CHAPTER EIGHT
The Welsh filled up the feasting hall of Gwendraith that night as if they’d been feasting there all their lives.
It was a loud, festive gathering. A massive fire burned in the hearth as men ate and drank and laughed. The feasting table with the broken leg was crowded with men, and there were no other tables in the hall, so men sat on the floor, eating the mutton that had been roasted over an enormous fire in the kitchen yard. Great hunks of roasted meat were being passed around by servants, and men stuffed themselves on the cooked carcass.
After seeing Corbett off into the moonlit night, Blayth and Asmara had returned to the hall, lured as the other men were by the smell of food. When they’d entered the hall, however, it was already packed with bodies, and Blayth had bodily removed two men from the end of the table so that he and Asmara could sit. He’d then proceeded to steal the food that other men were eating to give over to Asmara, who was both touched and embarrassed by his chivalry.
She’d never known anyone to be chivalrous towards her before and she was quite used to fighting her own battles or grabbing her own food, but Blayth was quite happy to do it for her. She watched him as he confiscated food and utensils, and in a very short amount of time, she was sitting with a full trencher in front of her that included meat, bread, and boiled beans, and someone else’s knife. She didn’t know who it belonged to, but Blayth had given it to her, so she used it to stab at her food, which was quite good and salty. After he finished stealing her a meal, he stole one of his own and delved into it.
He didn’t say much at all, really. Small talk and comments as he stole food but, after that, he shoved food in his mouth as if he were starving and the conversation died. But even as they ate, surrounded by a room full of eating, noisy men, Asmara couldn’t seem to tear her attention away from Blayth.
James, the Saesneg knight had called him. He swore he knew him, and he was evidently quite convinced of it because he’d been very emotional about it. James, it’s me! We were told you were dead! Those had been the astonished words out of the man’s mouth, but it had been obvious that Blayth had no idea who the man was, or what he was talking about. Still, Corbett had been convinced that he was someone named James. But that recognition had abruptly, and oddly, ended and the knight had seemed most apologetic about it. Fearful, even.
But what could he be afraid of?
It was a brief instance of mistaken identity that Asmara should have easily forgotten, but she couldn’t quite seem to shake it. So much of Blayth’s past was a mystery. From what Blayth had told her, he didn’t remember anything prior to waking up in Morys’ hut. It was Morys who had told him who he was and had given him his past, and his legacy, but everyone knew that Morys could color the truth to suit him. Even Blayth had said so.
So… what if Blayth’s past was something Morys had also colored?
“You are quiet,” Blayth said, interrupting her thoughts. “And you are staring at me. What are you thinking?”
Asmara hadn’t even realized he’d glanced at her. She’d been too caught up in her reflections. Grinning with embarrassment, she looked to her food.
“I am thinking of the Saesneg knight,” she said. “I… I was simply wondering if he will do what you told him to do.”
Mouth full, Blayth shrugged. “There is no knowing for certain, at least not for a while,” he said. “He seemed as if he was agreeable, so I can only hope he values his word.”
Asmara tried to eat but she couldn’t seem to. There was far too much on her mind.
“He seemed to know you,” she said.
It was the statement she’d been hesitant to make but, in the same breath, they couldn’t avoid the obvious. They had both been present when the knight seemed to recognize him. But Blayth shrugged, apparently unfazed by the event.
“Too much time in the vault drove the man mad,” he said. “He was seeing things in the darkness that were not there.”
Asmara wasn’t so certain even if Blayth sounded positive about it. She was about to say something when a chorus of cries arose from men near the hall entry, and she turned to see Morys entering the hall.
He emerged into the crowded room to a hero’s welcome, lifting his hands to his men and absorbing the adulation, when he caught sight of Blayth and Asmara at the end of the table. Asmara swore the man’s expression darkened when he saw her, but his focus was mostly on Blayth, his shining star.
Morys had eyes only for him.
“Ah,” Morys said. “Here I find you. Is the food good tonight?”
Blayth glanced up. “Good enough,” he said. “How was your conference with Howell?”
Morys pushed the man seated next to Blayth down the table, opening up a spot, which he gladly took. “Something we shall discuss on the morrow, in private,” he said. Then, he turned his attention to Asmara. “What are you doing here?”
It wasn’t a polite greeting and Asmara could feel herself tensing up.
“My father sent me,” she said steadily. “There is nothing happening at Llandarog. The castle is secure, and the men grow fat and lazy. My father thought you could use me at Gwendraith if the situation was not so settled.”
Morys cocked his eyebrow. “You?” he said. “We do not need you. You can go back to my brother and tell him to keep his children away from Gwendraith.”
It was a nasty thing to say and it was a struggle for Asmara not to rise to it. If she rose to it, they would fight, and he would surely order her away. That would be a problem because she had no intention of returning to her father. Instead, she chose to ignore him, turning back to her food. But as she took a bite, Blayth spoke.
“She may remain,” he said. “She has wisdom and she is strong. She is a fine addition to our ranks.”
Morys looked at him in surprise before snorting rudely, grabbing at a cup of ale a servant brought for him. “So, the Dragon Princess has you under her spell, has she?” he said. “Very well. I will not contest you, but she will be your responsibility. I want nothing to do with her or her weakling father.”
Bashing her was one thing, but insulting her father was another. Asmara’s head shot up, a nasty comment on her lips, but Blayth caught her attention and shook his head faintly to discourage her from replying. There was something in his eyes that conveyed reassurance and trust – that he would not let such a thing to go unanswered. More of that chivalry that he’d been intent on showing her as of late. Confused and upset, Asmara returned to her food, but it was clear that she was upset.
Blayth knew this and, in truth, he was not particularly thrilled with Morys’ obvious attempts to offend Asmara. She didn’t deserve what the man was so callously dishing out. Keeping his focus on his meal, he spoke to Morys.
“I found Cader to be a sensible and thoughtful warrior in my dealings with him,” he said. “I would watch who I insult, even if it is your brother. He is still our ally and I am not in the habit of insulting men I would trust with my life.”
Morys wasn’t sure he liked Blayth’s attitude. This was the man he’d nursed back from the brink of death, the man who was leading this great new rebellion, and nothing could interfere with that. Blayth always agreed with him, in all things, and they understood one another.
At least, Morys thought they did. This was the first time that Morys could recall that Blayth even remotely came close to chastising him, of all subjects, over his brother.
And then, it occurred to him.
Asmara was sitting across the table, head down as she ate her food, but it began to occur to Morys why Blayth was defending Cader. Asmara was here, and he suspected that Blayth might have an interest in the woman. She’d come to Gwendraith, uninvited, and latched on to him. He’d never heard of the Dragon Princess having feminine wiles, but she wasn’t an un-handsome woman. Some might even call her beautiful. Therefore, it was more than possible that she’d learned to use that beauty to her advantage. It made Morys wonder what had gone on at Gwendraith since he was away. Given how he felt about his brother, it was difficult not to feel animosity towards Asmara.
My father sent me.
Was it possible that Cader had sent Asmara to lure Blayth away? In Morys’ paranoid mind, all things were probable.
“He is my brother and I shall say what I please,” Morys said as a servant put a trencher of roast mutton and beans in front of him. “Furthermore, I will not discuss him with you. I want to know what has been going on at Gwendraith since I have been away.”
Blayth drained his cup of ale before replying. “Nothing but what you see.”
Morys wasn’t sure if he believed Blayth; given that Asmara was there, certainly, there had been some activity. But he didn’t press him, at least not at the moment. With Asmara there, Morys was coming to think that Blayth was, indeed, under her spell.
“I have much to discuss with you from my conference with Howell,” he said. “There is much to say.”
Blayth simply nodded, holding his cup up as a servant filled it. “More plans, I will assume?”
“We will discuss that tomorrow.”
Morys effectively cut him off, which was unusual. Morys was usually more than happy to run off at the mouth about plans and schemes and dreams of glory. Blayth suspected his silence was because Asmara was there, something that didn’t sit well with Blayth. He trusted the woman, and she had proven herself to him. The siege of Llandarog had seen his respect for her irrevocably cemented, and it was beginning to bother him that Morys saw fit to treat the woman as if she were dirt beneath his feet.
Nay, he didn’t like that in the least.
More than that, he was making it clear that he didn’t respect Blayth’s opinion on either Asmara or Cader. That, more than anything, saw his ire rise.
It was time to assert himself.
“There is something else we must discuss that cannot wait until tomorrow,” he said to Morys. “We must discuss the captive English knight.”
Morys was chewing loudly on his meat. “What about him?”
“I sent him back to Lioncross Abbey with a message.”
Morys stopped chewing, his eyes opening wide with shock. “You… you what?” he swallowed the bite in his mouth, nearly choking. “You released him?”
Blayth turned to him, looking him fully in the face in a direct challenge for the man to contest his decision.
“I did,” he said flatly. “You left me in command, and command I did. The man has served his purpose. Your continued interrogation of him was futile, Morys. He wasn’t going to tell you anything. Therefore, I used him for a better purpose – sending a message back to the English Marcher lords that a rebellion is rising in the south, a rebellion the likes of which the English have never seen before, and it will be led by a bastard son of Llywelyn the Last. Do you think capturing these castles is going to frighten the English? Of course not. But telling them why we have captured them – and that they will not be the last castles taken by the Welsh – will put the fear of God into them. I cannot imagine they want to face another Welsh prince, and certainly not one that will unite all Welshmen against them. There is nothing so fearsome as the spark to the fuel of rebellion.”
Morys looked at him as if debating how to react to the news. Truthfully, he was shocked that Blayth had done such a thing. He’d told the man to stay clear of the prisoner and Blayth had never disobeyed him, so this news was astonishing, indeed. It was the second time that night that Blayth had shocked him by going against him, but in Morys’ opinion, this infraction was much more serious.
But there was a reason he’d told Blayth to stay clear of the English.
The reason he feared most of all.
It wasn’t just the English prisoner he wanted Blayth to stay clear of. It was all English. On that June day five years ago when he’d participated in the ambush that had seen several English knights killed, Morys had been there when the English had retreated, leaving their dead and dying behind. He’d been there when his men had swarmed over a dying English knight bearing the black and dark green of de Wolfe, the distinctive tunic worn by the house that was headed by one of the greatest knights England had ever seen.
William de Wolfe.
Morys had been fighting the English for a very long time. He knew the colors of the great Marcher lords and beyond – the blue and yellow of de Lohr, the blue and red of de Clare, and so forth. He knew their allies, like de Wolfe, but rather than kill the dying as his men were doing, Morys had protected the downed de Wolfe knight. He’d let his men take the tunic and wave it around like a flag, but he hadn’t let his men kill the man who was already dead.
Or so Morys thought.
The knight was a very strong man. His head had been badly damaged, but he was still breathing and still living. Much as Morys had done with the garrison commander of Gwendraith, he had the idea to save the knight’s life if only to keep the man captive and interrogate him. That had been the ultimate goal when he’d taken him back to Brecfa, to his sod house where Aeddan and Pryce and his wife, Auryn, had helped him tend the man. For the first three months, they had no idea if the man would even live, but he did. He opened his eyes and Morys was thrilled that he’d have a captive to interrogate.
But his excitement was dashed when the man had no memory of anything.
His mind was like a clean slate.
Morys had been forced to change his plans.
As he tried to figure out what to do with the English knight, now working with Aeddan and Pryce as they helped rehabilitate him, he came upon the idea of a new Welsh prince rising from the ashes. Who better to lead the rebellion against the English than an English knight who had once tried to subdue the Welsh? He thought it had been a rather brilliant plan, and he’d fed it to Blayth, and to Aeddan and Pryce and his other men, until they were all convinced that Blayth was who Morys said he was.
The only potential hole in the plan had been Aeddan and Pryce, who had been at Llandeilo, although they hadn’t been involved with Blayth until well after the battle when Morys brought the man back to Brecfa. Even then, Morys had been vague about who Blayth was, mostly because he didn’t want it to get out that he was trying to save an English knight. He could have been viewed as a traitor, in fact, and that was a real fear.
Therefore, Aeddan and Pryce knew Blayth had come from Llandeilo, but they didn’t know much more than that. It had been Morys who had convinced them of Blayth’s true identity with a rather madcap story about Llywelyn’s loyal teulu being at Llandeilo at the same time. Aeddan and Pryce believed him because they had no reason not to.
But Morys was always fearful his elaborate story would unravel.
The more he entangled himself in it, the deeper the story became.
And that was why Morys kept Blayth away from any contact with the English, fearful that it might trigger memories in him that were long buried or, worse still, someone might recognize him. Morys had no idea of Blayth’s true identity other than the fact that he was wearing a de Wolfe tunic, so clearly, he was from the House of de Wolfe, but that was all Morys knew.
That torn, bloodied de Wolfe tunic was still at Brecfa, buried in a trunk and hidden away from the world.
Now, what Morys feared had evidently happened. Blayth had contact with an English knight. Astonished as he was that Blayth had undermined his authority, that really wasn’t his primary concern. What he was most concerned with was if that contact had stirred something in Blayth. With that in mind, he swallowed whatever outrage he might be feeling.
There were things he had to discover.
“I see,” he said after several long moments. “Did you speak to the man, then?”
“I did,” Blayth replied.
“And what did you tell him, exactly?”
“Just what I told you – I sent him with a message for the Marcher lords.”
Morys eyed him. “And he agreed?”
Blayth nodded. “He did,” he said. “He gave his name as Corbett Payton-Forrester, the garrison commander of Gwendraith. He serves William de Valence and, I would imagine, that means he is a man of honor. He said he would deliver the message and I believe him. But he also said something odd.”
“What is that?”
“He mistook me for someone he used to know.”
“James de Wolfe,” Asmara spoke up. She had been listening to the conversation and spoke up before she really thought that perhaps she shouldn’t. “He seemed quite sure that Blayth was someone named James de Wolfe.”
Morys looked at her, such surprise on his face that it was difficult to conceal. “How – how would you know any of this?” he demanded.
“She was there,” Blayth said. He couldn’t help but notice that Morys was suddenly quite upset; the man’s entire countenance had changed and his body was coiled as if ready to burst. “I took her with me as a witness in case the knight said anything of note. But he did not; the only thing he really said was that he believed I was someone he once knew.”
Morys’ heart was beating heavily against his chest as he realized his fear, that godawful fear he’d been living with for the past five years, may have very well happened. What were the odds of such a thing? Dear God, he’d tried so hard to keep Blayth away from the English for this very reason.
He could hardly believe what he was hearing.
“You should not have permitted her to be there,” he snapped, rising to his feet. He was so unsteady that he had a nearly panicked urge to leave. “Did you tell him who you were?”
He was nearly barking at Blayth, who cooled dramatically. He didn’t like being barked at. “Of course I did,” he said. “It was dark. The man could hardly see. Clearly, he was mistaken. It is nothing to become irate over.”
It was a succinct answer and over his panic and anger, Morys realized something – that Blayth was still Blayth. He still believed he was the bastard son of Llywelyn in spite of the English knight evidently recognizing him. Now, Morys had a name to put with Blayth’s mysterious past.
James de Wolfe.
And it meant nothing to Blayth.
Morys wasn’t quite sure how to feel now. Was it possible that this would be an event to be quickly forgotten? Certainly, it would be remembered if Morys continued to have a tantrum over it, so he labored to calm himself. He had to push aside his shock if there was any hope of salvaging the situation. Therefore, he forced a smile, putting a hand on Blayth’s broad shoulder.
“Forgive me,” he said. “It has been a long day and a long journey. I am simply weary, and news such as this has upset my exhausted mind. I will retire, and I shall see you come the morrow.”
With that, he abruptly left the table, wandering out among the happy, drinking men, presenting a far more subdued figure than when he had entered the hall.
If Morys had hoped to ease the situation and not make it such a major event, then he had failed. Asmara was watching him leave, wondering why the man had become so upset over the English knight mistaking Blayth for someone he once knew. It seemed very odd that Morys should become so upset over such a thing.
… unless it wasn’t a mistake at all and Morys knew it.
Asmara glanced at Blayth, who had returned to the last of his food. If Morys was displaying bizarre behavior, Blayth didn’t seem to care about it. But he wasn’t seeing what Asmara was seeing – a man who had clearly been unbalanced by the English knight who had addressed Blayth as someone else. The truth was that before Blayth was the man sitting with her, he was someone else.
The mystery behind the mysterious man deepened.