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The man fled. Now out of striking range, Gryffyn’s sister and father watched him with a good deal of trepidation. A big man, Gryffyn was violent and unstable. What happened this afternoon had happened a hundred times before. Gryffyn did not care who he struck in anger or annoyance; his father, his sister or a servant were all the same to him. There was no telling his mood from moment to moment.

Chrystobel d’Einen knew that all too well. Her cheek was red as a result of a simple misspoken word to her volatile brother. She didn’t even know what it was. One moment they were speaking, the next moment he snapped. It had been thus for as long as she could recall. She spent a good deal of time avoiding the man and the pain he inflicted. It was one of the darker secrets they endured in the place the locals called the Nether World.

“What of Izlyn?” she whispered to her father. “I will not allow her to stay in the vault one moment longer. She has done nothing to warrant being caged in that awful place.”

“Shush,” Trevyn d’Einen put his fingers to his lips in a hushing motion. He didn’t want Gryffyn to hear their conversation. “She has done nothing except to have been mute all of these years. That is enough for your brother.”

Tears threatened Chrystobel but she fought them. “God damn him to….”

Trevyn shushed her again. “I will release your sister, have no fear. Your brother will be occupied with the English and his thoughts will not be on your little sister. I would suggest that you see to the meal and stay clear of your brother for the time being.”

Chrystobel nodded. “Aye, Father,” she murmured. Her gaze lingered on her brother a moment before returning her attention to her father and lowering her voice. “Perhaps you should also clear the hall.”

Trevyn shook his head, rubbing his jaw where his son had struck him. “In a moment,” he said with more bravery than he felt. “You will go and see to the meal.”

Something in Chrystobel’s gaze begged her father to leave with her, but the man refused to go. This was his hall, after all, and he would not be chased out by his bullying son. Chrystobel knew this. With a soft sigh of resignation, she turned back to her brother.

“Do you have any requests for supper, Gryffyn?” she asked politely.

Gryffyn had reclaimed the chalice so carelessly tossed aside and was in the process of pouring himself more wine. His mood shift was instantaneous, back to an almost pleasant countenance.

“If the parsnips are bitter you shall feel my wrath,” he said steadily. “Do we have honey?”

“Aye.”

“Then I would have honey cakes with walnuts.”

“As you wish.”

With a last glance at her father, Chrystobel quit the hall just as an unfamiliar soldier entered. She steered well away from the man, hardly giving him a glance as she quit the great hall and headed for the kitchens on the opposite side of the keep.

There was a storm brewing overhead and she glanced up as a few stray raindrops pelted her face. They felt cool and soothing on her red cheek which, she knew from experience, would not fade before the English arrived. Since she was well aware that she would be meeting her future husband upon that event, she silently cursed her brother for his beastly actions. She was always silently cursing him but that was as far as it went. Anything more and he might seriously hurt her. She could not take the chance.

So she struggled to move past the latest slap her brother had brought against her and focus on the meal. Now the English were coming and Nether Castle would be garrisoned for William Marshal. Gryffyn had been furious that his father had consigned their ancestral home to the English, but with the promise of richer English lands and coinage, Gryffyn’s anger had soothed. Still, he wasn’t entirely happy about the English at Nether Castle. His mood swings had been worse since his father had struck the deal. Chrystobel felt some resentment that Gryffyn was so incensed about the deal when she had every right to be the incensed party in the proposal. She was the one, after all, who had been made part of the bargain.

The thunder rolled overhead and a few more drops pelted her face. Chrystobel crossed through the smaller inner wall that sectioned off the kitchen yard from the rest of the castle. She could see the kitchen straight ahead, a structure with a roof and three walls. One entire side of it was open to the elements, but it was a cozy and functional place nonetheless. As she approached, the slender cook with only one good eye informed her that the meal was well underway. A sheep was being turned on a big spit, fat from the carcass dripping into the open flame and creating bursts of flame. Chrystobel spoke to the one-eyed cook long enough to inform the woman that Gryffyn had requested honey cakes with walnuts. The woman listened but seemed more interested in inspecting Chrystobel’s red cheek.

It wasn’t bad enough that her brother struck her but that the servants, long-time pledges of the d’Einen household, could not be discreet about the marks she bore. Most of them had known Chrystobel since she had been born. They had watched the little bully Gryffyn grow into the bigger, stronger bully who seemed to take delight in taking his frustrations out on his sisters. The eldest, Chrystobel, was a glorious goddess of beauty while the younger girl, Izlyn, was a mute; sweet, silent, lovely little Izlyn. They were all extremely protective of the girls and they had all paid the price at one time or another. Gryffyn viewed it as interference in his world and he would not tolerate it from anyone, not even their father. Trevyn was the recipient of his son’s wrath as well.

Chrystobel left the fretting cook, not wanting to get sucked up into the woman’s emotional turmoil. Her first impulse was to leave the kitchen yard and go back to the hall to make sure the room was prepared for the English, but she remembered that her brother was there the last time she saw him and she did not want to run into the man again. She couldn’t take another welted cheek. The postern gate was to her left, tucked into the wall of the kitchen yard, and she made way for it immediately.

The tunnel that passed through the twelve-foot thick outer wall led to an iron door that was implanted into the exterior edge of the wall. She threw the three bolts on the inside of the gate and shoved it open, emerging into the rocky area outside the great walls of Nether. The castle had been built on a rocky mountain that had been somewhat graded down so that a structure could be built on the strategic pad. And strategic it was. The castle commanded a spectacular view over the surrounding countryside, surrounded by a sheer cliff on the north side, mountains on the east side, and a steep slope on the south side. The west was the entry, facing a mountain road called the Nether Pass. It was dramatic scenery at its best, a mountain fortress nestled deep in the wilds of Wales.

Chrystobel was well aware of the location of her home. She loved the isolation, the green, the pure beauty of her valley to the south. She stood on the edge of the steep slope, her gaze falling over the vast valley below, her thoughts wandering from her welted cheek, to her sister, and to the husband she would be meeting this day. She had always been the pragmatic sort. Trouble was, she wasn’t so sure she wanted to make peace with the idea of an English husband. She’d known about it for weeks but that didn’t make it any easier to accept. It would be so much easier to simply wind her way down the mountain trails and wander off into oblivion.

Something caught her attention off to the left and she could see a wounded rabbit picking its way down the rocky crevice known as the Gorge of the Dead. It was really the fancy name for the moat that had been hacked out over a hundred years ago by her ancestors who had built Nether Castle. It was a deep, rocky and treacherous pit where the bodies of the enemy were once thrown. But there was a path that cut across it and she followed the path, watching the little creature as it limped its way across the rocky trail. When she reached the bottom of the gorge, she came close to catching it but it scampered away on three good legs. She followed.

The path came up on the other end of the gorge and wound its way down the lush, green slope. It was about three hundred feet down to the valley below and Chrystobel took the path carefully, keeping an eye out for the rabbit as the wind whipped her about. She ended up grabbing her long blond hair in a bunch and holding it tight because the winds had teased it into a frenzy. The raindrops had increased and she now found herself in a full-blown rainstorm. Knowing she needed to return to the castle whether or not she wanted to, she turned around on the muddy slope and promptly lost her footing.

Down the hill she slid.

*

Keller saw her coming.

At first, he wasn’t sure what it was. The rain was somewhat blinding him but he could see something sliding down at him from the slope above. He reined his charger to a halt on the narrow path as the object came closer and he soon realized that it was a woman. She was trying frantically to stop her momentum but she was gaining speed by the second. Keller knew that if he didn’t stop her, she would slide a very long way down to the valley below. It wouldn’t kill her but it would surely be an uncomfortable and frightening trip. Dismounting his charger, he put himself on an intercept course.

He managed to grab the woman just as she slipped past him. He had ahold of her arm. She shrieked when he grabbed her and her body snapped with the abrupt halt, but Keller had a strong grip. The woman threw up her other hand and grabbed hold of him as he pulled her up and onto the path. Even then, she didn’t let go of him. She struggled to catch her breath, still holding him with a death grip.