Authors: Netherworld
“But you will benefit, will you not? Lands in Wiltshire, as I recall.”
Gryffyn’s pale cheeks washed with a hint of color. “I want to take my sister with me when we go.”
“Your sister stays.”
Gryffyn’s jaw flexed and his eyes widened with displeasure. Keller remained characteristically calm, expecting the next volley of insults.
“Why?” Gryffyn demanded. “She will be nothing but a whore to you.”
“She will be my wife and the Lady of Nether. She stays.”
Gryffyn wasn’t used to having his wishes denied. He clenched his jaw, bared his teeth, and hurled his cup against the wall over Keller’s head. Deep purple wine splashed on the walls, the cup clattered noisily to the floor, but Keller still refused to move. His gaze was fixed on Gryffyn, realizing the man would not move against him but it would not stop him from throwing a temper tantrum. In the brief conversation that they had, and in the few actions from Gryffyn, Keller realized he was dealing with a very spoiled, very petulant man. And that knowledge gave Keller the distinct advantage.
“You whoreskin,” Gryffyn hissed. “I should throw you from Nether right now.”
Keller fought to keep the grin off his face. He didn’t know why, but he sincerely felt like laughing. “Make one move and I shall inform the Marshal. Your land grant will be rescinded and I will keep your castle anyway. You and your father will be penniless and homeless. Is this in any way unclear?”
Before Gryffyn could reply, Chrystobel entered the hall with several servants trailing after her bearing huge platters of food. She had been given no warning of what was transpiring in the hall and rushed straight to the table with a trencher in her hand. It was intended for Keller but she had to pass near her brother first and Gryffyn threw out a hand, toppling the trencher and spraying it all over his sister.
The action brought Keller to his feet. He vaulted over the table, grabbing Chrystobel before she could slip and fall onto her face in the mess of food that Gryffyn had created. Wellesbourne flew over the table and clobbered Gryffyn, hurling the man to the ground. As William and Gryffyn began throwing brutal punches, Keller picked up Chrystobel and swept her out of the combat zone. George and Aimery suddenly jumped into the fight and in little time, Gryffyn was barely conscious on the dirt floor of the great hall. William, George and Aimery had made short work of him.
Keller placed Chrystobel gently on the bench at the end of the table, far from the brawling knights. Covered with meat and gravy, her dark eyes were wide at the sight of her brother wallowing on the ground. George and Aimery got in a couple of good kicks to the belly before Wellesbourne pulled them off and turned them back to the table. William, in fact, didn’t look any worse for the wear. He seemed rather jovial as he, too, turned back to the table and called for his meal. The serving wenches, still stunned from Gryffyn’s beating, struggled to move past their shock and put the food on the table.
“Are you well?” Keller asked Chrystobel. “Did he injure you?”
She tore her gaze off Gryffyn, looking up at Keller with the widest eyes he had ever seen. “You…,” she gasped, swallowing hard to collect herself. She put her hand to her throat as if holding herself together. “Your men struck him.”
Keller’s expression was like stone. “He could have seriously injured you. What he received was appropriate punishment.”
Tears gathered in her eyes and Keller wasn’t sure why. He’d never been very good at gauging women and was suddenly fearful he had done something to displease her.
“I apologize if swift justice has upset you,” he wasn’t sure what else to say. “Are you sure you are unharmed?”
She nodded, struggling not to weep as she watched her brother wallow on the ground. “I will go and retrieve your meal immediately.”
She suddenly bolted up, moving swiftly across the room and disappearing through the door that led to the kitchens beyond. Keller stood there a moment, wondering why she again fled so swiftly and suspected he had failed to make a gracious impression upon his new bride by beating up her brother. No wonder the woman fled.
Just as he turned back to Gryffyn, now struggling to sit up, an older man and a very young woman entered the hall through the main door. The man was looking to Keller first, at a distance, but quickly beheld Gryffyn rolling about on the floor. His eyes widened.
“Gryffyn?” he looked both perplexed and oddly pleased. “What has happened?”
Keller intercepted the man before Gryffyn could reply. “Who are you?”
The man came to a stop, holding the hand of the young woman who, upon closer reflection, could not have been more than twelve or thirteen years of age. She was very small, blond, and quite lovely. Keller could see the resemblance between the young woman and his betrothed. He suspected the relationship before it was made clear.
“I am Trevyn d’Einen, Lord of Nether Castle,” the man bowed shortly, suddenly looking stricken as he stood straight. “That is to say, I used to be the Lord of Nether. This is my youngest daughter, Lady Izlyn d’Einen.”
Keller’s gaze fell on the small woman. She was a delicate beauty, blond hair with big brown eyes, but not nearly the stunning beauty that her sister was. He couldn’t help but notice she would not meet his eye. In fact, she looked terrified. He could see that she was trembling. Certainly the event of English at Nether was a frightening prospect, but it seemed to Keller that there was more to it. The girl appeared positively ill with fright and he knew he couldn’t be all to blame for it. After a moment’s inspection, Keller nodded faintly.
“I am Keller de Poyer,” he said. “By decree of William Marshal with whom you have shared a bargain, I am now lord of Nether Castle and husband to your daughter, Chrystobel. Why were you not in the bailey to greet us upon our arrival?”
Keller had never been one for tact. He came straight to the point and woe to the recipient who did not appreciate his forthrightness. Trevyn looked rather shaken by the question, struggling to form an answer as Gryffyn bellowed from his position on the floor.
“He shall not behave as an obedient dog, greeting the master when he returns,” he snarled, half-conscious.
“Gryffyn, please,” Trevyn held out a hand to silence his son, looking to Keller with a mixture of apology and fear. “Forgive him, my lord. He is not himself today.”
Keller didn’t bother looking at Gryffyn. “From the behavior your son has displayed since his entering the hall, I would say that he is exactly himself today,” he replied, his dark eyes on the old man with the white hair. “You did not answer my question. Why did you not greet us upon our arrival?”
Trevyn seemed to pull the small girl beside him closer. “Because I was tending Izlyn, my lord. She is… is not feeling well this day.”
Keller looked at the pale young girl as Gryffyn spouted off again. “I will punish you for releasing her from the vault, old man. She is a disobedient wench that must be taught a lesson. You did not have my permission to free her.”
Izlyn’s little face crumpled into tears and she buried her face in her father’s tunic. Keller, disturbed by Gryffyn’s ranting, turned to look at the man as he struggled to his feet.
“Am I to understand that you are speaking of this child?” he asked with puzzlement. He couldn’t help it.
Gryffyn’s balance was gone and he stood up only to list heavily to one side. He ended up seated on the nearest bench that flanked the great table.
“That is none of your affair,” he growled. “She is my sister and I shall do with her as I please.”
Keller had done an admirable job of keeping his temper even and his manner disinterested since his arrival. It was simply the way he was, in all things and especially in light of a new situation. But even he was starting to lose patience with a man he was coming to perceive as arrogant, brutal and dangerous. He faced Gryffyn fully and put his enormous hands on his hips.
“Answer me,” he rumbled. “Did you put this child in the vault?”
Gryffyn refused to look at him. He saw a chalice over his right shoulder and decided that was more interesting. As he reached for it, Wellesbourne snatched it out of his reached and threw it against the wall. Wine sprayed on the wall as the cup clattered to the floor, the message obvious. Gryffyn bared his teeth at William, who simply lifted an eyebrow in reply. The test of wills was in full swing.
“She is a stubborn, disobedient wench and must be taught manners,” Gryffyn whirled on Keller, snarling. “This not your house or hold, de Poyer. This family belongs to me and I will do with them as I see fit. You will not question me.”
Keller’s dark eyes glittered. “Nether Castle and all who reside within her became my holding a month ago when the treaty was signed,” he found that it was a struggle to keep his temper down. “Your sisters, your father and you belong to me now and will do as I say. Is this is any way unclear?”
Gryffyn lurched to his feet, walking unsteadily towards the entry door. He waved an unsteady hand at Keller as if to block him out, moving past his father and sister, who stepped out of his way to give him a wide berth. They watched him stagger from the entrance like a drunken man.
Once outside, Gryffyn crossed paths with Chrystobel, who was emerging from the kitchens with another trencher for Keller. Furious, irrational, Gryffyn made his way towards his sister, who was completely unaware of the man’s rage. He came upon her in such a manner that gave her little time to defend herself. One moment, she was preparing to deliver food and in the next, Gryffyn had her around the neck. Keller’s second trencher fell into the mud. No one heard Chrystobel’s cries as Gryffyn disappeared with her into the stables.
Back in the hall, the thick stone walls drowned out any noises from the bailey. With Gryffyn gone, Trevyn returned his focus to Keller.
“My apologies, my lord,” he said, suddenly looking very old and very defeated. “Gryffyn is not indicative of every person at Nether. There are those of us who welcome you as an ally and would not show you such disrespect.”
Keller studied the man a moment, trying to gauge both the man’s character and sincerity. Being the garrison commander at Pembroke Castle for five years, he’d known his share of Welsh warlords. He knew how they thought and how, like the English, they could be deceptive. He would be on his guard.
“We shall see,” he replied vaguely, changing subjects because he had nothing more to say about Gryffyn. “I sent a missive ahead of our arrival. Is the priest here?”
Trevyn nodded. “I am told he is in the kitchens eating his meal, my lord.”
“Bring him to the hall. Your daughter and I will be married immediately to seal the treaty and be done with it.”
The command sounded harsh coming from his lips. It was a business arrangement and would be treated as such. Trevyn sent a servant for the both the priest and Chrystobel. The priest was easily located but Chrystobel was not. She was found an hour later outside of the stables, sitting in the mud with her hands over her face.
***
Keller had been standing in the doorway of Chrystobel’s bower for the better part of a half hour. He stood just inside the door, his enormous arms crossed as he silently watched the activity surrounding his betrothed.
After William had found her in the mud by the stables, he had brought the dazed and bleeding woman to her bower. Young Izlyn tried her best to clean Chrystobel’s face, wiping the blood away from her lip and cleaning off the mud, and servants dashed in and out of the chamber with hot water and linens in an effort to help. Trevyn had disappeared, as had Gryffyn, and the more Keller watched the activity, the more suspicious he became. People were smacked around, disappearing even, and generally terrified. The situation was odd and growing more odd, and he eventually reached his limit of patience.
He finally ordered the servants out with a brusque command, looking to George and Aimery, just outside the door on the landing, to ensure that his command was carried out. William was stalking the castle, looking for both Trevyn and Gryffyn. Most of the family seemed to have vanished the moment Chrystobel was discovered. Keller doubted it was coincidence. When the servants scattered like frightened chickens, herded from the chamber by the Ashby-Kidd twins, Keller closed the door behind them.
It was oddly and suddenly quiet from the commotion as he faced Chrystobel and her wide-eyed sister. Both ladies were sitting on the bed, looking up at Keller as if he were the devil himself and preparing to demand their souls. Keller regarded the frightened women for a moment, eventually closing the distance between them. His gaze never left Chrystobel’s face. What he saw, and what he had observed initially, greatly disturbed him and he was attempting to determine how best to pursue the situation.
When he reached the bed, he sat down next to Chrystobel, his significant weight rocking the bed. Little Izlyn nearly slipped off, holding on to her sister for support. Silently, he held out a hand to Izlyn, who was still holding a rag and a small bowl of warm water. She looked at him with enormous eyes, having no idea what he meant, until he gently reached out and took the bowl from her. Collecting the rag, he dipped it into the warm water and carefully wiped away the blood from the cut on Chrystobel’s lip.
Chrystobel sat stock-still as he wiped away the remnants of the mess and inspected her cut at close range. Her sister had done a good job of cleaning off the majority of the blood and dirt, so Keller eventually set the bowl and rag aside. When his focus returned to her, his dark eyes were intense.
“What happened?” he asked softly.
His voice was deep, raspy, and strangely soothing. Chrystobel didn’t even know the man yet she sensed an innate gentleness from him, something buried deep and hidden. He had wiped her cut with the lightest of touches. A man with hands the size of his should not be so gentle or delicate. But he was. It was disarming, fascinating. Chrystobel met his gaze for a moment before averting her eyes.
“I… I slipped and fell, my lord,” she lied.
“You slipped?”
“Aye, my lord.”
“And fell on your face?”