With that knowledge, Gryffyn fell back and began screaming at the Welsh, urging them onward, watching them push their way into the black kitchen and subsequently engage the English that were prepared with big weapons. Gryffyn wasn’t about to put himself in harm’s way. He let the other rabid Welsh battle the English while he pushed in with the crowd and immediately fell to his knees, creeping across the dirt floor and pressing himself between a corner of the wall and a big wooden cabinet that contained things like utensils, bowls, and other kitchen implements. It was so dark in the kitchen that hiding hadn’t been difficult. He had been able to watch the entire battle unfold from his vantage point.
In truth, he was shocked that the English had been waiting for them. More than that, he had been embarrassed. What he considered to be a perfect scheme had somehow been circumvented, by de Poyer, he was sure. Somehow, someway, the man had discovered his plans and had countered them. Now, Gryffyn was ashamed and furious. So he went off to hide as the English made bloody work of Colvyn’s Welshmen, but Colvyn was dead and didn’t see how his men were abused. Gryffyn did, however. And the chief abuser was none other than de Poyer himself.
He could see the man in the darkness, killing one Welshman after another. There was no mistaking de Poyer’s size, nor his power, so Gryffyn watched from the shadows as de Poyer and his men put down most of the Welsh. Some of them ran outside. He didn’t know what became of them and it was difficult to hear anything for all of the rain that was coming down. He did, however, hear of a breach at the postern gate and he watched de Poyer send a very large knight out to combat it. That left just de Poyer and Wellesbourne, whom Gryffyn could see just outside of the kitchen door. Gryffyn remained in his hiding place and waited.
Eventually, the fighting died down in the kitchen with most of the Welsh either dead or run off. There were several soldiers still in the kitchen, plus de Poyer, and the men were inspecting the Welsh dead surrounding them. There was a dead Welshman about three feet away from Gryffyn and when one of the soldiers came near to kick the man to see if he was really dead, Gryffyn pressed himself deep into the black corner in his attempt not to be seen. Still as stone, he waited until the soldier moved away and they blocked off the hidden passage with a heavy table and other heavy items. Then, the soldiers filtered out as de Poyer remained behind.
The rain had lessened somewhat at this point, enough so that Gryffyn could hear the sounds of battle in the bailey. He could see de Poyer standing in the doorway, surveying the situation, and as Gryffyn watched, the wheels of his mind were in motion. The very man he hated was standing just a few feet away, the man who had stolen his entire legacy. The man who had stolen his sister… his sister! Surely Chrystobel and Izlyn were in the keep, bottled up and safe. Gryffyn knew he could never take Nether Castle. All he really wanted were his sisters, anyway. The ultimate goal, the feat of ages… having control over Chrystobel and Izlyn, watching them die by his hand. It was his right, wasn’t it? They belonged to him. In his twisted mind, they had always belonged to him. It was his right to take their lives or save them.
He would take them.
But he had to be logical about this. If the women were in the keep, then the keep was locked. He could bang at the door all he wanted to but it would never open for him. His gaze moved to de Poyer… but it would open for Keller. If he held his sister’s husband hostage, then most likely, the English, and Chrystobel, would do anything he asked. Chrystobel would even exchange her life for her husband’s, of that Gryffyn was certain. Mad ramblings of a mad man. The mind grew darker, and so did the plot.
As de Poyer stood in the kitchen door, Gryffyn moved out from his hiding place. Over near the hearth, he could see a small, heavy iron pot with a handle on it. In the darkness, any sounds he made drowned out by the rain, he made his way to the pot and took hold of it, coming up behind de Poyer in stealth.
Don’t turn around, de Poyer, he thought. Stay where you are… just a brief second more….
The pot came down on the back of de Poyer’s helmed head, hard enough to nearly crack his skull. De Poyer fell face-first out of the doorway, into the muddy ground beyond, but he was still moving. He was trying to push himself up. Straddling de Poyer’s supine body, Gryffyn used both hands to bring the pot down on Keller’s head again. This time, the man went still.
Exhilarated with his quarry, Gryffyn rolled the man onto his back and kicked the broadsword several feet away. Then, he rifled through Keller’s tunic until he came across an assortment of small daggers, which he systematically tossed away until he came to the last one. It was a big dagger, and very sharp. That one, he kept. Rolling the man onto his belly again, he yanked off his now-dented helmet and grabbed de Poyer by the hair as the man started to regain consciousness. The dagger went against de Poyer’s jaw, just below the ear where the blood vessels flowed heavily.
Now, he had him. It was time to move.
*
The rain had been incessant, blinding at times, but it seemed to be easing slightly as the storm blew through. High in the keep. Chrystobel and Izlyn had spent the day sewing, or in Izlyn’s case, building her little structures from pieces of kindling as she liked to do. She had always been fond of that. Chrystobel merely sewed, passing the time as she carefully stitched a new tunic for her husband from some eggshell-colored linen that had been meant for her father. Trevyn didn’t need it any longer, temporarily buried near her flower garden as he was, so Chrystobel had confiscated it for Keller.
He didn’t know about it, of course, as it was meant to be a surprise. She smiled when she thought of his reaction to a new tunic, hopeful that he would appreciate it. Even if he didn’t, he would never let her know. He was sweet that way. She tried to maintain positive thoughts as the day passed into night, but it was difficult. An uncertain future always was, and worry over Keller’s well-being compounded the anxiety she was struggling not to feel. When night finally fell, Chrystobel’s angst deepened. She simply couldn’t help the way she felt.
The first sign that anything was amiss was when Izlyn, standing at the lancet window that faced the bailey, began waving to her sister frantically. Concerned, Chrystobel put her sewing aside and went to the window only to see a big fight near the postern gate. The gate was open and she could see men battling all around it. Blood was being spilled. Frightened, she put her arms around Izlyn as they both stood and watched the chaos unfold.
“Keller was correct,” Chrystobel murmured to her sister. “The Welsh were indeed coming. The missive they sent was a deception.”
Izlyn was watching the battle below with big, frightened eyes. She had never seen a fight before. “Gryffyn?” she asked softly.
Chrystobel hugged her. “Aye,” she said. “I am sure it is. But he shall be defeated. Keller and the other knights will not let him in, nor will they let him harm us. You must not be afraid.”