CHAPTER SIXTEEN
Morys’ plan had spectacularly backfired.
He realized that as he sat and listened to Blayth tell him of his future plans. Whatever he’d hoped telling the man the truth would accomplish, those hopes were dashed.
He’d hoped that by telling Blayth of his past, and of his true identity, that it would scare Blayth into staying the course and continuing to be a beacon of hope for the Welsh. Morys had made it clear that the English had abandoned him at Llandeilo and, therefore, didn’t want him. And he’d emphasized that Blayth only had value as a Welsh legend. He thought he’d made an excellent argument for everything, and he was certain that when the conversation was over, that Blayth understood his place in the world regardless of his true background.
But that hadn’t been the case.
Now, Blayth wanted to find out the truth behind his past. It had taken him a day to figure that out, to decide that none of Morys’ arguments meant anything to him. Blayth had pulled him out of the hall and into a small, dark chamber off the hall the smelled as if the dogs had been using it as their privy. What Blayth had to say couldn’t wait, so half-drunk, Morys stood in stunned silence as Blayth explained his desire to go to Lioncross Abbey Castle to seek out Corbett Payton-Forrester, who had called him James down in the dank recesses of the vault. He was convinced that Payton-Forrester would know more about who he had once been, and Blayth expressed a very strong desire to discover what the man knew.
That hadn’t been the outcome Morys had expected.
At first, he’d been calm about it. He’d explained, yet again, how Blayth had been abandoned. A loved and wanted man would not have been abandoned on the field of battle, he said. He’d tried to convince Blayth that seeking more information from Payton-Forrester would be foolish; it might even be deadly. Clearly, the English hadn’t wanted him so why show them that the man they’d tried to discard was still alive?
But the argument hadn’t worked with Blayth.
He was determined to go.
Slipping…
Morys could see the rebellion slipping away. The myth he’d built, the larger-than-life story of Blayth the Strong, son of Llywelyn the Last, was slipping away and the more he tried to grasp at it, the more it slipped between his fingers. The harder he pulled, the more Blayth pushed. Soon enough, Morys could see that there was no reasoning with the man. His mind was set.
Morys was losing the battle.
That was when the situation grew desperate.
Morys had considered before what he needed to do if Blayth decided to veer from the course – heroes made the best martyrs, he reminded himself, but if Blayth was going to depart this night and head into England to seek his truth, then there was no knowing when he would return, if ever. Blayth swore he only wanted to find out the truth of his past and of his true identity, but Morys couldn’t be sure that the man wouldn’t return to who he was before. Blayth hadn’t made that very clear.
If he did, there would be no chance for a hero’s death in battle.
Morys was a man who, if nothing else, had always been adaptable. He’d manipulated Blayth, lied to him, coerced him, and anything else he had to do in order to control the man. Blayth the Strong was more than a fictitious character – he had become a legend that the hope for Welsh freedom had been built upon. Now, that legend was leaving Gwendraith. The rebels were due to return to Carmarthen Castle in several days to plan the next phase in their uprising, and Blayth couldn’t confirm that he would be present at that gathering. He could be in England, still chasing after his lost past, because it seemed as if now that was the most important thing to him.
No more rebellion, no more legacy.
As far as Morys was concerned, he’d badly errored when he told Blayth the truth about his past, and now he had to remedy the situation and try to salvage what he could.
It was time to do something drastic.
Therefore, he let Blayth leave and go about gathering his things for his journey, whilst Morys went to plan for what needed to happen. Blayth would never realize what was happening until it was too late.
Dealings were about to get dirty.
“The moon is so bright that it is almost like the sun,” Asmara observed as she stood at the mouth of the stables, gazing up into the crisp night sky. “How far do you think we can travel tonight?”
Blayth was finishing securing his crossbow to his saddle. “To Llandovery, at least,” he said. “We shall find a place to sleep outside of the town and then continue on in the morning.”
She turned to look at him. “We could wait until dawn and leave,” she pointed out. “We could make at least thirty-five miles in the daylight.”
He pulled his horse over to where she was standing. “And we will,” he said. “But we are going to do several miles tonight also. Unless you are too weak and feeble to do it.”
She scowled at him although, this time, she knew the insult wasn’t malicious. Insults were becoming terms of endearment these days, and she knew he was jesting with her.
“I can outride you any day,” she said. “I will still be riding when you are on the ground, writhing in pain because your little onion sacks are beaten to death from the strain of travel.”
He started to laugh, knowing exactly what she meant. “Onion sacks?” he repeated. “You mean my ballocks?”
She turned her nose up at him. “I do not use such language.”
He laughed out loud. “God’s Bones, woman, you just referred to them by calling them onion sacks,” he said. “Whatever you call them, they are all the same – a man’s balls.”
Asmara couldn’t stop the giggling. “Do you truly say such things in the presence of a lady?”
He eyed her. “Since when do you call yourself a lady?” he asked, watching her whirl to him in outrage. He held up a finger. “You are a woman, and a beautiful one, but you are also a warrior. I have never known the term lady and warrior to be interchangeable.”
He had a point. Asmara simply shrugged and moved to mount her steed. “You have called me demoiselle since we have known one another,” she said as she heaved herself up into the saddle. “Does that not mean lady?”
He mounted his horse also. “It does,” he said. “It means a young, unmarried lady.”
Asmara gathered her reins, pausing to look at him as he gathered his. “That is something else that told me you were not who Morys said you were,” she said, watching him look at her questioningly. “You called me demoiselle.”
He smiled at her under the moonlight. “What would you have me call you?”
She shrugged coyly and looked away. “That is not what I mean,” she said. “I meant that no one but the English or the French do that. That told me that you were not Welsh-born or, at the very least, you did not grow up in Wales.”
Blayth reined his horse over to her. “I will ask you again,” he said softly. “What would you have me call you?”
That low, slow voice was purring at her and Asmara could feel her cheeks flame; she was grossly unused to the flirtatious games played by men and women.
“Whatever you wish,” she said. “My name is Asmara.”
“And it is a beautiful name,” he said. “But I think I should like to call you something else.”
“What?”
“Cariad.”
It meant sweetheart in Welsh, and Asmara’s red cheeks grew redder. She’d never in her life been called anything other than her name, not even by her father, although her mother had often called her and Fairynne pet names. Gwirion, mostly, which meant “silly”. But that was different, from a mother to a daughter. But this… this was from a man who was to be her husband.
She’d never felt so giddy in her entire life.
“If that is what you would like to call me, I will not contest,” she said.
He laughed low in his throat, seeing even in the moonlight how embarrassed she was. Clucking softly to his horse, the animal began to move forward, followed by Asmara and her excitable young stallion.
“I have never called a woman cariad,” he said. “You will be my first.”
“As you will be mine.”
It was a sweet sentiment between two people who were unused to such things. In warm silence, the pair headed out of the stable yard and into the outer bailey, which was mostly devoid of men at this hour. Pinpricks of light emitted from the keep, from several of the outbuildings, and from the gatehouse as men settled in for the night. With the moon bathing the land in a silver glow, Asmara and Blayth headed for the two-storied gatehouse.
There were men upon it, men with torches, and as they drew closer to the gate, Blayth called up to the men who were manning it.
“Open the gates,” he boomed.
It was usual for there to be a delay of several seconds before the gates started moving. But in this case, the seconds turned into a minute and more. Blayth called to the gate guards again, thinking they might not have heard him, but then he saw Aeddan and Pryce heading towards him from the small guard room built into the gatehouse.
Curious, he moved his horse towards them to ask what the issue was, but that was when he saw Morys emerging from the gatehouse guard room as well. He wasn’t a welcome sight.
Something told Blayth that the situation was about to turn.
“What is amiss that you will not open the gates?” he asked Aeddan as the man drew near.
Aeddan didn’t look pleased. There were other men around, Welsh warriors, but he kept his voice down because he didn’t want them to hear.
“Morys wishes to speak with you,” he said as he reached Blayth. “He told us to hold the gates when you came. Blayth… he is armed.”
Blayth’s eyebrows lifted. “Armed? Why?”
Aeddan simply shook his head; either he didn’t know, or he didn’t want to say. In any case, Blayth didn’t push him. Something was amiss, and Aeddan was letting Blayth know that he had to expect anything.
With Morys, that was usually the case.
Blayth kept his cool on the surface but, on the inside, his concern was mounting. He thought he’d said everything to Morys that needed to be said and couldn’t imagine why the man was here… unless the words they’d spoken between them weren’t final in Morys’ opinion. And now the man was armed to stop him?
In truth, Blayth wasn’t surprised. He wasn’t surprised that Morys wasn’t willing to let him go so easily, perhaps to try one more time to convince him that it would not be in his best interest to dredge up his past. But Blayth was resolute that he needed to try.
Nothing Morys could say would change that.
“Morys?” Blayth said, calling to the man with veiled impatience. “What did you wish to speak of?”
Morys came forward, out of the darkness of the gatehouse, making his way towards Blayth. It was then that Blayth saw the crossbow in Morys’ hand; he wasn’t pointing it at anyone, but merely aiming it at the ground. But he was carrying a weapon, as Aeddan had said he was, and the concern Blayth felt blossomed into full-blown apprehension. It wasn’t for him so much as it was for Asmara; if Morys tried something, he didn’t want her caught in the crossfire.
But seeing Morys with the weapon, now Blayth was coming to understand what this was all about. Morys wasn’t here to talk him out of anything. Somehow, someway, Morys was going to force him into remaining because, Blayth knew, this went again Morys’ plans. This wasn’t want Morys wanted, so he was going to resort to intimidation.
Blayth braced himself.
But what he didn’t know was that several feet behind him, Asmara was also reaching for her crossbow, tied off on her saddle. She, too, was watching Morys come forth with a weapon in his hand and she knew he had it for a reason. It wasn’t simply to hint at threats and intimidation. Morys was aggressive, bold, and reckless, and if he felt he was being wronged, he would more than likely lash out at whoever he felt was wronging him. In this case, it was Blayth, leaving on his own quest and evidently not placing the greater priority on the rebellion and Morys’ wants.
Much like Blayth, none of this surprised her. And she wanted to be ready.
“Get off your horse, Blayth,” Morys said calmly. “You are not leaving. We have more important issues to deal with.”
Blayth remained calm. “I will not disagree that the issues are important,” he said evenly. “But I have explained that this is something I must do, Morys. It does not diminish my gratitude in what you have done for me, but surely you understand my need to know the truth.”
Morys was clearly impatient. “The truth you seek will be there in a year from now or five years from now,” he said. “The past cannot be changed. It will still be there in time but, for now, I need you here. You have an important destiny to fulfill at present.”
Blayth eyed the man. Unless they wanted the secret of Blayth’s true identity and background revealed, there wasn’t more either of them could say. Blayth had said everything he’d wanted to say earlier, so Morys’ attempt to force him into remaining was not sitting well with him. He honestly couldn’t believe the man was threatening him, out here for all to hear where their secret could easily be revealed.
But maybe that was Morys’ plan.
As Blayth contemplated how to handle Morys, Asmara didn’t have quite so much patience. As she saw it, Morys was, yet again, trying to control Blayth and as the man’s betrothed, she wasn’t going to stand for it. She’d never liked her uncle. In fact, she’d hated him for how he’d always treated her father, and she wasn’t going to let the man push Blayth, or her, around any longer.
It was time to take a stand.
The crossbow in her hand lifted.
“Get out of the way,” she told her uncle as she urged her excitable horse forward. “You know why he has to leave, so get out of the way.”
Morys looked up to see Asmara pointed a crossbow right at him. He wasn’t all that astonished that she had asserted herself, but it did infuriate him.
“This is not your affair,” he said. “Put that weapon down before you hurt someone.”
It was the wrong thing to say to her. “I am going to hurt you if you do not get out of his way,” she growled. “You have spent your entire life belittling people and ordering them around, my father included, but you are not going to do it now. You are a bitter excuse for a man, an inglorious fool who is trying to make himself feel important by pushing Blayth to do things you cannot do yourself. You are riding on his glory but, this time, he is going to choose his own path. Standing in front of these gates is only going to see you injured, or worse. I will not let you do it.”
He shook his head at her as if disgusted. “Shut your ridiculous mouth, girl,” he said. “My brother did not take a firm hand to you when you were younger, so you do not know your place. He let you do whatever you pleased and now you are a grotesque shadow of a female, neither a lady nor a man, but something in between. I can only imagine how you seduced Blayth because, certainly, there is nothing about you that is seductive or soft, and now you try to push yourself into business where you do not belong. Someone should have shut you up years ago.”
Asmara didn’t feel shame like she normally would have because her uncle was simply having a tantrum and pulling her right along with him, showing off to the men around him. Aeddan and Pryce were standing near Asmara, looking very strained and upset by what was going on, so she turned to them rather than responding directly to her uncle.
“Do you know that he has been lying to you this entire time?” she said loud enough for Morys to hear her. “He has been manipulating you and belittling you, pushing you around because he believes it is his right, as a prince of Deheubarth. Ask him why he does not want Blayth to leave Gwendraith. See if he is brave enough to tell you.”
That drew a very strong reaction from Morys. “I told you to shut your lips, you stupid chit,” he snarled. “You, who has sprung from the weak loins of my brother. He is so weak that he could only have females. Females he has raised as sons!”
“At least my father had children,” Asmara fired back. “If I were you, I would be careful who you accuse of being weak. Coming from a man who could not impregnate his wife, I would say you are the weak one in the family.”
Morys’ featured twisted, a macabre expression of rage on his face. “Bitch,” he hissed. “You will regret that.”
He started to lift his crossbow but Blayth was there, putting himself between Asmara and Morys. His gaze was deadly.
“I told you that you would not insult her in my presence,” he said. “And if you intend to use that crossbow on her, know that I will snap your neck before you can reload it. Make a move against her and it shall be your last.”
Morys was quickly moving beyond rational thinking. He was used to being in control, always, and he looked at Blayth’s words as a revolt. Now, the man was challenging him and Morys’ pride took a hit. It was a fragile thing, fed by his inflated sense of self-worth and the submission of the men under his command. It was easily bolstered and even more easily shattered. If he didn’t have control over all things, then he had nothing, and right now he was facing that very possibility with Blayth.
He couldn’t let the man gain the upper hand.
He was going to take him down.
“Did you hear him?” he cried, raising his voice so that even the sentries on the wall could hear him. “Do you know why he is threatening me? Because I know the truth about him!”
The men began to stir in the darkness, hearing Morys’ words. The general consensus believed that Morys was an arrogant man and would like to have his way in all things, but he also had that hereditary respect because of his lineage. He was followed more out of duty than out of love or respect, so when he started shouting about truths and threats, men listened but it was always with some doubt.
In fact, Aeddan and Pryce, now standing next to Asmara, listened to Morys with more doubt than most. They’d been around him far too long to believe anything he said without reservations. As the man began to cause a scene, Asmara turned to Aeddan once more.
“Get into the gatehouse and open the gates,” she pleaded softly. “This is not going to end well if Blayth is not permitted to leave.”
Pryce heard her. Having no love for Morys, he immediately moved towards the gatehouse, trying to stay to the shadows and trying to stay out of Morys’ line of sight. As he moved off, Aeddan whispered to Asmara.
“What is this all about?” he asked.
Asmara kept her eyes on her uncle. Since she didn’t know the man particularly well, she didn’t feel comfortable telling him the truth. That would have to come from Blayth, for it would be Blayth’s decision to trust his friend with such things.
“Whatever he says, it is not the truth,” she muttered, avoiding the question. “All Blayth wants to do is leave Gwendraith, but Morys wants to keep him here.”
“But why?”
She shook her head, unwilling to answer directly. “Just know that Morys is a liar. He will say anything to manipulate men. But I think you already know that.”
Aeddan did. He’d seen it his entire life. He’d seen the man beat down and belittle his own father until the man died at an early age. Before he could question her further, Morys turned to Blayth and pointed at the man.
“We have all been cruelly betrayed by this man,” he said. “I will not let him leave because he is a traitor. He is loyal to his English captors and plans to run to them and tell them of our plans. That is why I will not let him leave and why his woman is willing to kill me! She knows he is a traitor, too, and she is trying to help him!”
Asmara was infuriated as men began to grumble. Morys was collecting quite a crowd, but that was what he liked – an audience. She was shocked to hear the lies coming forth, but she also knew that there were men who would believe him without question. If Morys was able to rile them up enough, then there would be trouble.
“That is not true!” Asmara shouted. “Listen to me, my brothers! Morys has been lying to you from the beginning about Blayth. He has told you that he is the bastard son of Llywelyn the Last, our noble prince, but that is not the truth. He told you that so that he could control you and force you to fight in this rebellion. If there is a traitor here, it is Morys ap Macsen and not Blayth, who has also been lied to by him. He is a victim in all of this as much as any of you. Do not believe a word Morys has told you!”
More grumbling came from the crowd that was gathering. Furious, Morys could hardly believe that Asmara had dared to contradict him. No one contradicted him, not ever, and he was losing all control. His temper was spiraling as he realized Asmara was planting a seed of doubt among the men, a seed of doubt that could see his legacy ended. She was ruining everything.
She was going to pay.
“You would believe a woman?” he screamed. “She and her father have long hated me because I am the eldest son, the leader of all men, and she lies to erase your love for me. Blayth is a traitor and he must be stopped!”
He continued to shout venom as Asmara was turning to Aeddan, still standing next to her. When she spoke to Aeddan and Pryce in the stable those days ago, when she’d been trying to discover more about Blayth, she had seen the lack of blind respect from the brothers when it came to Morys. She could only pray that they loved Blayth more, and trusted him more, because she could no longer hold back the truth. If this situation was going to veer out of control, then Blayth would need help.
Only the truth would open that door.
“Do not listen to him,” she hissed. “He has been lying to you about Blayth. You were there when he brought Blayth back from Llandeilo, were you not?”
Aeddan, greatly torn and confused by what was going on, nodded. “I was.”
“Then you know that Blayth came from Llandeilo.”
“Morys said he was delivered by Llywelyn’s teulu and…”
She cut him off, shaking her head. “Blayth was an English knight, wounded at Llandeilo,” she hissed. “His real name is de Wolfe, but Morys lied to you. He has fabricated everything – Blayth’s name, his history – everything. He is not Llywelyn’s bastard son. He is an English knight, but he did not remember that. Yet, Morys knew, and he lied to Blayth and told him he was someone he was not. Morys told him that he was Llywelyn’s bastard so he could feed the rebellion. He only told Blayth tonight of his true past, and now Blayth has a chance to discover who he really is, only Morys will not let him go. If you love Blayth, you will help him. Help us, Aeddan!”
Aeddan was looking at her in utter shock. “He… he is Saesneg?”
She nodded rapidly, glancing at Morys because now he was pointing at Blayth again and shouting about his treachery. “He is,” he said. “And Morys knew. Blayth did not, so he is not to blame. The only one to blame is Morys. Help us leave before it is too late!”
It took Aeddan a few moments to overcome his astonishment and realize that what Asmara said made a great deal of sense. Morys’ story about how Blayth came into his possession never made sense to Aeddan but out of respect to Morys, he accepted it. Nay, he wasn’t surprised at all to discover that Blayth, the damaged warrior, was actually an English knight.
It made all the sense in the world.
Aeddan had been there from the beginning. He’d been there when Blayth had awoken from his lengthy unconsciousness, and he had been there when the man learned to speak and walk again. Aeddan had helped him with everything, so he knew that Blayth had no memory of who he was prior to his terrible injury.
But Morys knew.
Damn the man… he knew.
“But where is Blayth going?” he asked after a moment, feeling her panic. “Does he even know?”
Asmara shook her head. “He is not going to betray the Welsh if that’s what you are asking,” she insisted. “You must believe me. He only wants to find out who he really is, Aeddan. He has a chance to discover his true past. And Morys does not want him to go, so he is lying to everyone, still!”
He is lying to everyone, still. That seemed to snap something in Aeddan, who could see what was happening. He could see the entire picture – Morys, caught in his web of lies, was trying to salvage the situation by turning everyone against Blayth. He didn’t know why he should believe Asmara, but he did. God only knew how long he’d hated Morys and he’d hidden that hate behind obedience and forced gratitude, but he wasn’t going to let the man destroy Blayth, someone he considered another brother.
He had to help.
Just as he moved to do so, the gates began to lurch open and Morys, startled by the sound, turned to look to the gates. It was a reflexive reaction, brought on by the creak of the chains. But when he turned to look, he accidentally pulled the trigger on the crossbow. The iron-tipped arrow flew right at Asmara, hitting her in the left shoulder.
As she cried out in pain and jerked back in the saddle, Asmara also squeezed the trigger of the crossbow she was holding, and the arrow went flying. By chance, it found its mark in Morys’ neck, and the man collapsed into the mud, mortally wounded.
Panic ensued. Men were yelling, charging forward, and Blayth did the only thing he could do – he grabbed Asmara’s reins and spurred his horse towards the open gates, trampling Morys as he went. Together, he and Asmara galloped out of the gates and into the silver-bathed landscape beyond, fleeing the frenzy of Welsh who had been both stirred up and repulsed by Morys’ words.
But the chaos quickly died as Blayth and Asmara fled into the night, and men began to discuss what should be done. Some wanted to follow them, but Aeddan called them off. There would be no following, he said. Blayth had committed no crime.
The only crime had been committed by a man who was not long for this world.
So the Welsh began to disburse for the most part, milling around with some confusion on the cusp of a most confusing night. Beaten down into the mud by two fleeing horses, Morys struggled for air as Aeddan stood over him and watched him labor. He couldn’t even make a move to help the man, so great his hatred and disgust. Morys had finally demonstrated what he was fully capable of, and that greed had ultimately destroyed him.
As Morys’ breathing began to grow unsteady, Aeddan knelt down beside him and watched his chest rise and fall for the last time.
“I hope you can still hear me,” he rumbled. “If there is any justice in this world, I have seen it served tonight. You received exactly what you deserved.”
With that, he stood up and walked away, moving to the open gates to watch Blayth and Asmara as they disappeared into the night. In truth, the more he thought on what Asmara had told him, the more hope and even happiness he felt for Blayth. A man who had been the prisoner of a vile beast, fed lies and kept like a prized animal, now had the chance for true freedom. Whether or not it was at the head of a rebellion was no longer the issue.
The man had a chance to find himself, and Aeddan hoped for the best. When he told his brother what had happened, Pryce hoped for the very same thing.
They could only pray for the best for a man they looked upon as a brother, English or Welsh.
Godspeed, Blayth.