He’d managed to make it from the kitchen to the stables without being noticed. The fact that de Poyer had saturated the castle with his own men worked in Gryffyn’s favor. None of the English soldiers recognized him and he was able to move past them relatively unnoticed. Once inside the stables, he climbed up into the loft above and buried himself in the dried grass used to feed and bed the animals. Heart racing with fear and excitement, he planned his next move among the smell of grass and horses.
Stable servants moved around underneath him, tending the horses, and he listened to their inane chatter. Unfortunately, they didn’t speak of anything useful so he continued to plot on his own, knowing that whatever he did had to be accomplished before the English knights returned to the castle which, he assumed, would be before nightfall. So he lay there, buried under grass, and waited for the servants to move out so he could leave the stables and make his way to the keep.
But that wasn’t an instantaneous happening. In fact, he had no idea how much time had passed while he wait, for he actually fell asleep at some point, exhausted from the mayhem of the past two days. It was a dreamless sleep, like the kind of sleep he had when he was young and without care. The smell of dried grass reminded him of those days. When he finally woke some time later, it was to the sound of Chrystobel’s voice.
Startled by the familiar tone, he struggled to gain a view of her and not make too much noise or commotion in the process. Grass was noisy, and crunched, so he eventually lay still because he knew he was creating too much noise and didn’t want anyone heading into the loft to see what was causing the disturbance. So he remained immobile and realized he could see part of the stable entry through the slats in the loft. He strained to catch a glimpse of his sister as she spoke to someone about a coffin for Trevyn.
She is here! He thought to himself gleefully as he spied her at the mouth of the stable entry. Already, he could feel her soft flesh in his hands as he squeezed her neck just as he had squeezed the cook’s. To think of Chrystobel breathing her last as he gazed into her eyes, watching her life slip away, thrilled him beyond compare.
His hatred seemed to fixate on her more than anyone else, the foolish wench who looked so much like their mother. The bitch had died shortly after Izlyn had been born. He should hate Izlyn more for killing their mother, but he found his hatred focused on Chrystobel because she looked and sounded just like Elyn. Elyn had been the only person Gryffyn had even remotely loved, and when she died, his hatred and anger had become mainplace. It blackened his heart. Anger and hatred towards the world in general, and mostly towards a sister who looked like the woman he had loved and lost. Chrystobel reminded him of his loss on a daily basis.
But no matter, Gryffyn shook himself of his bitter and sweet memories, of a mother he tried not to remember. He hated her now and that was all that mattered. Hated her for dying.
Below him, Chrystobel’s voice distracted him again and he peered at her through the slats, listening to her speak to someone regarding funeral services for Trevyn at St. Peter’s in Machynlleth. A funeral, he thought, as if a great idea had just occurred to him. She would be out of the castle and it would be easier to get to her, stealing her out from under de Poyer’s nose. Aye, that would be a much smarter move than trying to corner her here in the castle. In Machynlleth, there would be knights and soldiers about, that is true, but if he employed Colvyn and his personal Welsh guard to assist in the covert operation, men who were sly warriors and who could distract the knights while Gryffyn captured his sister, then success would be guaranteed.
Gryffyn rolled over onto his back, listening to the sound of his sister’s voice. Soon, that voice would be silenced. Now, he knew what he had to do. His plans had been laid for him.
He eagerly anticipated the day.
*
The priests at St. Peter’s spoke the harshest Welsh Keller had ever heard. In fact, he wasn’t even sure it was Welsh until they spoke a few words that he recognized. After he began to understand their accents, it was easier to have a conversation, and soon he had made arrangements for Trevyn d’Einen’s funeral mass to be held on the morrow.
St. Peter’s was a lovely old church, low and squat, and built with the gray granite stone that was so prevalent in the Welsh mountains. The priests pointed out Lady d’Einen’s crypt and he found himself gazing at the effigy of the woman who gave birth to both Chrystobel and to Gryffyn. How one woman could spawn two diametrically opposed individuals was something of a curiosity for him. Heaven and hell sprang all from this woman, in his opinion, so he wasn’t sure if he revered or reviled her.
Seeing Lady d’Einen’s effigy caused his thoughts to linger heavily on Chrystobel. He could only pray that her anger would cool and she would eventually forgive him. He wondered if his poem had done any good, if it had accomplished his purpose and managed to cool the fire of fury. He spent a good deal of time praying in that church about it, softly in his mind, even as he carried on a conversation with the priests about Trevyn’s funeral. His prayers were for his relationship with his wife, one that he hoped wasn’t over before it truly began. He was both eager to return to Nether Castle and terrified of it. Terrified to discover she was still angry with him. Terrified to discover whatever trust that had been building had been lost.
So he braced himself for the possibility, but he also decided to do what he could to ease the woman the only way he knew how – with gifts. Keller was a gift-giver when the mood struck him and had been known to spend copious amounts of money at one time. He’d brought more than enough money with him today. Mayhap if he plied Chrystobel with enough finery, she would soften and forgive him. It was worth a try and, at this point, he felt that he was out of options. He was in groveling mode.
When he was finished making arrangements with the priests and paid them several silver coins for their services, he quit the church with his knights in tow, out into a morning that was becoming increasingly threatened by rain. As he stood next to his charger and tightened up his gloves, Rhys came to stand next to him, gazing up at the angry pewter sky.
“Rain is coming,” Rhys said. “But I suppose it does not do anything else here. This entire country smells like a rotten egg.”
Keller grinned, glancing up at the sky. “I am sure there are a few people around here who would disagree with you,” he said. Then, he started looking around, up and down the muddy street that ran from one end of the town to another. “I must find a goods merchant.”
Rhys began looking around, too, because he was. “What do you need?”
Keller’s dark eyes focused on the western end of the town where there seemed to be several people milling about, doing business. “Down there,” he said, ignoring Rhys’ question. “It looks as if there is some commerce going on down there.”
He mounted his charger effortlessly, spurring the animal down the street. William, who had already mounted his charger and had not heard the conversation between Rhys and Keller, reined his charger next to Rhys as the man mounted his steed.
“Where is Keller off to?” William asked.
Rhys pointed down the street. “To find a goods merchant.”
“Why?”