowl of used water and setting it aside so the servants could use it. Soapy, fragranced water, even though it had been used by the lord, was a prized commodity to the servants who liked to bathe in the sweet-smelling water as well.

As Keller straightened out his tunic and ran his fingers through his dark, damp hair, Chrystobel went to her dressing table and collected the emerald and pearl necklace he had given her. Holding it out to him, he fastened it around her neck and she put her new pale green scarf over her head, draping it elegantly over the single, heavy braid that cascaded over her right shoulder. When she collected the dark brown cloak on the bed, the one she had been mending, and turned to Keller to signal she was ready to depart, he just stood there and looked at her for a moment.

“By God’s Bloody Rood,” he muttered. “You are by far the most beautiful woman I have ever seen.”

Chrystobel blushed. “Thank you, my lord,” she said, bobbing a little curtsy for him. “It is the necklace, I am sure.”

He shook his head, giving her a somewhat reproving look. “It has nothing to do with the necklace,” he said. “You could be dressed in rags and you would still be the most beautiful woman in Wales.”

Chrystobel didn’t know what to say. She was unused to flattery in any form, so she simply grinned demurely and lowered her gaze. Keller reached out and took her hand, kissing it sweetly.

“There is a morning meal awaiting us in the great hall,” he said, his voice low and gentle. It was so deep that it was nearly a purr. “May I escort you, Lady de Poyer.”

Chrystobel lifted her eyes to him, her expression shining up at the man. “I would be honored, my lord,” she replied.

Keller kissed her hand again before escorting her from the room. In fact, his hands never left her the entire time – down the stairs, out of the entry, or across the bailey. He couldn’t seem to stop touching her, as if finally realizing she belonged to him. No more emotional walls to break down, no more fear of heartbreak. He’d passed that milestone long ago. Chrystobel had managed to heal what the widow had broken. And Keller knew he was better for it.

He felt whole again.



CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Machynlleth

The sun was just starting to rise over the eastern hills that flanked the small berg of Machynlleth. The River Dovey ran to the north and the River Dulas ran to the east, while hills surrounded the town for the most part, enclosing and protecting it. It had been those hills that had masked the Welsh raiders who had attacked the English the day before, and even now they still held Welsh rebels. Only today, there were more, and they were waiting for the English from Nether Castle to make another appearance.

Gryffyn had managed to confiscate a small home on the edge of town by thrashing the farmer, his wife, and their young son who normally inhabited it, throwing them out into the dead of night. He needed their abode far more than they did as a place to conceal more Welsh who had come down from Castell Malwydd, men who served Colvyn but who were more interested in food, money, and shelter than the great Welsh resistance against the English. Gryffyn had to promise those men a cut of whatever wealth they confiscated off the English this day, should it come to that, so men had gathered on the southern edge of Machynlleth, heavily armed, and waiting for the funeral procession of Trevyn d’Einen to appear. Once the small farmer’s home was full of Welshmen, the rest spilled over into the fields beyond until over one hundred Welshmen lay in wait in the cold and in the dark, waiting for the word to come down from Gryffyn d’Einen to move into the town.

Inside the home with its warm fire and sturdy walls, Gryffyn sat at a small table with Colvyn on the opposite side of him. After hearing Chrystobel discuss plans to bury Trevyn at St. Peter’s Church, it had taken a good deal of persuasion to convince Colvyn to return to Machynlleth for another try at the English, mostly because Colvyn’s first try against the English had resulted in six dead men with a seventh man dying later that day of his wounds.

Like most Welsh, Colvyn’s tactics were hit and run, not great organized armies to fend off invaders. After his skirmish with Keller and the English, Colvyn was not eager to take them on again, but Gryffyn had been influential. He was sure with enough men they could easily overcome a funeral party.

“It might make more sense to try and penetrate Nether Castle while the English are in town attending a funeral,” Colvyn said as he toyed with a cup of stale ale, also stolen from the farmer. “You said you were able to slip into the castle via a concealed passage. Why can we not take fifty men and use the same passage? We could take the castle that way.”

Gryffyn shook his head. “You saw how many English were at Nether,” he reminded him. “Fifty men would do nothing against that horde. Nay, it is best to catch them out in the open, here in the town, where they will more than likely have my sisters with them because they will be attending our father’s funeral. That is what we are ultimately after, is it not? My sisters?”

Colvyn wasn’t entirely sure what they were after any longer. Gryffyn seemed to have taken control of everything, including his men by promising them the spoils of war, and he wasn’t happy about it in the least. Gryffyn’s motives were still unclear, especially his obsession with regaining sisters that, under normal circumstances, he had no use for. Now, Colvyn was no longer leading his men. It was Gryffyn and his promises of riches and vengeance against the English. As Gryffyn asked the final question, Colvyn simply shook his head.

“I am not entirely sure what is important to you any longer,” he muttered. “You went to the church earlier today to ask the priests about the funeral and when they told you what they knew, you killed all of them. You
killed
men of God.”

Gryffyn remained cool. “Because they would have told de Poyer I had been there,” he said. “It would have put the man on his guard.”

Colvyn hissed in frustration. “What difference does that make?” he demanded. “If you truly want to save your sisters, then it would be much easier to slip into the castle and steal them away. As it stands, you have us attacking a convoy of heavily armed knights. This cannot end well, Gryffyn. Or is it feeding your pride to do this?”

Gryffyn’s friendly expression tightened. “It would not be easier to slip in and steal my sisters away,” he said, his voice hardening. “I went there and tried, but both women are closely guarded. It would be stupid to try such a thing. It is better to catch the English unaware.”

Colvyn sat forward, his dark eyes intense as he glared at Gryffyn. “I thought you wanted your castle back,” he hissed. “When you first came to me, you begged me to help you rid Nether of the English because you feared their foothold in Powys. What is it now? To save your sisters?”

“It has always been to save my sisters from the English,” Gryffyn fired back. Knowing that Colvyn’s men were mostly following him and his promises of riches gave him such confidence. “Once we have the women safe, we can move on the castle. I have told you all of this before.”

Colvyn simply grunted at him and looked away, frustrated that he had become swept up in Gryffyn’s scheme. He shook his head and growled. “I should have turned you away when you came to me with tales of English at Nether,” he muttered. “I should have punched you in the face and sent you away.”

Gryffyn was watching the man carefully, smelling Colvyn’s defeat. It fed his courage. “But you did not,” he said. “You did the right thing, Colvyn. You are helping me rid Nether of the English. Once we have my sisters back, we can recruit more Welsh to help us purge the castle. What Welshman would not live for the opportunity to kill English?”

Colvyn wouldn’t answer him, mostly because whatever he managed to say, Gryffyn would twist to his own advantage. There were over one hundred men now waiting to ambush the funeral party from Nether and Colvyn would not interfere with that plan. Perhaps they would be more successful with more men than he was yesterday with just a select few. A few of those big English knights were as formidable as the devil himself and Colvyn didn’t look forward to facing them again.

As the morning began to deepen and the minutes ticked away, Gryffyn finally gave the orders to move on the town but remain concealed. He didn’t want the English spooked, so the men had orders to hide and wait for the signal. That signal would be as the knights gathered at St. Peter’s church and moved Trevyn d’Einen’s coffin into the entry. With the knights focused on the coffin, and the funeral in general, it would be a perfect time to strike.

With eager anticipation, they laid the trap.



As the morning dawned bright and cold, the party from Nether Castle set off for Machynlleth. The sky was surprisingly clear and birds were singing as the group of four knights – Keller, Rhys, Gart, and William – two ladies, and fifty men-at-arms plodded down the muddy, rocky road. George and Aimery had been left at Nether to man the castle’s defenses.

It was one of Izlyn’s very few trips out of Nether and she was excitedly inspecting the world around her as she sat next to her sister on the wagon bench. On the wagon bed behind them was their father’s coffin, into which Izlyn had asked Keller to put a note she had written to her papa. He may not have been much of a father but he was the only one she had, so she had written him a note telling him that she was sorry he had died. Keller thought it was rather touching.

The smell of wet grass was heavy in the air as they traveled and, at one point, they passed a field of Nether sheep that were being guarded by four d’Einen men and two black dogs. The spring lambs were several months old now, fat and fluffy, and Izlyn kept pointing to them as they played in the early morning sun. Gart figured that she wanted one so he spurred his charger forward, galloping across the field, and jumping the rock barrier that kept the sheep contained. As Keller and the others watched, he herded a few of the little sheep into a cluster but the moment he dismounted, the sheep bolted away. Everyone laughed at Gart’s expense as the man mounted his charger again and gave chase.