Keller eyed the younger girl as he pulled the rest of his mail coat off. “Do you think the fearsome wench can find me a chair to put this coat on?” he asked. “It should be left to dry.”
Chrystobel turned to her sister, who had heard the request. She still appeared rather fearful and confused, but she dutifully went on the hunt for a chair. There was one near the hearth and she dragged it over, presenting it to Keller with the greatest timidity.
Keller took it and thanked her politely, which almost sent her cowering to the wall again because the man had spoken directly to her. But she didn’t get too far. In fact, her curiosity was overcoming her fear of the great English knight. He hadn’t been cruel to her and he certainly hadn’t been cruel to her sister, so her nervous edge was easing somewhat. She began to creep closer to the bed but backed up when Keller noticed her movement. When he looked away, she would resume inching forward.
Keller was aware of Izlyn’s game. He was trying very hard not to smile as she shuffled discreetly in his direction. Every time he looked at her, she would stop, pretending that she was doing nothing more than casually standing there, but then he would look away and he could hear her shuffling feet again. He looked at her quickly one time and she nearly fell over in her haste to come to a stop. It was a cute little diversion and he was content to play along, but in truth, there was something more prevalent on Keller’s mind.
As Chrystobel helped him remove his padded tunic, revealing the naked and muscular torso beneath, it began to occur to him that he was now only half-dressed with two women in the room, one being his new wife whom he had yet to have marital relations with. He was an inherently shy man, reserved, and had never been particularly comfortable with opposite sex. He knew some men were content to walk around in the nude no matter what the circumstances, but he wasn’t one of them. He was, kindly put, a prude.
Consequently, he hadn’t had his first sexual experience until he was a seasoned knight, twenty-seven years of age to be exact, and that experience had occurred in a tavern because he had been exhausted and drunk after a battle march. A serving wench had taken advantage of his state and he’d soon found himself in bed with not one but two women. They had both pleasured him and he’d ended up having sex with both of them, one after the other, and the women told him repeatedly that he had the biggest member they had ever seen. It was supposed to make him feel manly but it just made him feel self-conscious.
He’d awoken the next morning with both women snuggled up next to him, feeling rather shocked and embarrassed at his wild behavior. He’d slipped out of the tavern half-dressed because he hadn’t wanted to wake them, putting on the rest of his clothing and protection while on the road. His colleagues had made great sport of his embarrassment and, to this day, it made his cheeks flame to think on that shame. He’d been the butt of jokes for months afterwards. Have you heard about de Poyer? The man has such a mighty rod that it takes two women at once to satisfy him! Beware your sisters and daughters around him, for he’ll take his pleasure with them and blow the top of their heads off with his virility!
God, he’d just wanted to die of shame from all of the ribald comments. Those same knights who had taunted him ended up in his command years later and he made sure they felt his wrath. But fourteen years later, he was no more comfortable with women than he had been those years ago. He’d had a few more sexual encounters since then, with paid women, but they had been few and far between. Consequently, he wasn’t very experienced with intimacy and as he sat on the bed, his naked torso exposed, he found that he was actually embarrassed. Perhaps it wouldn’t have been so bad if the younger girl wasn’t there, but as it was, he was vastly uncomfortable. But he couldn’t very well send the child away. Meanwhile, he tried not to appear too uneasy as he sat there and popped his knuckles absently.
“It would be better if you lie on your belly,” Chrystobel’s soft voice broke him from his train of thought. “Would it be too painful for you to do that?”
“It would not,” he said softly. “If it makes tending the wound easier for you, I am happy to comply.”
Chrystobel smiled at his kind words as Keller stopped cracking his knuckles and rolled onto this stomach, his face buried in coverlets that smelled of violets. He could feel Chrystobel’s gentle fingers on his back, the tender touch of an angel soothing him. Thoughts of discomfort and embarrassment faded, and he was asleep before he realized it.
It was the first time in two days that he felt at ease enough to sleep.
Chapter Ten
Castell Mallwyd
Lair of Colvyn ap Gwynwynwyn
Situated deep in Powys among some of the most dramatic scenery in all of Wales, Castell Mallwyd sat amongst a series of foothills, riding the crest of one of the tallest hills like a great figurehead at the bow of a mighty ship. It could be seen for miles, perched atop its towering hill, and the castle was difficult to reach even in the best of conditions. In winter, it was nearly impossible.
The castle belonged to Colvyn ap Gwynwynwyn, the illegitimate son of the last king of Powys, Gwynwynwyn ap Owain. His father had been very old when he had been conceived, his mother being the fourteen-year-old granddaughter of one of Gwynwynwyn’s advisors. His mother had died in childbirth with him and in order to avoid a devastating and costly civil war within his kingdom, Gwynwynwyn had given the advisor a castle and lands of his own, property that now belonged to Colvyn.
But it was a dirty place, with crumbling stone, skinny dogs, and a great hall that could only contain twenty people at the most. A great pit in the middle of the dilapidated hall served as its fire pit, with smoke escaping through holes in a roof that needed to be repaired. Colvyn didn’t spend much time in the hall. He preferred the gatehouse where he had a sturdy room with a good roof and a hearth, and a buxom servant woman to fill his bed. But on this late night in October, he found himself sitting in his hall, watching Gryffyn d’Einen slurp down a thin stew made from rabbits and field mice, and watered ale.
The man had come to Castell Mallwyd earlier in the day, exhausted and nearly hysterical. He rode a horse bearing English tack, which was puzzling to Colvyn until Gryffyn began spouting his story in between ravenous bites. Then, it all started to come out.