CHAPTER FOURTEEN
I will marry Asmara.
Those words were still ringing around in Morys’ head. It was still morning and he’d awoken not long before and, having eaten a leisurely meal, he’d been interrupted from disrobing the serving woman who’d brought his meal to him by Blayth, who seemed most eager to speak with him about something.
Frustrated, he’d sent the serving woman away only to have Blayth tell him, almost immediately, that he was planning on marrying Asmara.
Any good mood Morys had felt that morning crashed into a nasty heap.
In truth, he wasn’t surprised to hear Blayth’s declaration. Some part of him was waiting for it, no matter how hard he’d tried to separate Blayth from his niece. There were things a woman could do to a man to make him forget everyone and everything else, including things that were the most important to him. The best laid plans had often been destroyed by a woman, and now Blayth had fallen into the feminine trap.
Stupid, stupid man.
But Morys had a plan. He always had a plan, and sometimes those plans involved ugly truths and half-lies, anything to convince Blayth that marrying Asmara was not in his best interest. The man was struck dumb by a lovely woman with long legs, and she’d more than likely already spread those legs for him, but Morys wasn’t going to let all of his hard work be ruined by his treacherous niece.
Perhaps his brother put her up to it, perhaps not. That didn’t much matter now. What mattered was that, in the end, Morys was going to win, no matter what the price.
It was time to lower the hammer.
“Well?” Blayth said. “Did you hear me?”
Morys nodded faintly. “I hear you.”
“And you have nothing to say about it?”
Morys lifted his eyebrows. “I have a good deal to say about it,” he said. “You simply caught me off guard, ’tis all. I have a great many things to say about this.”
Blayth held up a finger. “I will tell you this now before you say a word,” he said. “Asmara will be my wife and, as such, you will respect her. No more brutal comments about her or her father in my presence. I will not stand for you belittling or insulting her. Is this in any way unclear?”
Morys had little patience for Blayth trying to lecture him. “I told you before that you will not dictate my behavior when it comes to my brother,” he said. “Just as I would not tell you how to behave with yours, if you had one.”
That wasn’t the answer Blayth wanted. “Insult her and you shall have to answer to me,” he said. “I will not be discreet about my reaction.”
Morys didn’t say anything. He simply looked away, plotting what he was going to say next. He knew that it had to be powerful, powerful enough to get Blayth’s attention, because if he wanted to keep the man at his side, it would have to be with more power than what Asmara ferch Cader possessed.
“So you think my brother will let you marry his daughter, do you?” he said. “When Cader knows the truth about you, he will not. No man will want you for his daughter.”
Blayth eyed him. “Speak plainly.”
“Do you truly want me to?”
Blayth sighed sharply. “I have no time for your foolery, Morys,” he said. “I came to tell you that I plan to wed Asmara, and I will. I will seek her father’s permission as soon as possible and there is nothing you can say to discourage me.”
Morys fixed on him. “You do not want to challenge me on this subject,” he said, his voice low and threatening. “I can tell my brother every sordid detail about your past and ensure he forbids his daughter to marry you.”
Blayth knew that Morys was capable of lies and venom, so he wouldn’t put it past the man. “Why, in God’s name, would you do that?” he asked. “Just because I marry Asmara does not mean my dedication to the rebellion is any less. I will still be at your side, fighting for a free Wales. Why should marrying her make a difference?”
Morys grunted unhappily. “You have a destiny to fulfill,” he said. “You have always known you have a destiny to fulfill, but if you stray from the course, then I will see you destroyed before I see you ruin what I have worked so hard for.”
Now he was speaking of destruction, harsher words than Blayth had expected. Morys was plain when he spoke and rarely used metaphors, so Blayth knew he was speaking of killing him. The reaction went beyond what Blayth had believed Morys capable of, and he was genuinely puzzled that the man should be so rabidly jealous about a woman he intended to marry.
“I told you to speak plainly,” he said. “So now you intend to destroy me, do you?”
“If you do not fulfill your destiny. If you do not do as you are told.”
“What, exactly, am I being told to do that I have not already done? What has you so angry that you would threaten me when I tell you that I wish to marry?”
Morys could see that Blayth was not going to be intimidated. If he had any hope of maintaining control over him, then he had to hit and hit hard. He knew that. Blayth had never shown any measure of initiative since Morys had known him, always so willing to follow, always so willing to take directions.
But now, the Blayth he’d known for five years wasn’t the same man with the introduction of Asmara. She was bringing out the assertive man in him, a man no longer willing to be told what to do and when to do it. If Morys lost control of Blayth, then all of those dreams for his personal glory would be gone. It was all he wanted, this man he’d built a persona around, a man who would give him a final legacy as the man who protected – nay, championed – Llywelyn’s bastard son.
The one who would lead all of Wales to freedom.
He couldn’t lose that now!
The hammer he’d been lowering needed to hit the ground.
“Listen to me and listen well,” Morys snarled. “You owe me your very life. Were it not for me, you would have been killed long ago.”
Blayth remained calm. “I am aware of that.”
“Nay!” Morys snapped. “You are not aware of anything. You are only aware of what I have told you. You and your feeble mind have been strengthened by me and protected by me. What do you remember of your life before you came into my care, Blayth?”
“You know I remember very little.”
Morys slammed down the cup he’d had in his hand, spilling the contents onto the floor. He stood up by the chair he’d been sitting in, rushing at Blayth like a madman. Blayth didn’t flinch, however; he was certain that was what Morys wanted. Morys was looking for an excuse to strike him and Blayth wouldn’t give him one. However, what came forth from Morys’ mouth after that did far more damage than any blow from a fist ever could.
“Exactly,” Morys hissed. “You remember nothing. You do not remember when I found you on the field of battle at Llandeilo. You do not remember how I protected you from the Welsh who wanted to kill you. Do you?”
His words were somewhat confusing and Blayth’s brow furrowed. “Protected me from – ?”
Morys cut him off. “Aye,” he snarled. “You big, foolish brute. Do you wish to know the truth of everything? Do you wish to know why my brother will never give you his consent to marry his daughter? Then I shall tell you and mayhap you will forget this foolish pursuit. You will understand why you must remain Blayth the Strong, the bastard son of Llywelyn the Last, and you must remain dedicated to this cause.”
Blayth was watching Morys work himself up into a sweat and, to be truthful, he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to hear what would come out of the man’s mouth. A distinct sense of foreboding swept him.
“So what will you tell me?” he asked. “Fabrications? More stories to enthrall the men? Your stories lost their sheen to me some time ago, so do not think to lie to me.”
Morys didn’t rage at that insult. In fact, he seemed to cool rather dramatically. An odd smile came to his lips.
“Is that what you think?” he said. “That I have spun fabrications to enthrall the men? In your case, I have, but I did it to save your life. If they knew who you really were, then they would kill you. You would be dead before you could draw another breath.”
Blayth faced him warily. “What does that mean?”
Morys could see he had his attention. This was the moment he thought would never come, but he was prepared for it nonetheless. Blayth had to understand why he could never be anything other than what he was, and that included Asmara’s husband.
“It means that I found a dying English knight on the battlefield in Llandeilo,” he said, oddly calm as he faced him. “The man had the left side of his head smashed and the Welsh were beginning to strip him. They saw a target for their vengeance and intended on killing him, but do you know what I saw? An English knight of the highest order who could tell me everything I wanted to know about the English and their plans for Wales. I thought he could tell me their movements and all the inner secrets of Edward’s plans of conquest. That was what I saw, and I saw it in you. You were that dying English knight, Blayth.”
Blayth frowned. “What in the hell are you talking about?”
Morys cocked an eyebrow. “I have made it plain enough,” he said. “You were not brought to me by Llywelyn’s old teulu, a bastard of their lord whom they’d smuggled away from the English. You were a dying English knight, a man who served King Edward, and I’d hoped to learn so much from you, but you were not conscious. There were men all around who wanted to kill you, so I stripped you of everything identifiable, covered you up, and brought you home on my wagon. I kept you hidden as much as I could, waiting for the day you would awaken to reveal all of the glories of the English, but that day did not come. If anyone saw you and asked who you were, I would tell them that you were a wounded Welsh warrior. A very special wounded warrior. Imagine my disappointment when you awoke and did not even remember your own name. It was a bitter disappointment to realize that you could tell me nothing.”
Blayth was looking at him with some horror, as if he couldn’t decide whether or not to believe him. “That… that’s madness,” he finally breathed. “An English –?”
Morys cut him off. “You are English,” he said firmly. “When I realized you would not be able to tell me anything, I had to come up with some explanation about you, so the story of Blayth the Strong was born. You see, all you could said was wolf. It was the only word out of your mouth, so you named yourself. And you were strong; God, so very strong. You survived what no man should have survived. So Blayth the Strong became a Welsh warrior.”
Blayth simply stared at him. Oddly enough, he was coming to believe him. It sounded like something Morys would do and, having come to know the man as he had, Blayth believed everything he said. In fact, it was too outlandish not to be truthful. You are English. Blayth began to feel rather weak as shock rolled through his body, and he lowered himself into the nearest chair. He was stunned.
I am English!
“Then you do know more than what you told me,” he muttered. “I will assume that there are none of Llywelyn’s teulu to summon, then, to confirm the story you told me.”
Morys was watching him closely, pleased that the defiant man who had come to his chamber minutes before was now weak and submissive. That was exactly what he wanted to see.
“Nay, there is not,” he said. “That was something I had to tell you, for your own sake. Even though you could never give me the answers I sought about the English plans in Wales, I knew you could still be of use to me. That is when the bastard son of Llywelyn was born. What great irony there is in a former English knight leading mayhap the greatest rebellion Wales has ever seen. You came to my country to harness it but, instead, I have used you against your own people. It has been a greater destiny for you than I could have ever imagined.”
Blayth was leaning against the back of the chair, his gaze averted as he digested everything he’d been told. Now, so much made sense to him. He’d never truly felt like the man Morys had told him he was, nor had he ever felt completely convinced of the backstory he’d been given. The “memories” Morys had planted in his mind. It was all so astonishing that his mind was swimming from it.
“Those dreams I have had,” he murmured. “Dreams of men I do not know but feel as if I should. You told me that those were the men who had tortured me in captivity. I told you I never felt as if they had been my captors.”
Morys shrugged. “I am sure they are simply English comrades,” he said disinterestedly. “It does not matter who they are. You do not remember them.”
Blayth looked at him sharply. “But it does matter,” he said. “It matters a great deal. I was someone before you found me five years ago. Surely I must have had friends and family.”
Morys’ eyes narrowed. “If you did, then they did not care for you,” he said. “You were abandoned at Llandeilo when I found you. Your so-called friends and family left you there to die, Blayth. Do not forget that. They left you behind and you surely would have died had I not come along and saved you.”
His words were like a punch in the belly. Blayth’s breath caught in his throat as he realized Morys was right – he had been left behind to die. Did he not have family or friends that cared enough about him to take him with them when the English army retreated? If he had, then they did not come back for him. No one had tried to find him after the fact.
His guts began to churn with the realization, with the sorrow that perhaps he was unloved and discarded. Perhaps that was why he’d been left behind, just as Morys said.
He was unwanted.
“It is possible they thought I was already dead,” he said, trying to defend the actions of people he didn’t even know. “I was badly wounded and I was told that Llandeilo was chaotic.”
“It was.”
“Then mayhap they had no choice but to leave me behind.”
Morys shook his head. “They could have taken you with them if they’d wanted to,” he said. “You must come to grips with the fact that the English do not want you, Blayth, and the only way you can remain with the Welsh and fulfill your destiny is if they believe you are Llywelyn’s bastard. As Blayth the Strong, you are someone important and powerful. You are a man of respect. Why would you not wish to remain Blayth the Strong and destroy the English who cared so little for you that they left you behind in battle?”
Blayth was left feeling hollow and sick, mostly because Morys was making sense. He hated that he was making sense but, at the moment, there was so much turmoil in his mind that it was difficult for him to think clearly.
You are English, you are English, you are English…
An English knight who had been left behind to die.
But then, something occurred to him. He remembered the English commander in the vault who had called him by a name. The man had sworn he knew him and then, just as quickly, had backed off.
James de Wolfe…
“The commander of Gwendraith, the English knight I released from the vault,” he said, looking up at Morys. “He called me James de Wolfe. Is that my name? James de Wolfe?”
Morys lifted his shoulders. “I do not know what your name was,” he said. “You could never tell me. All you could say was wolf. I suppose your name could be de Wolfe.”
Blayth pondered that possibility. “That was what the English commander said,” he said. “When I said wolf, mayhap I was trying to tell you I was a de Wolfe.”
Morys considered telling him more about that possibility, the fact that he’d found him in a de Wolfe tunic that had been half-ripped from his body. He decided to tell him all of it, hoping it would feed his hatred against the men who left him behind.
“It is not only possible, it is probable,” he said quietly. “You were wearing a de Wolfe tunic when I found you, although rabid Welshmen had nearly ripped it from your body. I took it off you and hid it. It is back at my home in Brecfa, in a chest. Mayhap I held on to it for a moment just such as this – to tell you that you were left behind by the English, Blayth. They did not care for you enough to take you with them when they fled. They left you to die.”
He was beating in those words, pounding them into Blayth’s head, until all he could feel was abandonment and betrayal. Was it true? Was all of this really true? His gut told him that it was. Morys liked drama, and he was fully capable of lying about anything he considered important, but Blayth didn’t get the sense that this had all been an elaborate fabrication. It was too detailed and made too much sense to him.
Now, he knew the truth – he’d been a wounded English knight when Morys had found him. It had been Morys who had not only saved his life by tending his wounds, but by giving him a new identity so the Welsh would not kill him.
In no way did Blayth believe Morys’ motives had been altruistic. On the contrary, he knew they were self-serving. But it was done. Now, Morys and Blayth were at the head of a rebellion against the English, fighting for Welsh freedom, and Blayth was an important and respected man. The Welsh hadn’t left him behind to die and they wouldn’t. He knew his Welsh brothers would save him at all costs.
Unlike the English, who had abandoned him.
But he was English.
“De Wolfe,” he muttered. “I am a de Wolfe.”
Morys was watching him very carefully and he liked what he saw; a man who was once again complacent and willing to do as he was told. He was defeated, knowing he’d been abandoned.
But it wasn’t enough. Morys had to ensure Blayth would never again try to leave him, not even for something as normal as marriage.
“Do you understand why you cannot marry Asmara now?” he said. “You are English, Blayth. My brother would never allow his daughter to marry a Saesneg and I am certain Asmara would not want to marry one, either.”
Asmara. At the mention of her name, thoughts of her suddenly filled Blayth’s mind and he found himself feeling a great deal of angst because of it. His natural instinct was to refute Morys, to tell the man that it wouldn’t matter to Asmara. But the truth was that she had already suspected he wasn’t who Morys said he was. She had made it clear that she’d always had suspicions, so perhaps telling her the truth wouldn’t matter. For certain, he couldn’t keep it from her.
But Morys couldn’t know that.
Morys had gone out of his way to threaten him and tell him that the Welsh would kill him if they knew who he really was. Blayth suspected that was true, but he couldn’t believe it from Asmara. She cared for him, deeply. Perhaps she even loved him. Surely the truth of his identity wouldn’t deter her. At least, he hoped not, because he didn’t feel it was something he could keep from her. He wasn’t like Morys; he didn’t lie to suit his needs or wants. Therefore, he had to tell her.
“I understand,” he finally said, rising from the chair.
Morys went to him, putting a hand on the man’s arm. “Do you?” he asked earnestly. “You cannot tell her. You cannot tell anyone what I have told you. If you do, your life is forfeit, not to mention what they would do to me. I have protected you all of these years, Blayth. You owe me that much.”
Blayth just wanted to get out of there. His mind was whirling with everything he’d been told, and he simply wanted to remove himself from Morys’ presence. But more than anything, he wanted to find Asmara to tell her what Morys had told him. Tactfully, of course, but he had to tell the woman she’d been right all along.
She’d known.
“I told you that I understood,” he said after a moment, trying not to snap. “And I appreciate… everything you have done for me.”
He started to move away, heading towards the chamber door, but Morys stopped him. “Where are you going now?”
Blayth sighed with some irritation, pulling his arm from Morys’ grasp. “To think on what you have told me,” he said. “I find I am quite overwhelmed by it all, as you can imagine. Do Aeddan or Pryce know any of this?”
Morys shook his head. “They know nothing.”
“Then they shall not hear it from me.”
Morys didn’t try to grab him again as he headed for the door. “Remember,” he said firmly. “You are Blayth the Strong, bastard son of Llywelyn ap Gruffydd and a great leader among our men. You are far more valuable to the Welsh than you ever were to the English.”
Blayth paused before he opened the door, but he didn’t say anything. He was so confused that he didn’t know what to say any longer. He simply nodded his head, opened the door, and departed, leaving Morys standing in the center of his chamber, hoping his words had impacted Blayth enough so that he understood his place in the world – the unwanted English knight who had become a Welsh hero.
But even as Blayth left the chamber and headed off, something told Morys to keep an eye on the man. He was starting to get a mind of his own, something that didn’t sit well with Morys. He was thinking for himself lately, and that was dangerous. It made Blayth unpredictable at best. Morys swore he would see the man dead before he saw him ruin the greatest rebellion Wales had yet to see.
But there was a bright side in all of this. If push came to shove, Morys knew what he needed to do.
Sometimes heroes made the very best martyrs.