Chapter Twenty-Two #3
By that time, both the English and Welsh combatants were noticing that something was very, very wrong.
The soldiers began shouting to Rhys and Gart, who emerged from the postern gate area to see Keller being dragged across the bailey by a man who had him by the hair, pointing a dagger at his throat.
William, who had just finished off a particularly wily Welshman, saw what was happening. Rhys and Gart heard him hiss.
“That is d’Einen,” he said. “That is the man we hoped to kill tonight.”
Rhys sighed heavily. “And we will,” he said. “Spread out and approach him from the rear. He cannot fight off all of us at once.”
“He has a dagger at Keller’s neck,” William reminded him. “I have seen this man in action. He will not hesitate to use it.”
Rhys wriggled his dark eyebrows, watching Gryffyn as steadily as a cat tracking a mouse. “Then we must make sure he does not get the opportunity,” he said. “Find me a crossbow and I can take him from behind.”
William snapped quiet orders to the nearest soldier, who went on the run.
Meanwhile, he moved into stalking position alongside Rhys and Gart, waiting for the right moment to strike.
He prayed they could take Gryffyn down before the man had the chance to ram the dirk into Keller’s neck.
He wasn’t so confident that they could, and that thought sickened him.
But Gryffyn wasn’t paying attention to the knight stalking him and even if he was, it wouldn’t have mattered.
He had the advantage so the posturing knights had no power against him.
Dragging Keller up the slippery steps of the old, gray keep where he was born, he began yelling to the occupants.
He knew his sisters were inside. He continued to yell until he heard a shriek overhead.
Looking up into the dark sky as rain pelted his face, he could see Chrystobel’s head emerging from a lancet window on the second floor. But Keller spied her, too, and before Gryffyn could shout, Keller was bellowing at his wife.
“Do not open the door!” he boomed.
Frustrated, Keller kicked the man in the kidneys, listening to him grunt with pain. Then he returned his attention to his sister, glaring up at her through the inclement weather.
“If you want your husband to live, you will open the door,” he shouted. “Do you hear me? Open this door or your husband will die!”
Chrystobel’s head disappeared after that.
Shortly afterwards, Izlyn appeared and both Keller and Gryffyn shouted at her, confusing the girl.
Frustrated with Keller’s behavior, Gryffyn kicked Keller again and when the man bent over, he hit him on the head with the butt of the dirk, sending Keller to his knees.
As Keller saw stars and struggled not to pass out again, he began to hear sounds of fighting behind him.
He could hear the song of broadswords as they met with metal upon metal, and he knew there was no way he was going to allow Gryffyn into the keep or near his wife.
He didn’t know where the dirk was that Gryffyn had been holding against him but at the moment, it didn’t matter.
He was no longer willing to play the dazed victim.
Keller was unsteady, and his ears were ringing badly, but the time had come to fight back. When he caught a glimpse of Gryffyn’s legs off to his left, he lashed out a massive boot and swept the man’s legs out from under him.
Gryffyn hit hard on his back on the wet stone surface of the entry and the dagger in his hand went flying.
Keller pounced on him, using his big fists to pummel the man’s head.
The first blow shattered Gryffyn’s nose and the second blow dislodged six teeth.
Gryffyn threw up his hands, trying to defend himself, but Keller was all over him, beating him senseless.
Unfortunately, some of the Welsh that were in the bailey also saw the beating and ran to help.
Gryffyn was the man who had promised them riches from Nether and they assumed that saving the man’s life against his bitter enemy would garner them more reward.
Keller soon found himself swamped with Welshmen and, without his broadsword, it was his bare strength against six or eight of them.
The Welshmen pulled Keller off Gryffyn, but d’Einen was seriously dazed and bloodied.
He lay there a moment, watching Colvyn’s men beat away at Keller.
Keller and the writhing mass of Welshmen rolled down the keep’s steps, ending up in a muddy pile at the bottom.
William, having just fended off several Welsh, ran to Keller’s aid and began slashing away at the Welshmen who were still beating on him.
Some of them had weapons and at least two of them had slashed Keller, wounding his right forearm fairly seriously as the man fought for his life.
Because Gryffyn had stripped him of all his weapons, he had nothing to fight back with except his bare hands, and those were taking a serious lashing.
As Keller battled the Welsh, Gryffyn was struggling to sit up when the door to the keep suddenly lurched open.
Startled, Gryffyn looked up to see Izlyn standing in the doorway.
She just stood there, looking weak and vulnerable.
When their eyes met, Gryffyn’s expression was a mixture of surprise, glee, and fury.
“Izlyn!” he gasped, struggling to his knees. “You little fool! How good of you to let me in. Where is your sister?”
Izlyn stood just inside the doorway, backing up as Gryffyn labored to his feet. “Inside,” she said. “Come in.”
Gryffyn froze, his eyes wide at her. “You speak?” he said, astonished.
“You actually speak? By all that is holy, I knew you could! All this time, I knew you could but you were simply being difficult, weren’t you, you little chit?
In fact, I am very angry at you for it and shall punish you severely for your insolence! ”
Izlyn was still backing up as Gryffyn, now on his feet, began to move towards her.
He was utterly focused on the young girl, furious to hear her speak after all this time.
Izlyn continued to back up, luring him in through the doorway.
The moment he set foot into the keep, the fates of retribution enveloped him in their discourteous fold.
He was trapped and he didn’t even know it yet.
He had no idea that a lifetime of brutality against the weaker sex would now cost him his life.
While Gryffyn was focused on Izlyn, the form of vengeance was Chrystobel.
She emerged from the shadows off to his right, charging out of the darkness with the iron sconce wielded like a spear.
Five dagger-sharp points meant to secure tapers rammed into Gryffyn’s back, puncturing deep, and sending the man crashing over onto his left side.
Chrystobel was mad with panic. She knew if she didn’t kill her brother, he would rise up and murder her, so she yanked the sconce out of his body and stabbed him again, listening to him wail with pain and anguish.
Kill him or he will kill you!
His cries of pain held no meaning for her.
She pulled the sconce out of his body one more time, using it to beat him over the head.
The sconce was blood-covered, and very heavy, and she pounded it over Gryffyn’s skull, repeatedly bashing his head, until the man stopped struggling and finally lay still.
Even then, she continued bashing, beating the man’s head, caving his skull in.
Every blow had her name on it, or Izlyn’s name, or her father’s name.
Every blow for the dozens of times Gryffyn had abused them, breaking bones or drawing blood.
Every blow was meant for her life, Izlyn’s life, and now her husband’s life.
She was mad with the feeling of freedom, free forever from the fear of Gryffyn, and now it had become a frenzy.
She was slashing him and beating him right into the stone, and with every strike, her terror seemed to fade, further and further, until it was nearly gone.
But Chrystobel didn’t stop beating Gryffyn’s head until someone came up behind her and grabbed the sconce, preventing her from leveling yet another blow on a clearly dead man.
Finally, her vengeance had come to a halt. Finally, it was over.
Keller stood behind his wife, holding her wrists as she wielded the sconce.
His hands and arms were bloody and torn, his face bloodied from the fist fight outside the door, but it didn’t matter.
When Chrystobel turned to see who had prevented her from turning her brother’s head into pulp, a gasp of genuine joy escaped her lips.
The sconce crashed to the floor, next to Gryffyn, as she threw herself into her husband’s arms, weeping tears of terror and relief.
Keller held his wife tightly, his face buried in the side of her head, his eyes stinging with tears. She was safe. He was safe. They were all safe. Words of alleviation defied him at the moment.
“Are you well?” he asked tightly, a lump in his throat. “He did not injure you in any way?”
Chrystobel shook her head adamantly. “He never had the chance, not this time,” she wept, pulling away from the man to run her hands over his face, inspecting the damage. “But you are bleeding.”
Keller shook his head to downplay the damage, leaning forward to kiss her as deeply and as passionately as he had ever kissed her. His joy, his relief, went beyond words.
“I will survive,” he muttered.
“Please,” Chrystobel begged softly, trembling as she touched his face. “Let me tend you.”
He kissed her fiercely. “Later.”