Kathryn Le Veque (40 page)

“William!” Keller roared. “They are entering the bailey!”

Wellesbourne, in turn, bellowed into the bailey. “
Breach!
”

Men came running from all corners of the castle. Rhys, on the second floor of the gatehouse, watched as men began spilling out of the kitchens, dark forms racing into the bailey on to be met by English troops. But the Welsh were cleaver. Rhys could see that they seemed to be driving in the direction of the stable yard and he knew what was there – the postern gate. His jaw ticked as he hissed at the men around him.

“They are going for the postern gate,” he growled. “I am going down there to fight them off. You men hold the gatehouse. If they manage to take this, all will be lost. Hold fast.”

The soldiers of the gatehouse nodded firmly as Rhys descended the stairs to the ground floor, unsheathing his dual blades as he headed out into the dark bailey. His target was the postern gate as well. He would kill anyone who tried to open it.

More men poured out of the kitchen, both Welsh and English, fighting in the extreme dark as the rain poured around them. There was grunting and yelling over the sound of the rain and by the time Rhys reached the stable yard, he could see pockets of fighting around him. The men assigned to guard the postern gate were doing their duty by preventing the Welsh to get to the gate. In fact, as Rhys entered the yard, there were only two active fights going on and before he could get to them, the soldiers managed to subdue them.

Six Welsh littered the muddy ground, speared by their English counterparts. Rhys still had his swords in his hands as he went to a couple of them, rolling them over to see the extent of the damage and to make sure they were dead. He gazed down at one young man, who couldn’t have been older than twelve or thirteen years. He must have gazed at the youth for an extended length of time because beside him, an old soldier spoke.

“They grow younger all the time, m’lord,” the man muttered.

Rhys nodded slowly. “He should be sitting at his mother’s hearth still,” he said quietly. Then, he began looking around the yard. “Is this all there is?”

The old soldier nodded. “Aye, m’lord,” he said.

Rhys turned his back on the young man and headed for the bailey to see how the fight in the kitchen is progressing. The rain was loud so he couldn’t hear anything of the outcome. He needed to have a visual sighting. He was even thinking about joining the kitchen fight if it seemed as if it was still going strong. Eyes on the skirmish near the kitchens, he had no idea what was transpiring behind him.

The youth with the stab to the chest was not dead. He was fading, but he wasn’t dead. He was still mobile enough to roll to his knees when the English knight’s attention was elsewhere. The postern gate was about eight feet from him and he crawled towards it, on his hands and knees, unable to breathe for the hole in his chest but knowing he had to complete his mission. He knew he was going to die and he didn’t want it to be in vain. Just as he reached up for the bolt that secured the postern gate, Rhys happened to turn around and see what was happening.

“
Nay!”
he roared.

Rhys bolted for the postern gate just as the dying young man managed to throw the bolt. The gate swung open and all of Wales began to pour through. Rhys’ double blades began swinging in earnest as the soldiers who had been guarding the gate raced forward to block the flow, but men were streaming in and the battle was bad from the onset. Now, the English had a serious problem with two points of entry and they hadn’t been able to stem either one of them. The Welsh were, if nothing else, determined, and one of the English soldiers who had been guarding the postern gate ran out to the bailey to announce the turn of events.

“Breach!” he screamed.

William, over by the kitchens, was the only one who heard the cry. He could see men fighting in the stable yard as it began to spill out into the bailey. Dispatching the man he had been fighting, he began shoving men out of the way as he made his way into the kitchen.

“Keller!” he bellowed. “The postern gate has been compromised!”

Keller was still back near the open hidden door, still fighting Welsh who were trying to enter the kitchen. He yelled over to Gart.

“Forbes!” he boomed. “To the postern gate! William and I will handle the kitchen!”

Gart broke the neck of the man he was fighting and charged out of the kitchen, killing another Welshman when the man happened to get in his way. Gart roared and beat at his chest, fueled by the blood lust, as he plowed through the crowd and out into the bailey. He could see the fighting going on over by the postern gate and made haste to join Rhys as the man tried to prevent a larger tide of Welsh from entering the castle. When Gart entered the fray, it became more horrific than before. It became a blood bath.

Keller was now the only knight inside the kitchen but he was handling the Welsh efficiently enough. There were several dead sprawled out across the kitchen floor and the tide coming in through the hidden passage had stemmed somewhat. Either there were no more men or the ones that were coming through had guessed the carnage beyond and had turned around. Doing away with his last opponent, Keller managed to shove the hidden door closed and, with the help of several English soldiers, blocked the door up with a heavy butcher table and a barrel of water, which made it nearly impossible to move. Satisfied that no more Welsh could come through, he left four men guarding the door while he headed out into the bailey.

There was a massive fight near the postern gate as the Welsh had come through but had been effectively stopped. Now, it was just close quarters fighting, but a few Welsh had managed to make it through the fighting and were heading for the keep. Keller wasn’t too terribly concerned about the keep being breached because it was a nearly impenetrable structure, but he did want to prevent the Welsh from making an attempt on it. Glancing over his shoulder, he could see William battling a fairly large Welshman so Keller came up behind him and shoved his broadsword between his ribs. The Welshman went down and William stepped over his former opponent, pointing to the keep.

“They are heading for the keep, Keller,” he said, wiping the water from his eyes.

Keller nodded. “I know,” he said. “But they cannot get into it. The only way they could marginally breach it is if they set fire to the door, which they cannot do because of the rain. I am not concerned with a few paltry men. What I am concerned with, however, is finding Gryffyn. He is here, somewhere. You and I are the only knights who will know him on sight so it is up to us to find him.”

William nodded, looking around the bailey where the Welshmen who had been running for the keep were now being fended off by soldiers from the gatehouse.

“You did not see the man come in through the kitchens?” he asked.

Keller shook his head. “It was very dark in there,” he replied. “If he did, I did not see him. Go to the postern gate and see if he is there.”

William nodded and fled, into the rain, into the night that was filled with pockets of fighting. Keller’s gaze lingered on the bailey for a moment longer before thinking he should perhaps check the identities of the Welsh who had been killed in the kitchen. It was quite possible that one of them was Gryffyn and it had been too dark for him to see. His eyesight wasn’t particularly good, anyway. Just as he took his gaze off the bailey and turned for the kitchen, something hit him so hard on the back of the head that he pitched forward, onto his face. He struggled to push himself up but something hit him again, a second time, and the world abruptly went black.



CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Gryffyn had been positioned two men behind Colvyn when the man shoved the hidden door open and was subsequently gored by an English knight. The next man, too, had been killed, making it instantly and abundantly clear that the English had set a trap.

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.