CHAPTER SEVEN
Gwendraith Castle
Wales
Her father had no idea she had come.
Asmara rode astride her frisky stallion, gazing up at Gwendraith Castle as she neared the bottom of the hill that it was perched upon. As far as Cader was concerned, she was still at Llandarog, going about her boring duties and generally being occupied as a commander of men who were now in charge of Llandarog Castle.
But that was far from the case.
Four long weeks and she was ready to scream. Cader and his men were quite happy holding fast to the castle, eating their daily meals, going about their duties, and any number of utterly unexciting and dull tasks. Fairynne had been sent home, back to their mother in their small village of Talley, but Cader had kept Asmara with him. She’d earned the right to stay as far as he was concerned, but remaining at Llandarog was the last thing Asmara wanted to do.
She wanted to go to Gwendraith.
Therefore, on a sunny, autumn afternoon when her father was out with some of his men, hunting in the countryside, Asmara had slipped out of Llandarog and headed northeast towards Gwendraith. The weather was surprisingly calm, as the terrible rains they’d suffered had been gone for over a week, so the roads were passable, and the ride north had been a pleasant one. Asmara had given the horse its head, and it had glided with swift and sure hooves.
Truly, it had been foolish leaving Llandarog, but something was drawing her to Gwendraith. Someone was drawing her there. She’d tried to pretend as if he were of no concern to her and that she simply wanted to go where the action was but, increasingly, she knew that wasn’t the truth.
She couldn’t get Blayth out of her mind.
She’d missed him. What a fool she was! She hardly knew the man but, still, she’d missed him. No man had ever intrigued her like the big, scarred warrior, and she didn’t want to remain at Llandarog, dying of boredom, while Blayth was at Gwendraith and living an exciting life. How exciting, she didn’t know, but she intended to find out. She wanted to be where he was.
She was most definitely a fool.
The ride to Gwendraith went without incident and she arrived in the late afternoon. Having never been to Gwendraith, she didn’t know what to expect, and what she found was a big castle on a hill overlooking a small village and the green, green Welsh landscape below. A small river carved a blue ribbon at the base of it, drifting out into the valley beyond.
A road led up the rocky hill and she passed a few stone huts and herds of puffy sheep being tended by shepherds bearing nasty-looking crossbows. She thought she recognized them, some of the trossodol that her mother had referred to, the mercenary-like criminals who followed Morys. She didn’t remember seeing some of them in the battle for Llandarog but now, they were at Gwendraith. Undoubtedly, they’d come from Brecfa. But she turned her attention away from them and to the road that led to a big gatehouse, with twin towers on either side. Once she was through the gatehouse, a massive lower bailey opened up that covered nearly the entire hilltop.
The bailey was full of outbuildings and men, and she continued up the road which now led to the keep at the top of the slope. Although the curtain wall and exterior defenses were grand, there wasn’t much to protect the inner ward, so it explained how easily the Welsh were able to overtake the castle. There was simply a gate to protect the inner ward, so once the army came over the walls and through the main gatehouse, there wasn’t much to stop them from taking the keep.
It was an interesting flaw in an otherwise magnificent castle. Given the vastness of the outer ward, the inner ward was quite small. In fact, it was more of a courtyard in the center of a keep, which was built up around it. A servant, a Welshman with an accent so thick that she could barely understand him, indicated for Asmara to follow him into the keep. Dismounting her horse, she collected her satchel and complied.
Upon entering the foyer, Asmara was surprised to see that she was in a big chamber that was two stories tall. To her left was an enormous, arched door that opened up into what she thought might be the great hall simply for its size, but to the right was another doorway with heavy iron bars attached to it that led into what was evidently the lord’s chambers and more. It was a rather low-ceilinged doorway that led into dark passages beyond.
The servant took her into the hall, which had a floor made of stone. That was rare, when most halls on the ground level had dirt floors. Asmara sat down at a very big table, propped up by stones on one side because it was missing a leg, as the servant rushed off to find her something to drink and eat.
She found herself looking around the hall of Gwendraith, impressed with the sheer size of the place. Behind her, several very tall lancet windows emitted some light and ventilation into the room, and above her head was a minstrel’s gallery. Most Welsh castles didn’t have that feature, which led her to believe that, at some point, the Normans built this hall. The size of it and the details had their mark all over it.
Even though Asmara was weary from her travels, she couldn’t seem to sit still. She stood up and wandered over to the hearth, a massive thing that was taller than she was. It had been cleaned of the ashes, ready to burn tonight as the hall filled with Welshmen. She touched the stones around it and noted the iron fire back that, when hot, would project even more heat into the room. As she stood there and fingered the stone, she didn’t hear someone enter the hall behind her.
It was Blayth.
In truth, he couldn’t believe his eyes. He had been in the outer bailey, preparing to enter the forebuilding that led down to the vault, when he saw her ride in. At first, he thought that he might have been seeing things, but the long-legged woman with the long, dark hair rode past him, at a distance, and he knew there couldn’t be two like her in the entire world. Asmara ferch Cader was making an appearance and Blayth dropped what he was doing to follow her trail into the inner ward.
For a man who never gave women much thought, he’d given Asmara a good deal of it. She’d impressed him greatly with her skill the night Llandarog was captured, and as man with a warrior’s heart, he was coming to appreciate a woman with the same. He still didn’t believe women belonged in battle, but Asmara wasn’t just any woman. She was quite different, as he’d seen, and when he’d departed Llandarog last month to come to Gwendraith, he was genuinely sorry to have left her behind. The little minx had grown on him and instead of letting her memory fade during his time at Gwendraith, it had only seemed to grow stronger.
He wasn’t hard-pressed to admit that he was glad to see her.
Now, Blayth stood in the massive arched doorway of Gwendraith’s hall, watching Asmara over near the hearth and thinking that, quite possibly, she’d grown more beautiful since the last time he saw her. He simply watched her, digesting the way her body moved, her graceful limbs and lovely hands. It seemed so strange to him that such beautiful fingers could kill a man. He watched her drag her hand over the stone of the hearth.
She was as flawless as he’d ever seen.
“Why are you here?” he heard himself ask.
Asmara whirled around to face him, surprise evident on her face. Shock was more like it. But she covered it quickly, coming away from the hearth and heading in his direction.
“My… my father sent me,” she lied. “There is nothing happening at Llandarog these days. The men are growing fat and lazy. He thought that you could use me here at Gwendraith.”
That voice, Blayth thought. Like warm honey, pouring into his ears. He felt like a fool to realize that he had actually missed that voice, but the truth was that he didn’t care why she’d come. Only that she had.
“The English have not tried to take back Llandarog?” he asked.
She shook her head as she drew closer. “Nay,” she said. “What about this place? Have they tried to regain it?”
Blayth lifted a challenging eyebrow. “They would not dare.”
There was that dry wit again. He’d used it on her one or twice, and Asmara had thought he might have been mocking her with it. But now she was coming to think that it was purely his personality. It was a very small insight into a mysterious and complex man, so she decided to play along and see where it took her.
“Why?” she asked. “Because you are here?”
“Why else?”
She grinned. Before she could reply, however, the servant returned with a tray of food and drink, and Asmara realized how thirsty she was. She headed over to the table, pulling the cloth from the tray and peering at the contents – watered ale, hard white cheese, crusty bread, and small apples. Asmara plopped down on the bench and began to pour herself some ale.
“Will you join me?” she asked Blayth.
His response was to move to the table and sit opposite her as she drained her cup of ale, smacking her lips. He watched her as she poured herself another cup.
“I have not eaten since early this morning, so forgive me for being rude,” she said. Then, she looked around the table as if searching for something. “I do not see another cup. If you wish to drink from the pitcher, I do not mind.”
His gaze lingered on her a moment before reaching out to take the pitcher. A smile flickered across his lips before he downed nearly the entire contents. Asmara watched him closely, studying everything about the man. She was thrilled to be sitting with him, just the two of them. There was so much she wanted to say, and wanted to know, that she hardly knew where to start.
“If you will recall,” she said as she popped a piece of cheese into her mouth, “the first time we were alone together, you tossed me into a water trough. The second time, you accused me of trying to pry information out of you on behalf of my father. I wonder how you will insult me the third time?”
He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “You said there would be no third time.”
“That is true, but here we are. If you are going to offend me, then get on with it.”
His lips twitched with a smile again; that smile that always seemed to be right on the surface. “I am afraid of what will happen if I do,” he said. “I emerged unscathed the first two times. I fear my luck will not hold out again.”
Asmara grinned, flashing that toothy smile. “I will be truthful with you,” she said. “The night before we moved on Llandarog, my father did not send me to pry information out of you. I will swear that upon my grandmother’s grave.”
He believed her. Truth was, he had always believed her. “I was wrong to slander your honor,” he admitted. The tone of the conversation was comfortable enough that he did not feel the need to keep his defenses up, his natural guard. He was very anxious to speak with her. “But you must understand that I knew virtually nothing about you up to that point, and Morys has never spoken fondly of Cader.”
Her smile faded. “I know,” she said. “I can only imagine what he has said about my father. Whatever it was, it is not true. My father is a fine man.”
Blayth nodded. “He must be to have raised so fine and strong a daughter,” he said, watching her eyes widen in surprise at what was clearly a compliment. “Some men have different ways of commanding men. Morys’ way is to shout and, at times, color the truth. Your father’s way seems to be far quieter.”
“Quiet and trusting,” she said, although she was still feeling a bit of a thrill from his compliment. “He tells his men what must be done and he trusts them to do it. That does not make him weak.”
“I know.”
“I am glad you do. Morys does not think that way.”
Blayth knew Morys well enough to know just how the man thought. Sometimes, it was overbearing, in truth, but he didn’t say so. He owed Morys much in life and he would not speak ill of him, not even in a private conversation.
“As I said, Morys has an aggressive manner, but it is one that men respond to,” he said.
She looked up from her cheese. “Like you?”
“I owe him a good deal.”
Asmara nodded faintly, her thoughts moving to Blayth’s mysterious background. She couldn’t help her curiosity and, somehow, now that it was just the two of them, it didn’t seem intrusive. There was no one to listen in on them, and she was genuinely interested.
“It sounds as if he owes you a good deal, too,” she said. “Truly, you do not have to speak of it if you do not want to, but I heard Morys at Carmarthen Castle when he spoke of how the English purchased you from your mother and then tortured you for your entire life. I… I simply want to say that I think that is horrible and I am very sorry they did that. No man deserves that kind of treatment, and certainly not you. The hatred and resentment you must feel for the Saesneg is beyond my comprehension.”
They were wandering into an area that Blayth never spoke of. His past was a strictly taboo subject, except for Aeddan and Pryce and Morys. Those were the only people he ever felt comfortable discussing his limited memory with.
But Asmara… he’d only ever sensed that the woman was brave, truthful, and pure. He’d never thought anything else. Every man who had ever fought alongside her had a very high opinion of her, and the night Llandarog Castle fell, Blayth had the opportunity to see just how brave and skilled she really was. The woman was impressive on so many levels.
But did he trust her enough to speak of his past with her?
He was so used to avoiding the subject that he simply wasn’t certain.
“Feelings of hatred and resentment are unproductive,” he finally said. “I am not a man to waste effort on things beyond my control.”
It was a simple answer, but a truthful one. Asmara received the impression that he didn’t want to speak further of it, which was something she’d sensed that night before Llandarog fell.
“That is a sensible attitude,” she said. “I am sorry if you do not wish to speak of it. You warned me off the night Llandarog fell and I suppose you had every right if you thought I was trying to pry but, as I said, I honestly was not. I just thought… I thought I should tell you how I felt about what happened to you. You endured a terrible thing.”
There was pity there, something he wasn’t used to in the least. It made him feel strangely adverse to her pity yet, in the same breath, welcoming it. He’d had absolutely no comfort in his life that he could recall, although sometimes he would dream of a woman with dark hair, a woman that he held some affection for. There was also the older woman with the Scottish accent. But those were only dreams. In reality, Morys’ wife, Auryn, was the only women he’d spent any length of time around, and she was limited in her ability to show emotion given that she was married to a man who showed her nothing at all.
The truth was that he was to blame for his aversion to women. What was he? A man with horrible scars, ugly to look at, and certainly not a man that any woman would want as a companion or husband. So, he avoided women, keeping a wall up around him so that nothing and no one could break through that wall and hurt him.
It was safer that way.
But now… now, a beautiful, brave woman was showing him a measure of compassion and he had no idea how to feel about it. All he knew was that it touched something in him, something deep that was kind and soft and wanted to be nurtured. There was something in him that was responding to her compassion, whether or not he was comfortable with it. As Asmara turned back to her bread and cheese, he spoke softly.
“I do not remember very much, to be truthful,” he muttered.
She looked up from her food. “You do not remember much of your captivity?”
He sighed, a long and thoughtful sound, as he leaned forward on the table, his arms resting on the tabletop and his hands folded.
“What we are to speak of does not leave this room,” he told her.
Asmara sensed his seriousness right away. “Of course not,” she said. “I would never repeat something you told me in confidence.”
“See that you do not. If I hear that you have told others of this conversation, you will not like my reaction.”
Her features stiffened. “So you have managed to offend me a third time,” she said. “I told you that I would not speak of it. I meant it. But since you clearly do not trust my word, do not speak of anything you do not wish for me to hear. Let us speak on the weather instead.”
She turned back to her food, angrily tearing at the bread and shoving it into her mouth. Blayth watched her, realizing that he had insulted the woman yet again. He couldn’t seem to not insult her. Watching her frustrated actions, he felt remorse for his behavior.
“I have spent my life, or what I remember of it, protecting myself,” he said. “I did not mean to offend you, demoiselle. Mayhap I am accustomed to dealing with unsavory characters all around and that leads me to treat everyone the same way. I… apologize.”
A surprising response. At least, Asmara thought so. She cooled somewhat, but not entirely. “If you keep insulting me and then apologizing, at some point, I am no longer going to accept your apologies. Do you understand?”
“I do.”
“Good.”
Her gaze lingered on him as she returned to her food, but her movements were far less angry. Blayth watched her peel apart her cheese.
“As I said, I do not remember much of anything,” he said quietly.
His tone sounded so… lost. Confused, even. Asmara pushed her food aside because she realized that she was no longer hungry. Her conversation with Blayth was taking precedence over everything. For the first time since she’d known him, Blayth the Strong sounded vulnerable.
Human.
“You mean of your captivity with the English?” she asked. “I am not surprised. I am sure it was a terrible existence.”
He shook his head. “That is not what I mean,” he said. “I do not remember anything prior to Morys finding me.”
Her brow furrowed with confusion. “Morys finding you?”
He nodded. “I awoke five years ago in Morys’ sod hut in the Vale of Brecfa, with the sounds of the River Marlais nearby,” he said. “Morys told me that I had been saved from the English and he told me who I was. What memories I have, he has given to me.”
Asmara was still confused. “But you remember nothing?” she asked. “How does Morys know so much of your past?”
“Because my father’s teulu told him,” he said. “They delivered me to Morys for safekeeping, so I could hide from the English who will capture me once again if they find me.”
That was essentially the same story Morys had told everyone that day at Carmarthen Castle but, to Asmara, it was beginning to sound strange. Blayth had no memory of his life before he came to Morys, and it was Morys who told him of his past. But Blayth couldn’t remember any of it so he had to trust that what the man was telling him was the truth.
… but was it?
“That is a terrible story,” she said. “And… and you remember nothing prior to Morys?”
He lifted his big shoulders, averting his gaze as if that would help him draw on long-buried memories. “Not really,” he said, “although sometimes I have dreams. I dream of men that I feel as if I should know. I dream of them frequently, in fact. I can almost call them by name, but not quite. As if their names are right at the forefront of my mind but I cannot quite bring them forth.”
Asmara was listening intently. “Surely that is frustrating.”
He gave her a wry smile. “It is,” he said. Then, his eyes took on that faraway look again. “In my dreams, I can see their faces. I know they are English because I can see the armor they are wearing. Not all of the time, but sometimes. Morys has told me that those men were my captors. Those are the bastards who did this to me.”
He had his hand up on the left side of his head, touching the area that was so damaged and scarred. Asmara was deeply surprised to see the emotion in him, the vulnerability of a man who had such a fearless reputation.
“It is possible,” she said. “Surely you would not forget men who harmed you so terribly.”
Blayth dropped his hand from his head as it brushed over the ear that was no longer there. “That is the strange part,” he said. “I see these men and I do not feel as if I hate them. It is hard to describe, but when I dream of them, I feel… love. The love that one would feel for a family, I suppose. I do not think these men were the ones who tortured me, as Morys has said. I feel as if they are something else.”
“What else?”
He sighed heavily. “I do not know. I wish I did.”
Asmara couldn’t help but feel a good deal of pity for the man. “Your story is a tragic one,” she said, “but you have come through it. You are a man that everyone admires, and you have a great destiny to fulfill. Mayhap through you, Wales will finally know a measure of freedom, as your father had once hoped for.”
He lifted his eyebrows, as if not at all convinced of that. “Either that, or I will end up dead like my father,” he said. “Morys says that the English will kill me if they capture me. That is why he has kept me away from them, even in battle. In fact, we have the English garrison commander of Gwendraith in the vault at this very moment that he has not let me go near. Morys has interrogated the man for more information on English plans in the south of Wales but, so far, the man has not told him anything he did not already know.”
Asmara found that most interesting. “Does Morys plan to kill him?”
Blayth shook his head. “Nay,” he said. “I told him not to kill the captive. I think we can use the man to our advantage.”
“How?”
A glimmer came to his eye. “Because even if the man refuses to tell us anything more of the Saesneg plans in this area, we can send him back to England with a message of our own. A message to the Marcher lords that a new force is rising in Wales. I will succeed where so many other Welsh lords have failed.”
Asmara shrugged. “How?” she said. “Please do not take offense to this, but it seems as if Morys tries to think for you. You are clearly a strong and intelligent man. Do you really need Morys to tell you what to do?”
That smile was on Blayth’s lips again. “Make no mistake,” he said. “Morys may be louder than I am, but it is I who give the commands. Morys has taken many of my own ideas and claimed them as his own, and I suppose I do not care. Morys is a man who needs glory and attention. I do not. All that you see, every successful battle, every successful move, is because of me.”
Asmara didn’t doubt him for a moment. “I believe you,” she said. “Speaking of Morys, where is he?”
“He has gone to Carmarthen Castle, taking his teulu with him, including Aeddan and Pryce. He went to confer with Howell.”
“And you remained here?”
“He left me in command. And I have an English knight to send back to the Marcher lords with a message.”
“Does Morys know this? I thought you said he kept you away from the English.”
He shrugged. “He is not here, so whatever I do is of my own decision,” he said. “In fact, I was heading to the vault when I saw you arrive. Mayhap you would like to attend me as I speak to the man? Nothing will insult the Saesneg more than to realize the Welsh Dragon Princess has the power over his life or his death.”
The thought was a pleasing one. “I have never met an English knight before.”
Blayth stood up from the table. “Nor I,” he said. “At least, not that I recall.”
Because he was standing, Asmara stood up as well. “I would like to see this Saesneg,” she said. “I am curious about him, I admit. English knights are difficult to come by. At least, captive ones are.”
Blayth’s smile broke through. “You can look, but you cannot touch. No beating the man to death.”
She feigned shock. “Me? Why would you say such a thing?”
His grin broadened. “Something tells me that you have a rabid hatred for the English,” he said. “And we need this one alive if our message is to make it back to England.”
They were walking to the hall entry now, with Asmara walking beside Blayth for the first time. Normally, she’d been behind him or far away from him but, this time, she walked alongside him. It felt right and natural to her.
She liked it.
“I will not move against the man unless he tries to capture you,” she said. “It is wise of you to bring me as your bodyguard.”
He looked at her, amused. “Demoiselle, I am quite happy to have you as my teulu,” he said. “I will be the envy of every man.”
Something about the way he looked at her made Asmara feel hot all over. If he continued to look at her like that, she would swear fealty to him as his teulu and never look back.
It was a rather wonderful feeling, after all.
The vaults, or dungeons, of Gwendraith were rather strange. Since the castle sat atop a rocky hill, much of the rock was incorporated into the structure of the castle, and that included the vaults, which were actually old storage pits that had been converted for use as cells.
At some point, great iron bars were used to cap the pits, held in with mortar and stone. These pits were in the lower level of the keep but they were accessed in the outer ward by a narrow doorway in the base of one of the keep’s corner towers. A long, cramped passageway led to the former storage vaults, now a prison.
An iron grate covered the access doorway, too, and it was kept bolted. When Blayth and Asmara approached, the Welsh guard from the inside unbolted the grate, pulling it open on sticky hinges. Before Blayth and Asmara headed back into the dark passage, the guard at the gate handed them a torch to light their way.
The passage was narrow and low-ceilinged, as black as pitch if they hadn’t been carrying the torch. The ceiling was black and greasy from the numerous torches that had been used to light it. But the passage was also mercifully short, and they emerged into the former storage area with the big pits sunk into the rock. It was already lit by a torch, but it was hardly enough light to see by, as the space was fairly vast. As Blayth put the torch in an iron sconce, Asmara drifted over to one of the pits.
They were dark and smelled heavily of urine. There were six in total; she could see two men stuffed into one, and then one man in another, but the other four remained empty. They couldn’t have been more than four feet deep, meaning the prisoners couldn’t stand up in them. They remained stuffed into them like corks in a bottle. As she looked at them, she couldn’t help feel that the conditions were rather barbaric. It surely must have been a hellish existence for a man to be rammed into one of these small pits.
Even if the prisoners were English.
Over to her right, Blayth had finished securing the torch and he headed to the pit with the single man in it. Throwing the bolt in the top of the grate that covered the pit, he opened the grate, braced his big legs, and reached down to pull the man out.
There was a good deal of grunting and groaning from the prisoner as his stiff body was moved around. Blayth dragged him across the stony dirt floor until he came to a wall. Then, he propped the man up against it as Asmara came up behind him and unsheathed her sword. When Blayth caught a flash of her blade, he looked at her curiously.
“I told you that you could not kill him,” he pointed out.
Her gaze was on the prisoner, but she tore it away long enough to address him. “This is not to kill him,” she said. “This is to protect you should he try to move against you.”
Blayth couldn’t help the grin. “I see you take your position as my teulu seriously.”
Asmara merely shrugged, her gaze returning to the prisoner. She was quite serious about her stance and Blayth couldn’t help but be flattered. To have the Dragon Princess as his defender made him feel rather important, but it was more than that. Her intention to protect him made him feel as if her feelings on the matter were personal. She wanted to protect him, almost as if he meant something to her.
Was such a thing even possible?
It was difficult not to ponder that very thought as he turned his focus to his prisoner.
The man was in terrible shape. Having been kept in a ball for nearly a month had done awful things to his body. He tried to stretch out his legs, grunting with pain as he did so, and it was apparent that he was a fairly tall man. Asmara stayed out of his range as he twisted and grunted, trying to straighten himself out.
“Tell me your name,” Blayth said in a low, threatening tone.
The man was rubbing the back of his neck. “I respectfully refuse,” he said. “I will not have you ransom my family. I am sure you understand.”
He was speaking the language of the English. Most Welsh in the south spoke that language, as it was important to understand the language of their overlords, so both Asmara and Blayth understood him.
“I do understand,” Blayth said in the knight’s language. “But I do not intend to ransom you. It is my intention to release you but before I do, I want to know your name. I do not address, nor do I show mercy, to men I do not know.”
The man sighed heavily, still rubbing his neck, now trying to straighten out his head and neck. “My lord, I mean no disrespect, but until you release me from this hell, I cannot believe your intentions,” he said. “I have been lied to since the day I was captured and if my lack of belief in your word is slandering your honor, I do apologize. But you can surely see things from my perspective.”
Blayth did. He took a few steps in Asmara’s direction, coming very close to her, before lowering his voice.
“Have the guard at the door send for food and drink,” he said. “Let us show the man some decent treatment because it is an important message I wish to send with him. Mayhap if I show him some kindness, he will do as I ask.”
Asmara nodded, handing over her sword to him. “If he tries anything, kill him.”
She turned on her heel, rushing for the entrance to the vault, leaving Blayth standing there with a smile on his face. She certainly was a no-nonsense lady, unafraid to put a sword between a man’s ribs. He went over to the torch he’d stuck in the wall, removing it from the brace and bringing it closer so he could look at his prisoner. There was a sconce in the wall over the man’s head, so he pushed the torch into it, securing it.
“I am looking at things from your perspective, but you must look at them from mine,” he said to the captive. “You are my prisoner. I can do anything I wish with you or to you, as is my privilege. A captor is not honor-bound to tell a captive the truth, but if you give me your name, I shall give you mine. That shall establish trust, and I say to you that I lie to no man, especially a man with whom I have trust. Would you agree with that statement?”
The prisoner stopped rubbing his neck and moved to his shoulders, trying to rub the kinks out. “I would,” he said. “Give me your name first and I shall consider giving you mine.”
Blayth didn’t hesitate. “I am called Blayth.”
The man slowed the hand rubbing at his shoulders. “Blayth,” he repeated, drawing out the word. “That means wolf in your language.”
“It does.”
“Then my name is Corbett.”
“Do you have a surname, Corbett?”
“Do you?”
“I am a bastard. It would do no good to give you my surname.”
It sounded like an honest answer, so Corbett continued. “My surname is Payton-Forrester,” he said. “My full name is Sir Corbett Payton-Forrester. Now, I will hold you to that promise of not ransoming me to my family.”
“You have my word,” Blayth said. “Will you tell me what you were doing at Gwendraith?”
“I am the garrison commander for the Earl of Pembroke, William de Valence,” he said. “You do know that this is a Pembroke property?”
He was speaking rather easily for a man who hadn’t told Morys anything for an entire month, but Blayth was pleased that he’d been able to coerce the man’s trust, something Morys would have believed beneath him. He folded his big arms across his chest.
“It is not a Pembroke property anymore,” he said. “Now it belongs to the Welsh. A castle in Wales should belong to the Welsh, don’t you think?”
Corbett snorted ironically. “In theory, I suppose,” he said. “But, much like you, I serve a higher power. I go where I am told to go and fight whoever I am told to fight. My presence at Gwendraith was not a personal insult to the Welsh. I am here because I was ordered to be here.”
Blayth’s gaze lingered on the man; he was tall, and he’d been better fed in his life because he looked rather pale and weak. He had hair to his shoulders, some dirty shade of blond, and very large hands. Blayth could see that as the man continued to rub the knots out of his damaged body. As he stood there, Asmara came rushing back into the storage area and he turned to her, noting her serious expression. As she came close, he held out the sword to her, giving it back.
“Did he try anything?” she asked.
Blayth’s lips creased with a faint smile. “I do not think he is in any condition to,” he said. “We have simply been having a conversation. This is Sir Corbett Payton-Forrester, the garrison commander of Gwendraith Castle for the Earl of Pembroke. Sir Corbett, this is Lady Asmara. Treat her with respect or you shall have to answer to me.”
For the first time, Corbett looked up. His neck was straighter now and he was able to hold his head up, looking at the man and woman standing before him. But his gaze was on the woman, a long and shapely lady with the face of an angel. But she was dressed like a soldier. He simply nodded his head.
“My lady,” he greeted.
Asmara wasn’t sure how to respond. The man was an enemy, but Blayth’s tone hadn’t suggested anything hostile between them. She looked at Blayth, confused, but his impassive expression told her nothing at all. Her focus returned to the English knight, sitting against the stone wall.
“Sir Corbett Payton-Forrester,” she repeated. “You were in command of this castle, then?”
Corbett’s eyes were adjusting to the light. He’d spent so much of his time in the darkness that the torchlight was like bright and blinding sunlight. He blinked as the light hurt his eyes.
“Aye, my lady.”
“Why?”
“Because Pembroke honored me with the command.”
“Why should he honor you? Who are you to him?”
Corbett could see a very sharp-minded and very hostile lady behind the questions. “My father is a great knight, much decorated in the service of King Henry,” he said evenly. “Because of my father’s service, Pembroke accepted my fealty.”
Asmara’s gaze moved over him, seeing a very dirty and very beaten man. She cocked her head, a thoughtful gesture. “Then you come from a legacy of great English knights,” she said. “But you do not look so great to me at the moment.”
Corbett grinned, his dry lips cracking. “I am positive that I do not.”
“Are you married? Was your wife here at Gwendraith?”
“My wife died a few years ago, my lady. And before you ask, I do have children, but they were not here with me. They live in the north of England, with my parents.”
An English knight with a dead wife. Asmara thought on that a moment, fighting off the pangs of both curiosity and pity. As she’d told Blayth, she’d never seen an English knight before and it was a rare and interesting event.
But she was quickly coming to see something else – that Payton-Forrester wasn’t the omnipotent, fire-breathing Saesneg knight she’d heard tale of. He was human, not super-human, and she saw nothing in the man that suggested he was any better than the Welsh warriors she had ever known, Blayth included. He seemed rather… ordinary. After a moment, she simply shook her head.
“This is the English knight we are all afraid of?” she asked, almost rhetorically. “I see nothing terrifying about you.”
Corbett’s gaze was fixed on her. “Mayhap not,” he said. “But you have yet to see me in battle, my lady. In spite of the fact that I was captured, it took a very long time for the Welsh to do it. I held them off until I could hold out no more.”
Asmara looked at Blayth to confirm the boast. He caught her expression. “I will admit, he was fierce until the end,” Blayth said. “He held us off and then was captured when he tried to escape down the castle walls on a rope. It was only by luck that he was captured.”
Blayth was honest in his assessment and it was clear that there was some respect for the man, from one warrior to another. That made the situation not so tense, which was a brilliant move on Blayth’s part. He wanted Corbett to feel more comfortable so their communications would go more smoothly. An irate or rebellious prisoner wouldn’t be of any use.
His tactics worked. Corbett appreciated the compliment, especially from his enemy. That was the greatest compliment anyone could pay him.
“Thank you, my lord,” he said. “I did my best. I more than likely would have gotten away with it had the rope not unraveled and dropped me on my back.”
“And yet, you are here,” Blayth said. “I know that you have been interrogated repeatedly by my lord, but that has come to an end. You are my prisoner now and we are to have a discussion.”
Corbett was happy to hear that the interrogations by that loud-mouthed Welshman had ended, as uncomfortable and painful as it had been at times, but he was wary of the suggested “discussion”. He was concerned that if he didn’t tell this enormous Welshman what he wanted to hear, then there might be repercussions. He couldn’t even really see the man because of his sensitivity to light, so he couldn’t see his expression to see if there was anything to read into it. He went back to rubbing his neck, his eyes closed.
“Very well, Blayth,” he said. “What do you wish to discuss? But you must know that if you are going to ask me about English future plans for Wales, I will not tell you. In truth, I do not know anything. I am simply a knight; I am not in Pembroke’s inner circle and I do not know what he is planning.”
Blayth moved closer to the man, crouching down a few feet away. “I was not going to ask you that,” he said. “But I am going to tell you something.”
“What is it?”
“I told you that I am going to release you. But when I do, you are going to take a message back to the English on my behalf.”
Corbett sighed faintly, wondering just what kind of message he would be charged with. “I see,” he said. “Then I am to be your messenger?”
“You are.”
“What would you have me deliver?”
Blayth didn’t say anything for a moment; he didn’t want to speak to a man who wasn’t looking at him. The longer he remained silent, the more perplexed Corbett became until he finally opened his eyes and looked up, squinting against the torchlight with bloodshot eyes. Their eyes met, and Corbett blinked rapidly, several times, because his eyes were paining him so.
“Well?” he asked. “Will you tell me?”
Blayth nodded. “I will,” he said. “But I will not speak of something so important to a man who will not look me in the eye. What you are to tell your English overlords is simple – you will tell them that a new rebellion is rising in the south of Wales, led by the bastard son of Llywelyn the Last. Surprised? I can see by your expression that you are. This new prince has led the Welsh to capture three smaller castles in the past few weeks – Gwendraith, Idole, and Llandarog. Soon, we will be moving on more castles kept by the English, and we will not fail. I want you to tell the English who control the south of Wales now. Soon enough, we shall capture Pembroke and all of the large castles as well. Then, we shall move north, where we shall purge the English from our country. Do you understand what I am telling you so far?”
In truth, Blayth wasn’t sure if Corbett understood at all because, suddenly, he wasn’t blinking his eyes so much. He was staring at him with his crusty, red eyes, and his pale face seemed even paler. His mouth was hanging open now, too, and he was clearly shocked at the mention of a bastard son of Llywelyn the Last. At least, that’s what Blayth thought until Corbett uttered one word.
“James?” he hissed.
Blayth had no idea what he meant. “Nay, the bastard son’s name is not James,” he said. “Do you understand what it is I have told you? Acknowledge that you do.”
But Corbett wasn’t listening; he was quite obviously astonished by something, so much so that his hand flew to his mouth as he stared at Blayth.
“James,” he breathed again. “My God… is it you? My God… I hardly recognized you!”
Blayth was increasingly baffled by the man’s reaction to what he’d been told. It was as if Corbett didn’t understand him at all. It didn’t occur to him that the man thought he was someone else, someone he recognized, but the way Corbett was looking at him was making him feel awkward and confused.
“I do not know what you are saying,” he said. “Who is James?”
“You are!” Corbett gasped. “James… do you not recognize me?”
“My name is Blayth. I told you that.”
Tears were filling Corbett’s eyes, his hand still over his mouth. “Aye… it means wolf,” he whispered. When his hand came away from his mouth, he was smiling. “It means de Wolfe! James, it is me – Corbett! You know me! Surely – you know me! My God, man, we were told you were dead!”
De Wolfe. Blayth had no idea why, but hearing that name hit him in the chest, like a physical blow. He could hardly breathe. De Wolfe, de Wolfe… have I heard that name before? Blayth didn’t know, but something about it sounded… familiar. Oddly familiar. In fact, it made him feel quite unsettled and he stood up, off-balance by the course of the conversation.
“I know not what you mean,” he said. “My name is Blayth. Whoever you think I am, you are mistaken. Now, will you take my message to your English overlords or will I lock you back in your hole again? If I do, I promise you that you will not make it out of this place alive.”
Corbett was weeping, overcome by the sight of a man he thought was dead. A man he knew. Or, at least, he thought he knew. James de Wolfe was standing in front of him, looking as if he’d been chewed up and spit out by some great, terrible force, and he had to admit that it didn’t look like the James he remembered. He was bigger, battered, and his head – so scarred. But… he knew that face. He knew those eyes, sky blue in color and a sort of cat’s eye shape.
Aye, he knew them well because he’d fostered with the man for seven years. They’d been squires together, and their families were close friends and allies, but swearing fealty to Pembroke had separated them those years ago. He hadn’t seen James de Wolfe in years before the man had been killed in Wales, and Corbett had been devastated when he’d heard of it.
But now… dear God, now the dead was rising.
James de Wolfe in the flesh.
But he was a man who evidently had no memory of who, or what, he was. Above Corbett’s shock, he could see that the man who called himself Blayth, wolf, either had no idea who Corbett was referring to – or, better still – perhaps he couldn’t acknowledge it. It was possible that the news of James de Wolfe’s death was a cover and James was, perhaps, invested in the rebellion in Wales, perhaps even an agent of Edward in an attempt to control the Welsh. The House of de Wolfe was heavily invested in Edward’s wars, so it was possible that James was deeper than anyone realized.
Corbett glanced at the woman introduced to him as Lady Asmara. She was standing behind Blayth, in the shadows, but he could still see her outline. He couldn’t see her expression, but he suspected he might have gotten James into trouble by recognizing him. What if he destroyed the man’s cover? The speculation was enough to make Corbett’s head spin but, above it all, he knew he had to get out of there. A great deal was happening in Wales, beyond a man’s comprehension, and the English needed to know. Blayth had been right about that – the English needed to be aware of the latest turn of events.
A Welsh prince was rising – and James was trying to get the message out.
God’s Bones, he’d been such a fool! Thinking that, perhaps, he was now part of whatever spy game James was playing, Corbett became quite obedient and compliant.
“Forgive me,” he said after a moment. “You… you looked like someone I once knew. But clearly, I am mistaken. Forgive me. I… I understand your message. I will take it to the English, I swear it.”
Blayth was relieved at the man’s compliance, even though it seemed quite rapid and rather strange. Still… he couldn’t shake the odd sense of discomfort at the name de Wolfe. It was ringing around in his head like a bell even as he tried to ignore it.
“Excellent,” he said. “Take the message straight to the Marcher lords. They will want to know.”
Corbett nodded quickly; perhaps too quickly. “I will, my lord,” he said. “Is… is there any preference to whom I deliver the message?”
Blayth’s eyebrows lifted. “Pembroke is not in residence, so you cannot take it there,” he said, noting a flicker of surprise on Corbett’s face. “Aye, we know he is not at Pembroke Castle. It would do no good to take it to Chepstow or any of the other castles between here and the Marches. You must take it to someone who has great importance along the Marches. De Clare, mayhap. Or even de Lohr.”
De Lohr! The Earl of Hereford and Worcester was allied with the House of de Wolfe. Surely he would know if James was an agent for Edward. And perhaps in suggesting de Lohr, James was telling him where to go.
“I will go to de Lohr,” he said. “When would you have me leave, my lord?”
“You will be given food. You may leave on the morrow.”
Corbett eyed the hole in the ground that had been his home for the past month. “You will not put me back into my cell, will you?”
Blayth shook his head. “I will not.”
Corbett was greatly relieved to hear that. “Then mayhap you will allow me to leave tonight,” he said. “My eyes are greatly affected by the light and it might be better for me to travel when it is dark.”
Blayth didn’t see any issues with that. Besides… he wanted to get the man out of Gwendraith before Morys returned, and he wasn’t entirely sure when that would be. He knew Morys would be displeased that he’d let the garrison commander go because he was certain that Morys was looking at interrogating the man as a sport. But Blayth thought it was more important to send his message to the Marcher lords. He simply didn’t want Morys returning and delaying those plans, so the sooner Payton-Forrester took his leave, the better.
“Very well,” he said. “You will remain here for now. Food is being brought to you and I will have a horse brought around. But as soon as the sun sets, you will ride from here and head straight to de Lohr’s seat. Is that clear?”
“It is, my lord.”
“Fail me, and I shall find you and I shall kill you.”
“I will not fail you, my lord.”
Blayth’s gaze lingered on the man for a few seconds longer, as if to drive home his threat, but he soon turned away. Asmara was still standing behind him, where she’d been the entire time, and he took her politely by the elbow to turn her for the vault entry.
Without a second thought to Corbett Payton-Forrester, the pair headed out of the dismally dark vault, leaving the prisoner to ponder what he’d seen, and what he’d been told, and feeling a desperation as he’d never felt before to leave Gwendraith for the sweet green fields of home.
England.
When the sun finally set later that day, and a dark and cool night settled, Corbett was given an excitable young stallion to ride, and ride he did, heading at breakneck speed for Lioncross Abbey Castle.