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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.

Chrystobel continued to follow her sister as the girl returned to the bailey where the army was nearly formed. The knights were yelling and a quartermaster’s wagon was being moved into place. Men were soaked, and unhappy, but there wasn’t much that could be done about it. Izlyn headed straight for the army, peering at the men she came across. It was clear that she was looking for someone and as she stood there, looking rather lost, George came through a row of men and nearly ran into her.

As Chrystobel watched, Izlyn’s face lit up and she smiled brightly at George, who smiled in return. He had genuinely become fond of the girl over the past few weeks, as they had spent a good deal of time together chasing rabbits or trying to fish from the small, overgrown pond near the garden. When George smiled at her, Izlyn extended the thistle to him, giving him the bud, and he took it graciously. He even tucked it into his armor in the folds near his neck. Then he patted her on the cheek and turned away, heading to the front of the column where his charger was.

Izlyn watched him go, an aura of happiness and longing on her face. Chrystobel had seen the exchange, as sweet as it was, but she called her sister over to her once George walked away because she didn’t want to see her sister get trampled with the men still moving about. Izlyn scooted over to her and they headed back towards the keep, where it was dry, until a shout caught their attention.

It was Gart, heading towards them from the gathering of soldiers. He was completely soaked through, rain dripping off of his face as he approached. His attention was focused on Izlyn.

“Lady de Poyer,” he glanced at Chrystobel, greeting her, but his focus quickly returned to Izlyn. “What’s this I hear? You have given George a posy and not me? My lady, I am sincerely crushed. I thought you liked me best of all.”

Izlyn grinned broadly and flushed furiously. She was much better with her speech these days but still not completely comfortable. She struggled to bring forth her reply.

“He… is going,” she said haltingly. “You will… will stay here.”

Gart’s eyebrows lifted as he was horribly offended. “Is that all?” he demanded, although there was no force behind it. “You give him a flower because he is leaving? I will not stand for it. I will go fight him right now for your affections. I will not allow George to be your favorite.”

Izlyn was giggling, as was Chrystobel. It was so wonderful to see her sister happy, with affection and attention lavished upon her by knights who understood how terrible her life had once been. They seemed determined to make up for every horror Gryffyn had ever inflicted upon her, which made Chrystobel feel a good deal of respect and admiration for these men. They were near and dear to her heart, men of honor and compassion, and she would defend them to the death. She came to realize some time ago that she was more loyal to her English husband and his English knights than she was to the Welsh people. She’d only known pain and suffering from the Welsh. With the English, she’d only known joy, as had Izlyn. It wasn’t difficult to be loyal to them.

As Gart postured and threatened to fight George, Izlyn put up a hand and grasped his wrist. “N-nay,” she said, sounding firm. “You… cannot fight George. I… I will be angry with you.”

Gart stopped in the middle of his rage and looked at her, his expression conveying the best dramatics of a broken heart. Then, he turned away from her, wiping his eyes as if weeping. As he headed back towards the army, he kept turning around to see if she was watching him. When he saw that she was, he would resume wiping his eyes. Chrystobel sighed heavily and looked at her sister.

“You had better go give the man his own posy before he embarrasses himself with his sobbing,” she said, pointing to the garden. “Go along and find Gart a flower so he will not feel so bad.”

Izlyn nodded and turned in the direction of the garden, but paused a moment to grasp her sister’s fingers in order to get her attention.

“I am marrying George now,” she said haltingly.

Chrystobel laughed softly as Izlyn ran back to the garden to find Gart a flower. As she stood there, watching her sister disappear around the side of the keep, a big body walked up beside her and grabbed her around the waist.

“Greetings, my lovely,” Keller said as he kissed her on the cheek. Then, he hissed when he realized how wet she was. “By God’s Bloody Rood, woman! You are soaked through.”

She giggled. “I know,” she said. “I am returning to the keep, have no fear. But I should tell you something.”

“What?”