CHAPTER TEN
Gwendraith Castle
It was very late.
The full moon was in its zenith in the sky, a great silver ball shining over the land, bathing the landscape in a ghostly glow. Inside Gwendraith’s hall, Blayth was sitting by the hearth, gazing into the snapping flames as Morys, Aeddan, and Pryce also stood around the hearth, speaking of mundane things at this point.
But it wasn’t always thus.
Since his return from Carmarthen Castle, Morys had kept Blayth at his side. That had been two days ago, and Blayth was sick of the sight of the man. It had been two days of plans, of speculation, and of glorious goals for Morys and his men in the new Welsh order once the English had been purged.
Blayth was used to Morys and his dreams of grandeur, and talk like this normally didn’t bother him. He, too, wanted to see a free Wales, and Morys’ enthusiasm for his country was patriotic and proud. Normally, he was content to sit and listen to Morys spout off and lend his advice on such matters.
But this time, it was different.
This time, Blayth got the distinct impression that Morys kept him close for one very good reason – he didn’t want him finding company with Asmara. Morys had made a point of speaking ill of both Cader and Asmara, as if trying to poison Blayth’s opinion of the pair, but Blayth could see through the man’s attempts. He’d seen it the night he’d returned from Carmarthen and how disrespectful he’d been to Asmara.
Now, Morys was only succeeding in making him angry.
Two days later, Blayth had been fed his fill of the man. He was no longer tolerant of his foolish opinions, or schemes, because his thoughts were elsewhere. They’d been elsewhere for two solid days, lingering on the golden-eyed woman he seemed to be increasingly obsessed with. He didn’t want to hear Morys anymore.
He wanted away from the man.
“Did you hear me?” Morys cut into his thoughts. “Blayth, do you hear me?”
Broken from his mental wanderings, Blayth lifted the nearly empty cup of cheap ale to his lips. “What about?” he said. “All I have done is hear you for two days. What more do I need to hear?”
Unusually belligerent words from a man who was normally quite docile. Morys wasn’t stupid; he knew that Blayth was irritated at him and he knew why. But Morys needed to ensure that he had Blayth’s loyalty and attention, because he knew for a fact that his niece was a far more attractive prospect than he was.
Not knowing Asmara’s motives, or if Cader really had put her up to it, Morys had to assert his position in Blayth’s life and in the chain of command. He was Blayth’s leader, his mentor, and the man who had brought him back from the brink of death. It had been an uphill battle keeping the man close to him, but the past two days had been insurance against the woman creating so much of a distraction that she would fill Blayth’s attention for good. Morys had to purge the woman from his thoughts, whatever the cost.
In the end, Blayth would understand it was for his own good.
“We are to return to Carmarthen Castle in several days,” Morys said patiently. “Howell is calling his armies to him once again. I have explained this to you; now that we hold Idole, Llandarog, and Gwendraith, Howell plans to move on larger castles now. He will expect us to lead the charge.”
Blayth had heard all of this, numerous times. “And then what?” he asked. “Where is Rhys ap Maredudd in all of this? He has put out the call for support, yet we do not fight with the man.”
“He is to the north, as I have told you. He has taken Cilgerran Castle, among others.”
Blayth turned to look at him. “He takes castles that are of no real importance, whilst we put a stranglehold on Pembroke and the south,” he said. “Have you not looked at it this way? We are the ones taking the greater risk, Morys, not Rhys.”
Morys’ dark eyes flashed. “That is because we are the greater glory,” he hissed. “The son of Llywelyn the Last is leading this rebellion and all men will rise to follow you. It is only right that we take the greater risk.”
Blayth eyed him. “I am not leading anything,” he said. “You and Howell are planning this rebellion.”
“Blayth,” Aeddan said quietly. “I would not fight with just anyone. I will only fight with you. All of the men feel the same way.”
Blayth looked at him. “These are not my plans, Aeddan,” he pointed out. “Just like you, I am accountable to Morys. In battle, I make the decisions, but this rebellion as a whole… I have not planned this.”
It was the truth, the rather convoluted chain of command when it came to Morys and Blayth. In battle, Blayth was formidable, but he was only in the battle to begin with because Morys wanted him there. Men were naturally drawn to Blayth and his flawless capabilities in battle and Morys knew this, which is why he needed to keep the man close.
Without Blayth, the men would lose confidence.
It was more important than ever to keep him close.
“You are the spark to the kindling, Blayth,” Morys said. He needed to encourage the man, not fight with him. “I have told you this before. You are the light to whom all men look. You bear the blood of the Welsh princes, men who have died for this country. You give all men hope as the last of that line.”
Blayth’s gaze lingered on him before he turned back to the fire. “You speak of men I do not know, of a family I have no memory of,” he said. “I may as well be a stranger.”
“But you are not. You are Blayth ap Llywelyn and you bear a proud heritage.”
Blayth wasn’t looking at him; his mind was going back to the vaults of Gwendraith when the English knight had called him James. Even as he heard Morys speak of his lineage and, subsequently, his destiny, it just didn’t seem right. He’d always accepted what Morys had told him and he’d never contested it, but even so, it never felt right. There had always been a sense of loss with him, of wondering about his past life. After hearing the English knight call him by another name, Blayth wasn’t certain of who he was any longer. Initially, the knight’s words hadn’t bothered him, but they were beginning to.
They were beginning to get under his skin.
“Are you so certain?” he finally asked. “In all the time I have known you, Morys, not one man has come forth to confirm what you have told me. Look at me; I am not a young man. I do not know how many years I have seen, but I am older than Aeddan, and he has seen thirty years and three. In all that time before I came to you, not one man has seen me and is able to confirm the identity you have given me.”
Morys struggled not to rise to Blayth’s mood. He suspected this skewed outlook might be coming from Asmara, who had undoubtedly asked questions of Blayth’s true identity. But it could also be coming from the English knight who had called him by a name – James de Wolfe.
It had been that event that Morys had been so fearful of and, in truth, he’d hoped that Blayth had forgotten about it. He’d spent two days trying to hammer home Blayth’s destiny and the future of their rebellion in the hopes that it would drive whatever doubt Blayth was experiencing right out of his head.
But it hadn’t.
This is what he had feared – a man he’d given a mythical identity who was now starting to question that.
“It is your identity,” Morys said, not at all kindly. “You were brought to me, nearly dead, by your father’s teulu, old men who vanished back into the north to draw the English away from where they’d left you. They retreated north so the English would look for you there, and not here in the south with me. They fled to save your life. Do you want me to find those men? Do you want me to tell them to come back to you because you do not believe you are your father’s son? Tell me now and I shall send for them, Blayth.”
“Then send for them.”
He said it without hesitation and Morys looked at him as if he’d been struck. That wasn’t the answer he’d been expecting and, given that there were no men to send for, he was very close to losing credibility. He was almost panicked at the thought. He couldn’t lose Blayth, not when he’d worked so hard to build the man’s reputation and build glory for himself in the process. Damn the man… now, he was going to ruin it all, everything he’d worked for.
That brought out the anger in him.
“It is a sad day when the man whose life I saved doubts my word,” he growled. “Did you doubt my word when I was making it so you could breathe? So you could eat? Who washed your dirty body and cleaned away your filth? You trusted me then. But now, you would doubt me?”
It was the same thing Morys said every time he feared that Blayth was doubting anything he said, that reflexive action that always brought an apology from Blayth and assuagement to Morys. But this time, Blayth was looking at him without remorse, but more with an expression of a man who was curious and intent. That wasn’t the man Morys wanted to see.
“I do not doubt you,” Blayth finally said. “But I would like to speak to the men who brought me to you. Mayhap they can give me more background on the past I cannot remember. Morys, I remember nothing. You know this. And two days ago, a man was quite convinced I was someone he knew from the past.”
Morys’ temper was growing. “He was a fool! He mistook you for someone and you are a fool if you believe him!”
Blayth wouldn’t let Morys belittle him. He stood up, at least a head taller than Morys, a great and imposing presence. “I am not a fool,” he muttered, “and you will not call me one ever again. Do you understand me?”
Morys was so angry that his lips were white. He turned away, refusing to answer. “You will not tell me what to do.”
“If you call me a fool again, I will walk from this place and never turn back.”
Morys glared at him. “And go where?”
“That is for me to know.”
Morys could see that his anger and threats weren’t working, and he wasn’t entirely sure Blayth wouldn’t walk away from him. It’s her! He thought angrily. Ever since Asmara appeared, Blayth hadn’t been entirely predictable. Therefore, he took a deep breath and tried to calm himself. It wouldn’t do any good for them to continue arguing, so he switched tactics.
“If you want me to send word to the men who brought you to me, then so be it,” he said, throwing up his hands in a surrendering gesture. “It will take time, however. I do not know where they have gone or if they are even still alive. They were very old men, you know.”
“But you will send word.”
“I will.”
If Blayth didn’t believe him, he didn’t let on. He had what he wanted, although he had to admit that he wasn’t entirely sure Morys would follow through. Still, he would keep an eye on the man. Morys didn’t want to lose his faith, so it would be a touchy situation for them both.
And the consequences could be dire if faith was broken.
Meanwhile, Blayth reclaimed his seat by the fire, eyeing Aeddan and Pryce, who were sitting quietly by the hearth. The brothers usually remained quiet in matters between Blayth and Morys, but it was clear they were siding with Blayth in this matter. They had a liege who always had to be in control, and who was known to manipulate men. Still, he was a prince of Deheubarth, and that tie alone garnered him some respect.
But sometimes, it was difficult.
“Someone recognized you, Blayth?”
The question came from Aeddan. He’d not heard of the event on the day it happened, as he simply hadn’t spent any time with Blayth when he’d returned with Morys from Carmarthen. It was also true that other than Morys, Blayth hadn’t told anyone, so it wasn’t common knowledge. But it was clear that Aeddan and Pryce, seated beside his brother, were curious. Before Morys could stop him, Blayth answered.
“The garrison commander I released the day you and the others returned from Carmarthen,” he said. “The man called me James – de Wolfe, I believe. When I told him my name was Blayth, he pointed out that the name means wolf in our language. But he swore he knew me, at least at first.”
Aeddan was very interested. “De Wolfe,” he muttered. “I know the name. I have heard it. They are allied with the great Marcher lords, I believe. De Lohr and de Lara. They are a great family from the north of England.”
“It was rambling words from a sick man,” Morys said, trying to keep the speculation down. He didn’t want the ap Ninian brothers asking a lot of questions, not when he was trying to downplay the entire incident. “The man had been in the vault for a month, in darkness, so he mistook Blayth for someone he thought he knew.”
Aeddan simply nodded, not voicing what he was thinking. He knew how protective Morys was over Blayth and to bring about the subject of the man’s past would only upset Morys further. It was best to let the subject drop, as they often did in the times when it came up. Morys didn’t like to be questioned. But something occurred to Aeddan, something he couldn’t get out of his head.
He had been at Llandeilo, and had been there when Morys brought the battered, nearly-dead body of Blayth home with the tale of him having been delivered by Llywelyn’s teulu to Llandeilo, coincidentally, exactly when the battle was taking place. It hadn’t made a lot of sense to Aeddan at the time but, in hearing that an English knight had mistaken Blayth for someone he knew, someone named James de Wolfe, Aeddan was coming to think that something seemed quite strange about the entire situation. He wasn’t sure he ever believed Morys about how he came into possession of the gravely wounded man, but now, a thought was occurring to him, something he couldn’t get out of his head.
The de Wolfe army had been at Llandeilo.
He wondered if Blayth knew that.
It was an odd situation, indeed.