Dark Deceptions: A Regency and Medieval Collection of Dark Romances(198)

Keller scratched his head in thought. “How many men do I have here at Nether?”

“Five hundred and fifty,” William replied.

Keller absorbed that number. “I have to send more than just a few men out in response to the Shropshire missive,” he said. “If the Welsh are watching, and you know they will be, they will be suspicious if I only send out one hundred men. It has to be more than that to make a good show of things.”

“Agreed,” Rhys said from behind him, still holding the missive. “Send the Ashby-Kidd brothers out with two hundred and fifty men, and dress some of those men up as knights so that any observers will count more than two knights. The rest of us will remain here, lying in wait for d’Einen and his men to make their move.”

Keller nodded thoughtfully to that suggestion. He liked it, but he had more to add. “If d’Einen is trying to remove me from Nether, then it is because he wants to clear the way for an easy conquest,” he said, scheming as he went along. “Being that he has lived here most of his life, he knows the fortress better than most. He knows that Nether is nearly unbreachable because of the Gorge of the Dead that surrounds her walls. There is no place for a man to get a foothold to mount the walls, which makes the gatehouse the most vulnerable point of entry.”

“The gatehouse is nearly impenetrable,” Gart said. “All we have to do is burn the wooden bridge that spans from the gatehouse across the Gorge of the Dead, and then there is no way to reach the gatehouse.”

Keller turned to look at Gart. “But there is that passageway that leads from the kitchens down to the gorge,” he reminded him. “You were supposed to block it off. Did you?”

Gart nodded. “I took barrels from the stores and clogged the passageway,” he said. “It is blocked off by all manner of heavy obstacles now. It would be virtually impossible to get through.”

Keller’s dark eyes glimmered. “Remove them,” he said quietly.

Gart’s brow furrowed. “But why?”

A flicker of a smile crossed Keller’s lips. “I can only assume d’Einen plans to use that passageway,” he said. “Let him. Let him come up those narrow stairs where I will be waiting at the top to take his head off. If I want to destroy the man, then I have to make it easy for him to come to me.”

Gart understood then. “Of course,” he agreed with approval. “That passageway is only big enough for one man at a time to enter. Let them all come.”

Keller was feeling extremely confident with his plan. It wasn’t the fact that Gryffyn was trying to kill him. Men had been trying to kill him for years, so that didn’t bother him in the least. What bothered him was that Gryffyn seemed determined to get to Chrystobel and Izlyn. Any man who would target women was a vile man indeed, but Keller already knew that. More than that, he had been correct when he said he couldn’t live with the threat of d’Einen hanging over his head for the rest of his life, and neither could his wife. At some point, Keller was going to have to take a stand, and the stand would come now. He was finished playing games.

It was time to win, once and for all.





Chapter Twenty





The rains had returned with a vengeance.

Two days after the Shropshire missive was received, the army intending to ride to the aid of Hen Domen was gathered in the bailey in the early morning hours in the midst of a horrible rain storm. All of the knights were in the bailey, outfitting the army, including four soldiers who were now dressed as knights. Keller had brought out four chargers from Gryffyn’s collection, mounting the soldiers on the expensive beasts to create more of an illusion of knightly power. As the rain poured and the thunder rolled, two hundred and fifty men were made ready for the ruse that would hopefully bring Gryffyn d’Einen into the jaws of defeat.

In case there were any rebel eyes inside the castle, which was always a possibility, Keller and the knights dressed as soldiers, all except for Gart, who refused to be brought to that lowly level. He dressed in a padded tunic, leather breeches and boots, and wore a woolen cap over his head to conceal his bald skull. His big concession to their charade was not to wear his armor, which made him feel positively naked and contributed to his nasty mood. Consequently, there was a lot of bellowing going on as the army assembled.

Chrystobel and Izlyn were awake, dressed in their warmest as they watched the activities from the keep entry. Rain pounded on the stone in front of them and overhead, where a corbel at the top of the door arch stood out far enough to provide some shelter from the rain. Chrystobel was clad in a heavy dark blue cloak, made from wool and oiled, so it acted like a water repellant. It was the best thing she had for days such as this. Izlyn was also clad in an oiled cloak of pale green that had once belonged to their mother.

Both ladies knew exactly what was going on. Keller had been honest with them about the plans for circumventing the forged missive, but still, they were nervous, fearful that somehow the plan wouldn’t work and, somehow, they would find themselves at the mercy of Gryffyn. Chrystobel knew her brother would kill her if given the chance, but Izlyn wasn’t quite so informed. They had been careful to keep such talk away from her. Still, her fear was quite healthy. Anything involving her brother terrified her.

As the rain pounded and the thunder rumbled in the pewter sky above, Izlyn broke away from her sister and headed down the entry stairs. Puzzled, Chrystobel called after her sister but the young girl ignored her as she headed around the side of the keep. Curious, Chrystobel followed, dodging mud puddles and rain as it poured off of the keep, until she found her sister back in her flower garden which, by now, was more of a muddy soup with dormant plants sticking out of it. There were, however, a few sprigs of green that still had blossoms on them, now limp with rain, and Izlyn pulled at one of the last purple thistles, tearing it free of the plant.