Page 497

The worst part of an ambush was the wait.

Keller and Gart had been in the kitchen since leaving Chrystobel in the keep, and that had been almost twelve hours ago. The sun had set and the kitchen was now dark but for a small fire in the hearth, and Keller had remained fixed by the hidden door that concealed the passage that led down into the gorge, waiting patiently. On the other side of the hidden door, Gart leaned against the wall, still and silent. He had, however, been yawning for the past hour, the only sign that the man was actually alive and breathing. Other than that, there had been no conversation and little movement. The knights, as well as twenty soldiers, were crowded into the dark kitchen in utter and complete silence.

It was a waiting game. All day, Keller had been wracked with doubt. What if he had been wrong? What if Gryffyn hadn’t written that message, the one that Chrystobel had been positive that contained her brother’s handwriting? What if this had all been a horrible miscalculation and now here they were waiting on the receiving end of nothing. No Gryffyn, no Welsh, merely Keller and Gart, wasting their time. Keller could only pray it wasn’t true and that indeed he would be looking into Gryffyn d’Einen’s face soon. He had to rid his life of this evil that threatened everything he loved.

A day of uncertainty turned into an evening of the same. Time passed with painful slowness. More waiting, and more silence. But that silence came to an abrupt end when William showed up in the kitchen a few hours after sunset. Having run all the way from the battlements, he was understandably winded.

“The Welsh have been spotted, Keller,” he hissed. “As of two minutes ago, they were descending into the gorge from the northeast. Be ready!”

Keller perked up, as did Gart. The yawning stopped. What they were waiting for was actually coming to pass and the smell of a battle instantly filled the air. They fed off it, bolstering their courage for what was to come. All of Keller’s doubts fled as he realized his instincts had been correct. Gryffyn was approaching!

“Excellent,” Keller whispered with satisfaction. “So our ruse worked. Notify the postern gate and the gatehouse, William. Tell the men to be prepared.”

William nodded sharply. “I have already sent men to inform them,” he said. “I will wait here with you.”

Keller didn’t argue with him, mostly because he welcomed the fighting power of William’s sword. He found that he was very edgy, watching the hidden door, waiting for it to move. Slowly, silently, he unsheathed his broadsword and a few feet away, pressed against the wall, he saw Gart do the same. The steel blades glimmered weakly in the dim light as the rain outside continued to pour.

It was madness, truly, waiting for that one small movement, that hint of an enemy, throwing them all into the maelstrom of battle. Keller was anxious to get down to it, so much so that he actually began to sweat. All he could see was Gryffyn’s face, the cold and terrible face that had looked down upon Chrystobel so many times as he beat the woman senseless. A mindless beast of a man who did not deserve to live. The more Keller thought on him, the more enraged he became. Come to me, Gryffyn, he thought as he stared at the hidden door. Come to me so that I may take your bloody head off!

The moments dragged by, elongated, surreal in their slowness. Keller turned to see all of the men crowded into the kitchen and it suddenly occurred to him that they would be seen the moment the door opened, so he waved his hand swiftly at them, motioning them out of the kitchen, a directive to which they swiftly replied once they understood his meaning. All twenty of them piled out of the kitchen and out into the rain, hovering just outside the door, prepared to go charging back in and massacre the Welsh.

And they waited. The thunder crashed and lightning blared, but still, they waited. Keller was about to move to the hidden panel to see if he could hear anything beyond when the door suddenly jerked. Startled, the English faded back into the shadows. The door jerked again, shifted, and slowly began to open.

Keller was pressed flush against the wall, no more than a foot or two away, watching the panel slowly open up. His heart was thumping against his ribcage and anticipation filled his veins just as a head stuck out of the open door, peering around the extremely dark room. Come out just a little further, he thought. Just a little further so I can grab hold of you. But the figure didn’t emerge any further, at least not right away. The head turned in Gart’s direction and Keller was fearful that the big knight was spotted because he wasn’t too adequately concealed. But Gart was still, and the kitchen was dark, so the intruder evidently didn’t see him right away.

The door opened wider, scraping against the floor of the kitchen. The head peering out was attached to a body that quietly stepped out onto the hard-packed floor. The minute he emerged into the room, Keller lashed out a big hand and grabbed the man by the hair, yanking him in his direction.

The man started to yell but Keller rammed a broadsword into his back, between his ribs, killing him instantly as Gart jumped forward and grabbed the next man, making quick work of him. The English soldiers that were waiting outside the kitchen saw the fight commence and they rushed in, crowding the door as more Welsh tried to push through. From a silent, dark room one moment to a crowded mass of chaos the next, the kitchen was upended in unholy style.

It was so dark in the kitchen, and so crowded, that two of the English soldiers nicked each other with their swords because it was difficult to see who they were fighting. Welsh were charging in through the open door, one at a time, being met with the English and their sharp blades. Because of the darkness and chaos, however, it was difficult to tell who was an enemy and who was a friend.

Men fell down onto the floor, being trampled and stabbed at, as the mass in the kitchen swelled. There was absolutely no room to fight so it was like being compressed in a big crowd with no opportunity for movement. Keller had dispatched four Welshmen but he was looking for Gryffyn, who he knew was amongst this group. He could see William near the door, doing battle with a Welsh rebel, but suddenly, he could see men spilling out from the kitchen into the yard beyond. The Welsh were escaping and the fight was following them.

“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 only to be met by English troops. But the Welsh were clever. 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.