CHAPTER TWELVE
Rhydilian Castle
Isle of Anglesey
Built from the black, ancient stone of Wales and rising like a dark beacon out of the forest, Rhydilian Castle sat nestled atop a wooded hill. The very green and very wet land surrounding it for miles was a marshland, and legend said that there was something evil lurking in the marsh. Many claimed to have seen it, a beast that rose up out of the swamp and fed during the full moon. Because of this rumor, no one went near Rhydilian Castle during that time.
It was a legend that made a dark and eerie castle seem even darker and eerier, and the truth was that it wasn’t a legend so much as it was fact. Since ancient times, there really had been a creature, or at times creatures, lurking in the swamps surrounding Rhydilian and it was an excellent way to keep an army at bay. Rhydilian had never known a serious siege because of it, making it a rather safe and peaceful place.
Rees de Lohr had arrived at Rhydilian the night before, an exhausted young knight bearing a missive from his father. He’d handed the missive over to Bhrodi de Shera, Earl of Coventry and the hereditary King of Anglesey, and then he’d been taken into the hall where he’d promptly fallen asleep near the hearth. This morning, he was still there, now surrounded by the dogs that lived in the hall, all of them snuggling up to the knight.
This was the scene Bhrodi encountered when he entered the hall after a restless night. A big man with a tight, muscular body and eyes the color of emeralds, Bhrodi snorted when he saw that his young cousin had become the bottom of a dog pile. He’d tried to get the man to rise and sleep in a good bed, but Rees wouldn’t move. Now, he was paying the price for being too weary to seek a decent bed.
He was going to smell like a dog.
Leaving the knight and his canine friends, Bhrodi headed for the solar of Rhydilian, a small, circular chamber near the entry that had been used by generations of his ancestors. His hereditary title came from his mother’s side, as she was the only child of the last King of Anglesey, and his earldom came from his father’s side. He had a half-dozen very close cousins on that side, men who were English to the bone and men he trusted to rule his earldom fairly and justly, because he felt it was more important to have a presence in Wales as one of the last true Welsh princes. A prince would outrank an earl every time, even an English earl, so Bhrodi remained in Wales as a beacon of hope and strength to the Welsh people.
But with that beacon of hope and strength came grave responsibilities.
The missive from Chris sat on the large, cluttered table in the solar. As soon as Bhrodi entered the chamber, he could see it. He’d left it here last night and had gone to bed, hopefully to sleep on the news he’d received and awaken with a fresh perspective. But he found that this morning his perspective wasn’t any fresher or any clearer. The news from Chris was so serious that he’d not even told his wife about it, although it affected her more than it affected him. A de Wolfe brother had returned from the dead, Chris had said. Bhrodi’s wife was a de Wolfe, and the missive spoke of a brother she had lost five years ago.
At least, that was what she believed.
In any case, Bhrodi needed to be very careful when he gave her the news.
He hadn’t told her last night for a variety of reasons, but not the least of which was the fact that she was busy with their two children, three-year-old William and the infant, Perri, who had seen seven months. Both of them had a slight case of the sniffles, and Perri was teething, making for two miserable children. Bhrodi’s wife, Penelope, had two nurses that helped her with the children, and all three of them had been up for most of the night soothing the boys, who were sleeping peacefully this morning. Bhrodi hoped his wife was sleeping peacefully, too, as he’d not seen her since he went to bed. She’d spent the night in the boys’ chamber.
As Bhrodi patiently waited for her to rise, he attended to other things, including a missive he’d received from Howell ap Gruffydd several weeks earlier. Howell was a warlord in the south of Wales and a man of a minor royal Welsh family, his bloodlines diluted by generations. Even so, he held a good deal of power in the south along with Rhys ap Maredudd, another minor Welsh prince who, according to Howell’s missive, was beginning to stir up another rebellion. But it wasn’t the rebellion or the request for support that had Bhrodi’s eye this morning – it was the mention of a bastard son of Llywelyn the Last, a man named Blayth the Strong.
Bhrodi had been shocked to see that name not only on Howell’s missive, but on Chris de Lohr’s. Howell spoke of Llywelyn’s bastard, a man who would rally all of Wales for one final push against the English, while Chris’ missive spoke of Blayth as the long-dead de Wolfe son, James. Bhrodi had read both missives side by side last night, first one and then the other, trying to figure out what was going on. Howell made no mention of de Wolfe, in any form, while Chris said he had an eyewitness who identified the man calling himself Blayth as James de Wolfe.
It was astonishing information.
Bhrodi had never met James. He had died the year before Bhrodi married Penelope. The de Wolfe family was a very close-knit group, and Bhrodi had been told how James’ death had devastated the entire family. Penelope had told him that her father had never gotten over the death, so to hear that the man might quite possibly be alive was truly staggering. Even more staggering was that he was posing as a Welshman and claiming to be the bastard of the last true Welsh prince.
It was a baffling mystery.
In truth, Bhrodi wasn’t entirely sure how his wife would take the information, but he had to tell her. Chris had asked for an urgent meeting, for Bhrodi to come to Lioncross, and Bhrodi was inclined to agree. This information needed an urgent meeting because things had to be clarified. If a man had returned from the dead, that was one thing. But if he was posing as a Welsh prince and inspiring a rebellion, it was quite another.
With thoughts of dead brothers and Welsh princes on his mind, Bhrodi broke his fast with some bread and warmed wine, pondering the land outside his window as the sun rose. He could smell smoke in the air, wafting in through his window, which was coming from the cooking fires of the nearby village. As he stood at the window with the warm cup in his hand, sipping on it and thinking of the chaos happening in the south of Wales, he began to hear his wife’s voice.
He was surprised she was awake so early, given the sick children she had been up with the night before. But Penelope was in the hall, giving instructions to the servants and her voice grew louder as she came closer. He could hear her speaking of taking porridge up to the children and of hot water for their baths. He turned away from the window about the time she entered the solar.
Bhrodi smiled at his wife. Every time he looked at the woman, his heart fluttered anew. That had never changed, the thrill of seeing the person he loved best in the world. She was a de Wolfe to the bone, bred from excellent stock, and as beautiful as a new morning with her dark brown hair and hazel eyes that were gold in certain light. Both of their children had inherited those de Wolfe eyes.
But Penelope was no ordinary woman; because she was a de Wolfe and came from a family of great knights, her father had indulged her and she, too, was raised as a knight. As the baby of the family, William could not deny his daughter anything, so the result was a beautiful woman who could fight with the best of them.
Bhrodi had tamed the fighting streak in her somewhat, especially when the children were born, but he still wouldn’t tangle with her. He was very proud of his wife who could fight as well as, if not better, than most men.
“Good morn, caria,” he said sweetly. His pet name for her was caria, which meant love in Welsh. “How are the boys this morning?”
Dressed in a soft yellow surcoat, her lovely hair wound and pinned at the nape of her neck, she didn’t look as if she’d been up most of the night. She came to her husband, putting her arms around him as she kissed him sweetly.
“They are perfectly fine,” she said, a weary twinkle in her eye. “It is as if nothing is amiss. William is demanding his toy soldiers and the baby wants to eat, so everything is normal once again.”
Bhrodi gave her a squeeze before releasing her. “And how is their mother?”
She grinned. “I am perfectly fine, too,” she said. Then, she yawned. “Although I am going to sleep this afternoon when they do. Mayhap you will join me?”
He could see the suggestive expression on her face and knew exactly what she meant. He was quite agreeable. “It would be my pleasure, literally,” he said, a seductive hint to his voice. “In fact, I believe an afternoon like that is how we had Perri.”
Penelope giggled. “Mayhap we shall have a girl this time.”
“You promised me twelve sons. We have ten more to go.”
Penelope rolled her eyes and Bhrodi snorted at her, touching her hand affectionately as he made his way over to his cluttered table. Penelope followed and, seeing the remnants of bread and cheese on a plate, took a piece of cheese and popped it in her mouth. He handed her the warmed wine still in his hand, and she accepted it gratefully.
As Bhrodi reached his table, the first thing he noticed were the two missives, reminding him of the pressing matters weighing upon him. He was aware that he had to tell Penelope what he knew, but he honestly wasn’t sure where to begin. Reaching down, he picked up the missive from Howell. Perhaps it was best to start with that one before leading into de Lohr’s.
“In truth, I am glad you are here,” he said. “There is something I must discuss with you.”
Penelope looked up from her cheese. “Oh? What is it?”
He held up Howell’s yellowed vellum. “Do you remember the missive I received from Howell last month?”
Penelope nodded. “I do,” she said. “He asked for your support in some rebellion. You are planning on taking your army into the south because of it.”
Bhrodi looked at the vellum as he set it back to the table. “I should have already left,” he said. “He asked for my support weeks ago.”
“Then why have you not gone?”
He sighed faintly and sat down. “I am not entirely sure,” he said. “Howell mentioned the rising rebellion, and Rhys ap Maredudd’s plan to starve out Pembroke. But he also mentioned some man I have never heard of who is claiming to be the bastard son of Llywelyn ap Gruffydd, the last prince of Wales. Do you recall?”
Again, Penelope nodded. “I think so,” she said. “What about him?”
That was the question he had been looking for, a way to tell her everything in a normal conversation rather than dump the information on her in a dramatic burst. This news was so shocking that it wasn’t something he could just come out with. In truth, he was genuinely fearful for her reaction. With that on his mind, he rose from his chair.
“Interesting that you should ask that question,” he said. “You know that there is always some fool claiming to be a Welsh prince and trying to drive rebellion, so mayhap that is why I have not been so quick to move on this. I cannot support every man that claims he is Welsh royalty, so I have been waiting to see how this new rebellion takes root. Will it grow? Or will it die? I have been waiting to see, I suppose, because the name Blayth the Strong means nothing to me. But then, yesterday, I received a missive from Chris de Lohr. His son, Rees, brought it. Did you see him sleeping in the hall?”
The light of recognition went on in Penelope’s eyes. “Is that who that is?” she asked. “He is crammed into a corner near the hearth, with dogs all around him. I did not recognize him.”
Bhrodi grinned. “Aye, that is Rees,” he said. “His father has some interesting things to say about the rebellion rising in the south.”
Penelope was interested. “Oh?” she said. “Has he been attacked?”
“Not yet.”
“Then what does he say?”
Here it comes, Bhrodi thought. He was trying desperately to be tactful.
“Do you know a knight by the name of Corbett Payton-Forrester?” he asked.
Penelope immediately nodded. “I do,” she said. “His family is close to our family.”
“How well do you know him?”
She shrugged. “Well enough,” she said. “He is older, so he and my older brothers were great friends. He and his brothers would come to our home frequently.”
“Then he would know all of your brothers well?” Bhrodi ventured. “Scott? Troy? Patrick? James?”
Penelope nodded her head. “Aye, of course,” she said. “Why do you ask? What is this all about?”
Bhrodi paused a moment, considering how to continue. “Payton-Forrester was a garrison commander at one of the castles that the Welsh overran,” he said. “He was kept prisoner for a while before being released. He returned to de Lohr with a message from the rebellion, but he also returned with some… news.”
“What news?”
With a sigh, Bhrodi reached out and took his wife’s hand, caressing it. “Payton-Forrester came into contact with this man calling himself Blayth the Strong, the same man mentioned in Howell’s missive,” he said. “He swore to de Lohr that Blayth the Strong is, in fact, your brother, James.”
Penelope stared at him. For a moment, she didn’t react. But the seconds ticked away and as his words sank in, her eyes suddenly widened.
“What?” she hissed. “That is not possible!”
Bhrodi let go of her hand and reached over his table, picking up the missive and handing to her. He didn’t say a word as she snatched it from him and started reading it, greedily, and when she came to the part about her brother, she gasped. Bhrodi couldn’t tell whether it was a gasp of horror or one of delight, but he suspected the former. Her hands began to shake as she read the missive again before finally handing it back to her husband.
Bhrodi took the missive from her, watching her face, noting that she looked rather pale and sick.
“Caria?” he asked softly. “Speak to me. What are you thinking?”
Penelope didn’t know what she was thinking, only that she was swimming in the vast and unsteady sea of disbelief.
“I… I do not know,” she finally said. “God, Bhrodi, I do not know. It cannot be true!
He put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “Would Payton-Forrester have made such a mistake?”
Penelope was struggling to keep her composure. “I would hope not,” she said. “But I cannot say for certain. With something as serious as this, I would sincerely hope not.”
Bhrodi stroked her shoulder. “As would I,” he said. “If he knows your family well, then he knows your brother was killed at Llandeilo. Was he, in fact, at Llandeilo when James was lost?”
She lifted her slender shoulders. “I do not think so,” she said, “but you were.”
Bhrodi nodded, resisting the urge to hang his head. He had, indeed, been present at Llandeilo when James had been killed. It was something he’d had to reconcile with William and the rest of the House of de Wolfe, and no one had ever suggested he was accountable for James’ death. It was simply a battle, like any other, and it had been well before Bhrodi and Penelope had married, before they had all become family. In fact, it wasn’t even something that was even discussed any longer so he knew that Penelope bringing it up wasn’t a malicious attempt. It was simply fact.
He had been there.
“I was,” he said quietly, “but you know I was tied up with Gloucester’s army. I never once saw the de Wolfe army until the end, when they were retreating. I had my own problems at that time, so I never saw the de Wolfe dead or wounded.”
Penelope knew that. “I suppose the point I was making was that my father and brothers were forced to retreat,” she said, pain in her eyes. “Papa held James as long as he could before my brothers forced him away. He said that Uncle Kieran tried to pick James up and carry him, but that he, too, was forced to drop him. I’ve always said that Papa never got over James’ death, but the truth was that it wasn’t just his death. It was the fact that he had to leave him behind. He did not have a body to bring to my mother or to Rose, James’ wife. And with no body…”
Bhrodi was aware of the point she was making. No body, no confirmed death, so it was entirely possible that James had survived.
“I cannot say that I would ever get over having to leave my son behind on the battlefield,” he said. “I do not know who fought against de Wolfe at Llandeilo and I do not know what would have become of your brother’s body. You have never asked me to find out, but it seems now as if there is some question as to whether or not the man was even killed. You said that Payton-Forrester knew James well. If so, then surely he would know the man on sight. He would know if Blayth the Strong was, in fact, your brother.”
Penelope was so overwhelmed with the thought that she could hardly think straight. “Oh… Bhrodi,” she finally breathed. There was anguish in her voice as her carefully held composure began to crack. “I suppose it is possible that he did not die, since we never had his body to bury. My God… what if James did not die? What if Papa left him behind and he lived? Do you know how that will tear my father apart?”
She was starting to cry now. Bhrodi took a knee beside her chair and put his arm around her shoulders to comfort her. “Chris has asked that I come to Lioncross Abbey,” he said softly. “He feels that it is important enough to discuss it face to face, and I agree. We must discover the truth about Blayth the Strong, one way or the other, because the man is feeding a rising rebellion against the English.”
Penelope looked at him, tears spilling down her cheeks. “But what if it really is James?”
He kissed her on the forehead. “I swear to you that I will find out,” he said. “But until I do, you must not tell your father. There is no sense in worrying the man if there is nothing to worry over. At least, not yet.”
Penelope wasn’t really listening to him because she was lost in a maelstrom of her own fear and speculation. “If it is my brother, why has he not come home?” she wept. “Why did he stay in Wales? Does he think we do not love him? Bhrodi – what if he thinks we do not love him because Papa left him behind?”
It was such a tragic thought, one that upset her deeply, and Bhrodi put his arms around her. He felt so very badly for her sorrow.
“There is no use in fretting until we can confirm the truth,” he said again. “Once we know if it is your brother or not, then you can ask your questions.”
She wiped at her wet face. She knew he was right, but she was so very upset by the entire circumstance. “When are you leaving?”
“Right away.”
“I am going with you.”
Bhrodi knew she might say something like that. “Nay, caria,” he said firmly. “You must stay with the boys.”
But Penelope would not be discouraged. From tears one moment to demands the next, she would not let him discourage her. “I must go,” she insisted. “The children will be fine with their nurses. I must do this, Bhrodi. I must see for myself if it is James.”
“Do you not trust me to discover the truth?”
“Of course I do,” she said. “But you do not know my brother on sight. I would recognize him in an instant.”
Bhrodi sighed heavily, mostly because she was right. She would know her brother on sight, and he had a feeling she wouldn’t rest until she did. This was the chance he’d taken by telling her the contents of the missives, and now he was facing that which he feared – she was demanding to come with him. He didn’t want her to, but he knew he couldn’t keep her away. If he denied her, she would only follow him.
Eyeing her, he stood up.
“You are not going to give me a choice, are you?” he asked.
Penelope could see that he was displeased. Standing up, she went to him, putting her hands on his arm. It was, perhaps, the most important thing that had ever happened to the de Wolfe family, and he had to know just how serious she was about this.
The loss of James was an event in her family’s history that had shaped all of them and changed them forever. They’d lost James, the gentle but fierce brother, and Penelope had such fond memories of him. He would ride her around on his war horse when she was younger and receive his mother’s wrath because of it. He was easily bent to her will, and would play with her or give her sweets, and then pretend to fight his brother, Patrick, for the title of Favored Brother. Penelope remembered very well that they would trade off “killing” one another for her favor. God, she had loved him. If there was even a chance James had survived Llandeilo, then she had to know.
They all had to know.
“I am giving you a choice,” she said after a moment, “but I am begging you to allow me to come. Bhrodi… I loved my brother very much. He was kind and generous and humorous, and I miss him every day. Please do not deny me the chance to see him again if, in fact, it is really him. You cannot know what this means to me.”
Bhrodi rolled his eyes in defeat. “As I said, I have no choice,” he said, but he wasn’t angry about it. Simply resigned. “You had better hurry and pack, then. We will travel light and swift, so keep that in mind. I plan to make it to Lioncross in just a few days, so the travel will be difficult.”
Penelope was very eager to go and relieved he wasn’t giving her grief about it. In truth, she knew he understood her need to know the truth.
“I will endure, I promise,” she said.
“You had better endure,” he said. “One complaint and I shall send you home.”
Penelope knew he wasn’t serious, but she also knew he wasn’t keen on her going. Throwing her arms around his neck, she kissed him swiftly and fled the solar before he could change his mind.
Bhrodi watched her go, thinking on the journey ahead and the wife he was now bringing along. After the shock and tears had faded, he could see the hope in her eyes, hope that the rumors were true and it really was her brother.
Still, Bhrodi was leery about it. Men had been wrong before and he would hate to see her so disappointed. But something told him that in any case, disappointment would be inevitable for one very good reason – a man who let his family believe he was dead was not a man who wanted to be found.
As Bhrodi prepared the escort party for the trip to Lioncross, Penelope was doing something he’d asked her not to do. He’d told her not to tell her father about any of this until they could confirm that James de Wolfe was, indeed, alive, but all Penelope could think of was how devastated her father had been when James had been killed. Penelope knew, as the entire family knew, that it was something her father had never recovered from.
Having two small sons of her own, Penelope could only imagine how she would feel if one of her sons had been killed. She also knew that if there was even a chance he had not been killed, and that he was still alive somewhere, she would desperately want to know. It simply wasn’t fair to keep her father in the dark in a matter of such importance, especially when it came to James.
Sweet James.
Therefore, against her husband’s wishes, Penelope wrote a missive to her father while Bhrodi was busy with preparations for their departure to Lioncross. She paid one of the stable grooms handsomely to take the missive north to Castle Questing, and the young man was more than happy to do it, slipping from Rhydilian’s postern gate, following the River Nodwydd until he came to a road that would take him towards the mainland. It was going to take him a week at the very least to reach Castle Questing, and Lady de Shera had insisted it was a matter of life or death.
When Penelope left with her husband and Rees de Lohr the next morning in the early dawn hours, it was with the knowledge that her father would soon know what she knew.
James had risen from the dead.