Dark Deceptions: A Regency and Medieval Collection of Dark Romances(185)

“There is a morning meal awaiting us in the great hall,” he said, his voice low and gentle. It was so deep that it was nearly a purr. “May I escort you, Lady de Poyer.”

Chrystobel lifted her eyes to him, her expression shining up at the man. “I would be honored, my lord,” she replied.

Keller kissed her hand again before escorting her from the room. In fact, his hands never left her the entire time – down the stairs, out of the entry, or across the bailey. He couldn’t seem to stop touching her, as if finally realizing she belonged to him. No more emotional walls to break down, no more fear of heartbreak. He’d passed that milestone long ago. Chrystobel had managed to heal what the widow had broken. And Keller knew he was better for it.

He felt whole again.





Chapter Seventeen





Machynlleth

The sun was just starting to rise over the eastern hills that flanked the small berg of Machynlleth. The River Dovey ran to the north and the River Dulas ran to the east, while hills surrounded the town for the most part, enclosing and protecting it. It had been those hills that had masked the Welsh raiders who had attacked the English the day before, and even now they still held Welsh rebels. Only today, there were more, and they were waiting for the English from Nether Castle to make another appearance.

Gryffyn had managed to confiscate a small home on the edge of town by thrashing the farmer, his wife, and their young son who normally inhabited it, throwing them out into the dead of night. He needed their abode far more than they did as a place to conceal more Welsh who had come down from Castell Malwydd, men who served Colvyn but who were more interested in food, money, and shelter than the great Welsh resistance against the English. Gryffyn had to promise those men a cut of whatever wealth they confiscated off the English this day, should it come to that, so men had gathered on the southern edge of Machynlleth, heavily armed, and waiting for the funeral procession of Trevyn d’Einen to appear. Once the small farmer’s home was full of Welshmen, the rest spilled over into the fields beyond until over one hundred Welshmen lay in wait in the cold and in the dark, waiting for the word to come down from Gryffyn d’Einen to move into the town.

Inside the home with its warm fire and sturdy walls, Gryffyn sat at a small table with Colvyn on the opposite side of him. After hearing Chrystobel discuss plans to bury Trevyn at St. Peter’s Church, it had taken a good deal of persuasion to convince Colvyn to return to Machynlleth for another try at the English, mostly because Colvyn’s first try against the English had resulted in six dead men with a seventh man dying later that day of his wounds.

Like most Welsh, Colvyn’s tactics were hit and run, not great organized armies to fend off invaders. After his skirmish with Keller and the English, Colvyn was not eager to take them on again, but Gryffyn had been influential. He was sure with enough men they could easily overcome a funeral party.

“It might make more sense to try and penetrate Nether Castle while the English are in town attending a funeral,” Colvyn said as he toyed with a cup of stale ale, also stolen from the farmer. “You said you were able to slip into the castle via a concealed passage. Why can we not take fifty men and use the same passage? We could take the castle that way.”

Gryffyn shook his head. “You saw how many English were at Nether,” he reminded him. “Fifty men would do nothing against that horde. Nay, it is best to catch them out in the open, here in the town, where they will more than likely have my sisters with them because they will be attending our father’s funeral. That is what we are ultimately after, is it not? My sisters?”

Colvyn wasn’t entirely sure what they were after any longer. Gryffyn seemed to have taken control of everything, including his men by promising them the spoils of war, and he wasn’t happy about it in the least. Gryffyn’s motives were still unclear, especially his obsession with regaining sisters that, under normal circumstances, he had no use for. Now, Colvyn was no longer leading his men. It was Gryffyn and his promises of riches and vengeance against the English. As Gryffyn asked the final question, Colvyn simply shook his head.

“I am not entirely sure what is important to you any longer,” he muttered. “You went to the church earlier today to ask the priests about the funeral and when they told you what they knew, you killed all of them. You killed men of God.”

Gryffyn remained cool. “Because they would have told de Poyer I had been there,” he said. “It would have put the man on his guard.”

Colvyn hissed in frustration. “What difference does that make?” he demanded. “If you truly want to save your sisters, then it would be much easier to slip into the castle and steal them away. As it stands, you have us attacking a convoy of heavily armed knights. This cannot end well, Gryffyn. Or is it feeding your pride to do this?”

Gryffyn’s friendly expression tightened. “It would not be easier to slip in and steal my sisters away,” he said, his voice hardening. “I went there and tried, but both women are closely guarded. It would be stupid to try such a thing. It is better to catch the English unaware.”

Colvyn sat forward, his dark eyes intense as he glared at Gryffyn. “I thought you wanted your castle back,” he hissed. “When you first came to me, you begged me to help you rid Nether of the English because you feared their foothold in Powys. What is it now? To save your sisters?”