A smile played on his lips. “You are correct. I apologize for calling you a liar.”
The man has a handsome smile, she thought. He had big white teeth and massive dimples in each cheek, carving big ruts through his face. More than that, she noticed that rather than rise to a verbal confrontation, he seemed to back down, to ease up his cold and stiff manner. It was a startling realization, as if the man didn’t want to upset her with a combative conversation. In what world was it possible that the man would be respectful enough not to argue with her? She wondered.
“I accept your apology,” she said, noting that his dusky eyes were still glimmering at her. It was a warm glimmer. “But in the future, should I give you an answer, I would like to have the courtesy of not being called a liar.”
“As you wish,” he said. “But may I ask a question?”
“You may.”
“Will you tell me what really happened?”
Chrystobel gazed at him steadily. In truth, she was debating what to tell him. He had just apologized for calling her a liar even though she was. Still, there were secrets at Nether, dark and terrible secrets that she was embarrassed to admit to a man she’d only known a few hours. Even if the man was her husband. After a few moments of looking into his dusky eyes, all-knowing eyes that most certainly saw through her feeble attempt at avoiding the truth, she averted her gaze. She simply wasn’t brave enough to look him in the eye whilst she lied to him again. He was asking for the truth and she hadn’t the courage to tell him.
“It was of no consequence,” she murmured. “I am well enough and that is all you should be concerned with. Now, what more would you like to know about Nether that I can tell you? Would you like to know about our herds of sheep? We have several large herds. They graze to the north of the castle, upon the slopes of the Cemmae mountains. The herds are our primary source of income and are so well regarded that our soldiers stand guard over the flocks in the fields.”
Keller was well aware that she was shifting the subject. It was very clear that she didn’t wish to discuss her injuries. Twice he had asked her and twice she had avoided giving him an answer. That same sense of self-protection that kept him bottled up and cold threatened to overshadow the conversation at her refusal to answer his question but he fought it. Perhaps she had her reasons for not divulging the truth even though Keller suspected what the truth was. That loud, obnoxious, rude brother had everything to do with it, he was certain. But for some reason she was protecting him.
But in hindsight, he understood why. The English were the enemy in her eyes, even an English husband. She had been taught not to trust them and he could see that it was going to be difficult to convince her otherwise. She had to learn that he was far more trustworthy than her boorish brother, but something like that would take time and he was impatient. With a sigh, one that conveyed his displeasure in her evasive answer, he nonetheless followed her lead. She wished to discuss sheep. He would allow her the privilege of turning the conversation.
“Come tomorrow, I will post my own men on the herds,” he told her. “If they are truly that valuable, then I do not need your father’s men absconding with them simply to keep them out of my reach. I will place my assets under my control.”
Chrystobel wasn’t surprised at the answer but she struggled not to become offended by it. “My father’s men are trustworthy, I assure you,” she said. “They would not steal the sheep.”
He looked at her, that hard edge returning to his eyes. “Your father’s men are loyal to him and, consequently, to Wales,” he said. “I mean no offense when I say I would rather have Nether’s assets, all of them, under my control. It is the prudent thing to do.”
Chrystobel didn’t argue the point, suspecting he was more than likely right, especially with Gryffyn so resistant to the situation in general. She knew that his disquiet had upset her father’s men. They had been upset since the day they had been told that soon they would have English overlords. Perhaps Keller was more astute to the mindset of Nether’s men than she gave him credit for. He was a knight, after all, and a seasoned one. He knew better than she did in matters of war and rebellion. She was about to reply to his statement when a shout from the Tower Twilight caught their attention.
Keller and Chrystobel turned to see Aimery make his way towards them. The young knight was running, his mail making grating sounds as he moved. It echoed oddly off the cold stone walls surrounding them. He slowed when he came upon them, kicking up mud from his dirty boots. The mud landed on Chrystobel’s skirt.
“My lord,” Aimery was breathless as he addressed Keller. “Someone has made an attempt on my brother’s life. You must come.”
Keller had Chrystobel by the arm as he began to follow Aimery across the ward in the direction of the great shadowed Tower Twilight. It made for a massive silhouette against the star-strewn sky.
“What happened?” he demanded.
Aimery was visibly upset but trying not to show it. “We were patrolling the grounds as you had ordered,” he said, turning to look at Keller even as he led the way. “It was a crossbow. The arrow caught my brother in the arm.”
Keller should have been pleased to hear that the damage wasn’t worse, but all he could manage to feel was rage at a coward who would hide in the shadows and shoot arrows at the English knights.
“Is he badly injured?” he asked.
“Nay, my lord.”
“Where did the projectile come from?”
“The wall, my lord.”
Keller glanced up at the parapets where men with torches patrolled the night. “Where is William?”
“He is with my brother now.”
Keller didn’t ask any more questions. And so it comes, he thought to himself. The Welsh welcomes are beginning. As they neared the entry, which was also part of the great curtain wall, he could see Wellesbourne and George standing at the darkened opening. A great smell of dampness filled the air, as if someone had opened a tomb. As Keller approached, he realized that the smell was coming from the tower itself. It smelled like death. He fixed on George.
“Why are you standing here?” he nearly barked. “I thought you were injured?”
George was holding his left arm, bent, against his chest. He looked rather pale, even in the shadows. “I am well enough, my lord,” he assured Keller. “It is just a flesh wound.”
Keller stared at the young knight a moment before turning to William. As soon as he looked at the man, the knight held up the offending arrow in his right hand.
“He is correctly, mostly,” he said. “It buried itself, but not deeply enough to damage anything. I was able to easily remove it.”