The serving woman was being held at bay by several English soldiers, all of them crowded onto the landing and guarding Chrystobel’s door. They seemed unsure what to do with the agitated woman, but when Chrystobel appeared in the doorway, the woman began screeching about Trevyn d’Einen’s death at the hands of the English.
Horrified, Chrystobel came out onto the landing to demand what she meant, completely ignorant of the fact that she was still in her sleeping shift in front of ten pairs of curious male eyes. But the serving woman seemed incapable of doing anything other than weep, telling Chrystobel between gasps that the marchog Saesneg had murdered the lord. The English knight has killed your father! The servant was babbling in Welsh, something the English soldiers couldn’t understand, and what she was telling Chrystobel was dreadful and sickening. Overwhelmed, Chrystobel slumped against the wall, listening in utter shock.
It’s not true! She put her hands to her head as if to block out the horror. She couldn’t take the woman’s screaming any longer, piercing her brain like a thousand shards of steel, cutting into her very flesh. She bolted for the stairs but, finally realizing she was only wearing a shift, turned for her chamber and raced into the room to find some proper clothing. She ended up snatching the first suitable garment she came to, a heavy robe made from leather and wool, with great belled sleeves, and she pulled it on and fastened the ties at the waist. Pulling on the closest pair of shoes, which happened to be Izlyn’s small leather slippers, she raced for the door just as her little sister sat up in bed.
Izlyn made a sound, something close to a little cry, and Chrystobel froze at the chamber door, turning to the girl. Izlyn was rubbing her eyes sleepily and Chrystobel went to the girl, pulling her into her arms. She hugged her, warm and soft and cozy.
“I must leave for a moment, Izzie,” she said, kissing the girl on the head and struggling to keep a calm manner. “I shall return shortly but I want you to remain here. Please?”
She held the little girl’s face between her hands, nodding encouragingly, but Izlyn was tired, and a bit disoriented, and shook her head unhappily. Chrystobel’s manner grew firm.
“Aye, you will,” she said steadily. “Lay back down and rest. I will return with bread and butter and sweet fruit, I promise.”
Sweet fruit were the magic words as far as Izlyn was concerned. She loved the fruit compote the cook would make with apples and cinnamon and honey, so with the lure of her sister returning with such treats, she lay back down and did what she was told. Chrystobel smiled at her sister as she stood up from the bed and headed to the door.
“Stay here,” she instructed firmly. “I do not want you running about with English soldiers in the castle, so you must remain here. I will return shortly, I promise.”
Izlyn nodded, pulling the covers up over her head at the mention of the English soldiers, but it was good enough for Chrystobel. She knew her sister wouldn’t leave the room, for the child tended to be fearful enough without such things as strange men lurking about, so Chrystobel quit the chamber and shut the door behind her only to come face to face with at least eight English soldiers on the landing.
She eyed the soldiers somewhat warily for a moment, just as they were eyeing her. Each one was so uncertain of the other, the English in enemy lands and the Welsh facing men who were bent on conquest. But Chrystobel pushed her natural fear aside because it was a standoff at the moment. They were wasting precious time.
“What do you know about this madness of my husband killing my father?” she demanded. “Who would spread such lies?”
An older soldier stepped forward. “I do not know, my lady,” he replied. “We have been here all night. We’ve not heard anything about it.”
Chrystobel gathered her skirts. “Then I am going to find my father,” she said. “You will remain here and guard my sister.”
An older soldier shook his head. “We were instructed to watch over you and your sister, Lady de Poyer,” he said. “If you are going to find your father, then I will escort you.”
Chrystobel frowned. “I do not believe that is necessary.”
The soldier wouldn’t budge. “It is the lord’s orders, my lady.”
Chrystobel eyed the man. She knew why Keller had given the orders and she was frankly thankful for the protection. If she thought about it, she knew the man was correct in not letting her out alone. Gryffyn was about somewhere and she did not want to be caught without protection from his violent tendencies. Therefore, she asked the obvious question.
“Has my brother been located yet?” she inquired.
The soldier shook his head. “Not to my knowledge, my lady.”
With that confirmation, Chrystobel was convinced that it would be wise to take an escort with her. Although she rightly feared English soldiers, she knew Keller would not have assigned untrustworthy men to watch over her. Gesturing for the soldier to follow her, she descended the stairs to the entry level below.
It was dark and cold on this level, but bits of morning sun struggled through the gloom, streaming through cracks in the entry door to create a brilliant smattering of light against the entry floor. It was surprisingly clear of servants. She didn’t hear a soul stirring but she paid it little mind. Chrystobel lifted the iron latch on the heavy oak panel and pulled open the door.
It was cold and bright in the ward beyond. There were many strange soldiers moving about, English soldiers, and she pulled her robe more tightly about her body as she descended the stone steps that led down to the ward. It was muddy and slippery, and there were big puddles of water at the base of the keep from where the overnight dew had collected on the structure and then trickled down the stone.
Once on the floor of the bailey, she tried not to slip in the mud as she made her way towards the great hall. She could see servants milling about over by the kitchen and off to her right, she could see that the stable servants were busy feeding the horses. She could smell the barley dust in the cold morning air. Everything seemed busy and normal enough, certainly not the chaos that the serving woman had indicated. With the English soldier trailing after her, she drew close to the great hall and nearly ran straight into William as he exited.
William was just leaving the hall after having had Trevyn’s body removed. Startled at the unexpected sight of Lady de Poyer, he put out a hand to stop her forward progression.
“My lady,” he greeted, his voice calm and even in spite of his surprise. “Where are you going on this fine day?”
Chrystobel gazed steadily at the big blond knight. “I am looking for my father,” she said. “Have you seen him?”
William hesitated. “Aye, I have seen him,” he replied. “Where is your husband? When last we spoke, he intended to seek you out.”
Chrystobel shrugged, feeling impatient. “I have not seen him,” she said. “Where is my father?”