CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Wales
The arrow wasn’t sticking out of her shoulder any longer, but Blayth knew that she must have been in a good deal of pain.
They were riding northeast beneath a dark pewter sky and a great silver moon that was beginning to set. Soon enough, it would disappear in the west and then the land would be as dark as pitch. Blayth knew they would have to find shelter before that happened, a place to tend Asmara’s wound.
He’d tried to do it as soon as they’d left Gwendraith, but Asmara was a strong woman. She’d ripped the arrow out of her shoulder and kept her hand against the wound, pressing it with the material from her tunic to stop the bleeding. She wouldn’t even let him stop so that he could get a look at the wound. She was concerned that men from Gwendraith might try to pursue them and she didn’t want them to catch up, so it was best to put as much distance between them and Gwendraith as possible.
Arrow wound be damned.
Therefore, they raced off into the night. Asmara’s young stallion was very fast, taking the lead as Blayth’s horse tried to keep up. To the south, they could see the rise of ghostly hills and to the north, it was mostly flat lands and forests. All of it was bathed in moonlight, which made the road easy to see. They were able to dodge things that, had it been a darker night, they would have tripped over.
Blayth mostly tried to stay on Asmara’s tail as she rode the horse at breakneck speed. She was only holding on with one hand as it was, the other one pressed tightly to her left shoulder, and he was genuinely fearful that she was going to fall off at some point, but his Dragon Princess remained strong. She held tight as they headed north, passing through smaller towns, and then letting the horses have their head on the long and barren stretches.
On they went, into the night.
Blayth wasn’t entirely sure how long they’d been running, but by the position of the moon, he guessed that it had been at least a couple of hours. The moon was so low now that it was beginning to dip below the horizon and he knew that they had to find shelter fairly quickly. On the road ahead, they could see a small village and they could smell the smoke from the dying fires. He managed to get his horse up next to Asmara’s and grab hold of her reins.
“We must stop,” he yelled over the rush of the wind. “Look; the moon is setting. We must stop for the night.”
Asmara looked pale and frightened. She was in panic mode, fleeing Gwendraith, fearful for her very life. They both knew what Morys was capable of and even though she’d hit the man with an arrow, she hadn’t really noticed where she’d hit him other than it had been up around his shoulders. After that, everything was a blur. As Blayth slowed the horses as they neared the edge of town, Asmara was very much starting to feel the pain of her wound. Now that the rush of fear had settled, the agony of a pierced shoulder was coming to the forefront. She groaned, leaning forward in the saddle as Blayth looked at her with concern.
The town was very small and Blayth was somewhat familiar with it since Brecfa, Morys’ stronghold was several miles to the west. He knew that there wasn’t a tavern to be found, but there was a church at the other end of the town, one that had been there since the Normans first came to Wales.
He led Asmara’s horse through the streets at a clipped pace as she increasingly gave in to the pain in her shoulder. Up ahead, illuminated by the setting moon, they could see the tower of the church, which was situated on a small hill. The tower itself was at least four stories, soaring above the countryside, while the church attached to it was long and rectangular, built from local stone and rubble.
As they drew closer, Blayth could see the churchyard with the stones atop the graves, a superstition to keep the dead from rising. There was a small structure to the rear of the church, housing of some sort, and Blayth took the horses into the churchyard and headed for the small house. Once they reached it, he slid from his horse and pounded on the door.
He had to pound on it at least four more times until he heard someone on the other side of the door. By this time, the moon was nearly down and the gnarled oak trees were casting great shadows, nearly blacking everything out. There was a small window in the heavily-fortified door that slid open.
“What’s wanting?” came a voice.
Blayth could hardly see anything as he peered at the small hole. “My lady has been injured,” he said. “We seek your help.”
There was no immediate reply and Blayth couldn’t tell if the person was looking at him or not. He leaned closer to the door, trying to see in the small window.
“Please help us,” he said. “My lady has a wound that needs tending. We… we have been attacked. Won’t you please help?”
More dead silence. As Blayth pondered what more to say, as he was trying not to frighten the person on the other side of the door, Asmara slid off her horse and marched up to the door.
“You are a priest,” she said irritably. “You cannot refuse to aid us. Open the door or I will start screaming. That will rouse everyone in town and they will wonder what you are doing to a woman that is causing her to scream. Is that what you want?”
As Blayth looked at her, shocked and amused, the small panel jerked shut and, suddenly, the door was being unbolted from within. When it lurched open, they found themselves looking at a small man with a care-worn face, wrapped in heavy woolen robes.
“A lady with a tongue of fire,” he said unhappily, looking at Asmara. “Who are you, girl?”
Blayth pushed into the small structure before Asmara could answer. He shoved the man out of the way, pulling Asmara along with him, and they found themselves in a two-room hut, dark and cold. The man, regaining his balance after being pushed aside, scurried after the pair.
“See here,” he said angrily. “What’s wanting?”
Blayth found a chair in the darkness and pushed Asmara down onto it. “I told you,” he said. “My lady has been injured in an attack. I would like hot water and wine if you have it, and bandages. I swear to you that we mean you no harm, but I must tend her wound.”
The man appeared quite put out. He frowned at the pair and prepared to order them out, but then he realized that would be futile. They were inside now, and it was clear that they intended to remain, so he had little choice. Angered, he shut the door and threw the bolt. Then he pointed to the hearth with just a few burning embers in it.
“Well?” he said. “If you want hot water, then put fuel on the fire. It’ll not burn all by itself.”
Grumbling to himself, the man went into the second room, pushing back heavy curtains that covered the doorway, and disappeared inside. Asmara looked up at Blayth, who wriggled his eyebrows in silent commentary of the irritated man, before turning for the hearth. He found the kindling right away, as it was scattered by the hearth, and he carefully placed it on the low-burning coals, blowing on it until the blaze began to take off. By the time the man returned from the other room, a decent fire was beginning to roar.
“Water is outside,” the man told Blayth snappishly. “Bucket is next to the door.”
As Blayth stood up from the fire, the man lit two fat tapers and a soft golden glow began to fill the room. Now that there was some illumination, Blayth could see that the room was packed to the ceiling with items – pots, clothing, broken pieces of furniture, and more. It took Blayth a moment to realize that among the clutter, he saw shields – English shields – as well as pieces of armor, satchels, saddlebags, and in one corner he saw a stack of weapons. Pikes, poles, and broadswords. He most definitely saw an array of English broadswords, more than likely worth a fortune, wedged into a corner and suffering from neglect.
It was an astonishing sight and he very nearly forgot about the water, but Asmara groaned when she shifted on the chair and leaned on the table that was next to her, so he quickly went about his tasks.
But those broadswords had his attention.
As Blayth ran out, Asmara tried to find a comfortable position leaning against the table but it was nearly impossible. Her left shoulder and entire arm were aching painfully, and she kept her hand over the wound area simply because she was afraid to ease the pressure. It seemed to feel better when her hand was firmly against it. She didn’t know how badly she’d been hit, but she knew it hurt a great deal.
As the fire in the hearth began to burn brightly and the tapers lit up the chamber, Asmara began to see what Blayth had seen. More clutter and possessions and weapons than she’d ever seen outside of an armory; there were several big shields stacked up, partially covered by what looked to be tunics or banners, and the broadswords in the corner glistened weakly in the light. The sight was almost enough to distract her from her pain.
“What is this place?” she asked the man, who was fumbling with something over by another table. “Why do you have all of these… these things?”
The man didn’t answer her directly. He glanced over his shoulder at her. “They are mine,” he said. “Tell me your name.”
Asmara hesitated. “Morwenna,” she said, giving him the name of her mother because it was the first thing that came to mind. “Who are you?”
“I am Jestin.”
“Are you the priest here?”
He nodded. “Aye,” he said. “Who is your man?”
Asmara didn’t want to give Blayth’s name away, either. “James,” she said, wincing as she spoke because it was also the first name that came to mind, and probably not the best name to give. In order to head off any further questions, she pushed forth with an explanation. “We were traveling north to… to see his family and we were attacked.”
Jestin had things in his hands as he headed over to the fire and pulled forth one of the iron arms that were used for hanging pots over the flame. He had a small pot in his hand and hung it on the arm, but Asmara noticed that he was also holding a small sack of some kind. There was already something in the pot, but she couldn’t see what it was, and she watched curiously as he sprinkled something from the little sack into the pot. Using a stick leaning on the wall next to the hearth, he stirred whatever was in the pot.
Asmara couldn’t help but notice that the man really didn’t have much to say. He seemed very annoyed with their intrusion, but that couldn’t be helped. Unsure of what more to say to him, her attention inevitably returned to the beautiful broadswords pushed into the corner. Dusty, and dulled with neglect, there was no mistaking their beauty.
“Did someone give those for safekeeping?” she asked. “Those weapons, I mean.”
Jestin was over at his table, his back turned to her as he ripped up material. Asmara could hear him tearing at it.
“You might say that,” he said. “Tell me why you were attacked.”
He was deliberately changing the subject, the second time she’d asked a question about all of the things he had stacked up in the corners, and the second time he avoided giving her an answer. Asmara was coming to think he simply didn’t want to speak of it, and the truth of the matter was that she and Blayth had barged in on the man, and threatened him, so she didn’t blame him for not being friendly.
But she really didn’t care. As long as they had some shelter, and she was able to tend her wound, that was all that mattered. They’d be gone in the morning, anyway, and their whole visit would have been forgotten.
“I do not know why we were attacked,” she said after a moment. “An arrow hit me. That is all you need be concerned with.”
Jestin glanced over his shoulder again, his dark eyes appraising her, but Asmara looked away, gazing into the fire. Much as he didn’t want to speak on his massive collection, she didn’t want to discuss why she’d been hit with an arrow, so silence seemed best at this point.
They’d come to a stalemate.
The entry door burst open and Blayth appeared, lugging a big bucket of icy water from the well. He headed straight to the hearth, taking a knee beside it and looking at all of the cluttered mess around the hearth until he came to an iron pot that was sitting off to one side.
He pulled it forth, peered inside of it, and then took the hem of his tunic to wipe it clean, again and again. When he was satisfied that it was clean enough, he poured the water into it and set it upon the coals.
“I am sorry I took so long,” he said, “but I took a few moments to tend to the horses. While the water is warming, I should take a look at your shoulder. Does it hurt very much?”
Asmara looked up at him and he could see the answer to his question in her eyes, even though he knew she would never admit it.
“Nay,” she lied. “Not very much.”
He didn’t contradict her. The Dragon Princess was strong in so many ways, and he would not diminish that strength, but he watched her grimace as he moved her hand away from the wound. Then he began peeling back the fabric of her tunic, getting a look at a puncture wound that was just below her left collarbone. She turned her head away as he bent lower to get a good look.
“It does not look as if it is too terribly deep,” he said, “but it needs to be cleaned out.”
Gingerly, he pulled out a piece of fabric from the surface of the wound, part of her tunic that was torn off when the arrow pierced her. As he looked closer, he realized there was another head close to his and he looked to see their host standing next to him, also peering curiously at the wound. He could feel the man’s hot breath on his neck as he scrutinized the wound quite closely.
“We will need the wine to wash the wound clean,” the man finally said. “I have brought all that I have. We will also need to stitch it closed. I have is sewing kit.”
Blayth didn’t like the fact that the man was so close to Asmara, but he tolerated it for the moment. “I agree,” he said. “What is your name?”
“Jestin,” Asmara said; her head was turned and her eyes were closed because she didn’t want to see the gaping hole in her shoulder. “This is Father Jestin. I have introduced us as Morwenna and James.”
Blayth looked at her rather curiously for a moment, realizing she had given the priest fake names. Still, he understood why; she didn’t want to involve the priest in their troubles and she didn’t want the man to be able to give their true names if Morys and other Welshmen came looking for them. That seemed dangerous. Therefore, he kept that in mind as he watched the priest scrutinize Asmara’s wound.
The man who could help them… or very well condemn them.
But he didn’t seem like he was in the mood to condemn. In fact, after his initial irritation at their intrusion, he’d settled down dramatically. Now, he seemed very interested in Asmara’s wound.
“I have something to help her,” he finally said, rushing off to another cluttered corner of the chamber. “I read a treatise on Arabic potions and it had the knowledge of a healing mixture that keeps away fever and disease. A rotten brew, it is called. I have made it before.”
Blayth didn’t like the sound of that. “Rotten?” he repeated. “And it is supposed to help?”
Jestin nodded eagerly. “Aye,” he said. “It cures all ailments, or at least most of them. I have given some to the people of the village who were in need and the results are miraculous.”
Blayth was leery but, at this point, he was willing to allow it. He and Asmara had a long journey ahead of them and he didn’t want her suffering or ill along the way. He couldn’t bear it if something happened to this brave woman because of him.
As Jestin fussed over in the corner by the light of a single taper, Blayth turned to Asmara as she sat, still leaning against the old table. He felt extremely guilty about what had happened and, in truth, he hadn’t really thought about it until now. He’d kept the visions of Morys’ actions pushed aside because the more important task had been to reach safety. But now, he had time to think about it. They were safe for the time being, Asmara was about to be tended, and he struggled not to let the guilt of it all consume him.
“You were very brave, cariad,” he finally said, kneeling down beside her. “It is strange… I am not accustomed to anyone fighting my own battles, but that is what you have done. You stood up to Morys in my defense and I am both awed and grateful. But please know how sorry I am that it ended with an arrow in your shoulder.”
Asmara turned to look at him, feeling the warmth from the man. There was so much warmth between them now that it was present every time they looked at each other, in their expressions as well as in their touch. She could see in his expression how grateful he was and she put her hand up, cupping his bearded jaw.
“I would do it a thousand times over,” she murmured. “He was trying to turn the men against you and I would not let him do that.”
He put his hand over hers, turning to kiss her palm sweetly. “You are my champion,” he said softly. Then, he eyed the priest over in the corner. “What did you tell him?”
Asmara turned as well, her gaze falling on the man who was busily doing something. “Not much,” she whispered so the priest couldn’t hear. “I did not want to give him our real names for fear that Morys might be tracking us.”
Blayth thought back to the moment he saw Asmara’s arrow hit Morys in the neck. “I do not think that will be possible,” he muttered. “Your aim was true.”
“What do you mean?”
“I believe you killed him. If the arrow did not, then we certainly did when we fled and trampled him.”
Her eyes widened. “I… I did not see,” she said. “The arrow was in my shoulder and that was all I was concerned with. I did not see what happened after it hit me.”
He kissed her hand again. “He would have killed us,” he said. “I have no doubt. What you did, you did to protect our lives. There is no dishonor or shame in that.”
Asmara thought on the moment she was hit with Morys’ arrow, the moment that her own arrow was accidentally released. She really hadn’t been aiming at the time, but if she hit her uncle, she realized that she did not regret it. Blayth was right; Morys would have killed them both.
“I never thought I would see him do such a thing,” she said truthfully. “I do not understand why he would… wait… that is not true. I do understand. Morys has always been selfish and deceitful. My own father will not speak ill of his brother, but I do not have such restraint. He was going to kill you to keep you from leaving him.”
“I know.”
“I would not have believed it had I not seen it for myself.”
Blayth simply nodded, thinking on Morys and how the man had been both a blessing and a curse to him. “It occurred to me that he started seeing me as a possession,” he muttered. “He saved my life. Therefore, it was his view that I should belong to him. I suppose I have always seen that in him, but never more so when you and I were coming to know one another. He did not like that my attention was somewhere other than on his goals.”
Asmara could see some regret in his expression. “The only decent thing my uncle ever did was save your life,” she said. “But even then, it wasn’t with altruistic intentions. Still… for the fact that he did save your life, I cannot hate him completely. But for what he tried to do tonight – I can never forgive him.”
Blayth simply kissed her hand again, catching sight of Jestin as the man came away from his table and moved in their direction. Blayth stood up, Asmara’s hand still in his, protectively, as he looked curiously at the things the man was carrying with him.
“What do you have?” he asked.
Jestin had quite a few items which he began sitting down on the table – an empty wooden cup, a half-full wooden cup, a wad of linen rags that he’d torn up for bandages, an earthenware bottle of wine, a slender iron bar that was several inches in length, and a sewing kit with needle and thread. All of these things ended up on the table beside Asmara as Jestin went to the pot he’d put above the flames, which was now beginning to steam. Removing the pot, he carefully poured the milky contents into the empty cup he’d brought with him.
“Now,” he said, handing Blayth the cup. “Have your woman drink this. Quickly, now – she must drink it all.”
Blayth eyed the cup. “What is it?”
“Something for the pain.”
Blayth continued to eye the cup. After a moment, he looked up at the priest. “Tell me what is in it. I will not give her an unknown potion.”
Jestin glanced at him. “Poppy,” he said, his annoyance returning. “There is poppy in the goat’s milk. Make her drink it. It will take away her pain.”
Blayth still didn’t like it. He extended the cup back to him.
“Take a sip from it,” he growled. “Prove to me that there is no poison in it.”
Jestin sighed sharply, took the cup, and promptly took a sip. Then he shoved it back at Blayth.
“You came to me for help,” he said. “If you did not want it, then I can just as easily sit by and do nothing.”
He had a point. Trust didn’t come naturally to Blayth, but he had little choice because he needed the help. Moderately convinced that the priest wasn’t out to harm Asmara, he turned and gave her the cup.
“Drink this down,” he said, putting it in her right hand. “He says it will help your pain.”
Asmara had been watching the entire exchange, including the moment when Blayth forced the priest to drink the goat’s milk potion. She was very touched by the way Blayth was watching out for her and she took the cup and drained it. The milk was warm and lovely, but she could taste something in it, something bitter. Licking her lips, she handed him back the cup.
“Why should he have poppy on hand?” she whispered. “Is he a physic also?”
“When the town’s folk need help, they come to me,” the priest said. He’d heard her question. “Either they need my prayers or my potions. Surely that is why you were sent to me, isn’t it?”
Blayth shook his head. “We were not sent to you.”
That seemed to surprise Jestin. “You weren’t?”
“Nay.”
“Then… you simply found me?”
Blayth nodded. “There is no tavern in the village and with the lady being injured, this was the most logical place to come.”
Jestin’s gaze lingered on him for a moment. “Then God must have been speaking to you,” he said. “He has brought you here, to me, because He knew I could help the lady.”
Blayth wasn’t so sure why that seemed like such a miracle that they should have come to the church in their hour of need, so he didn’t reply. He was simply glad that Asmara was receiving care.
In fact, for a man who had reluctantly admitted them into his residence, the priest had moved past that annoyance and was taking charge of Asmara’s care. He seemed very confident about it. After ensuring she drank the milk with the poppy in it, he approached her with a small dagger and tore away the tunic around the wound.
“Ah,” he said as he inspected the puncture. “It is not too deep, but it must be cleaned. Be still, lady, and this will go quickly.”
Asmara looked at him warily. “What are you going to do?” she demanded. “And why are you doing this? I did not give you permission to touch me.”
Jestin immediately stood up, looking at Blayth and pointing to Asmara. “Then you tend this ungrateful woman,” he said. “I can promise you have not tended nearly as many wounds as I have, but go ahead. Make a mess of her and I will not stop you.”
Frankly, Blayth wasn’t very good tending battle wounds. He’d seen many, of course, and could make do in rendering basic aid, but the tending of the wounded had always fallen to other men who were more specialized in it. In spite of his brusque manner, Jestin seemed much more comfortable around potions and needles. Blayth was confident in many things, but healing wasn’t one of them.
“Were you once a physic?” he asked. “Is that why you have potions and know so much about healing?”
Jestin lifted his skinny shoulders. “I read,” he said. “I read a great deal. I have treatises and books and documents from all over our world that tell of many things, so I have learned much. You have seen my collection of treasures; there is a good deal of information in these treasures and I have memorized it all. When anyone is wounded in the village, they come to me because they know I can heal them. That is why I asked if you had been sent.”
Blayth shook his head. “As I told you, no one sent us,” he said. “If you have knowledge on healing, then I would ask you to tend the lady. She will be still for you, I swear it. But know that I shall be watching everything you do and if I am not satisfied, you will not live to see the dawn.”
Jestin gave him an expression that suggested he wasn’t intimidated by the threat. “You will be satisfied,” he said. “And then you and your ungrateful wife will leave me and never return.”
It seemed like a fair deal, so Blayth nodded and Jestin returned to his position over Asmara. She didn’t seem thrilled by it, but she had little choice. She turned her head and closed her eyes as Blayth came up beside her, taking her good hand and holding it tightly as Jestin went to work.
Asmara did a good deal of grunting and wincing as Jestin picked bits of cloth from her wound, carefully, and periodically cleansing it with the wine. That seemed to hurt the most and she gasped whenever he poured the alcohol into the wound. Blayth held her hand tightly and had his arm around her shoulders, preventing her from moving around too much, as Jestin cleansed and picked. He took the iron stick-like implement and used the flat end of it to scrape out whatever debris he hadn’t been able to pick away. It had been excruciating for Asmara, who had her face buried in Blayth’s chest.
The cleansing and scraping seemed to go on for quite some time. Blayth was torn between anger that Jestin was causing Asmara pain, and gratitude that he was being so thorough. When the priest had finished picking and washing and scraping, he finally took a bone needle and fine silk thread and put six quick stitches in Asmara’s shoulder. She yelped a little, for it was clearly painful, but that was the extent of her visible pain.
When it was finally over, Jestin took the bandages he’d made and wrapped her shoulder up in them. The last step was to hand Blayth another cup that was half-full of a dark liquid that smelled horrific. He wanted Asmara to drink it, which she did, choking it down miserably because it tasted so badly. When Blayth handed the empty cup back to Jestin, the priest pointed towards the doorway to the second chamber.
“In there,” he said quietly, gathering his things. “There is a bed in there. Put her there to rest.”
Blayth obeyed. Asmara was exhausted and in pain, and the poppy potion had made her extremely sleepy. Bending over, he swept her into his arms and carried her into the second chamber, which was far more cluttered than the first, but there was, indeed, a small cot shoved against the wall. A cat was sleeping on it and he swept the cat away with his foot, depositing Asmara onto the straw mattress. She was nearly asleep when he pulled the rough woolen blanket over her.
“Sleep now,” he whispered, kissing her on the forehead. “I shall be nearby should you need me.”
Asmara didn’t respond. Her eyes were closed and she was asleep already. Pain, exhaustion, and the poppy had seen to that. Blayth’s gaze lingered on her a moment before wandering out into the main chamber.
Jestin was wiping out cups and cleaning the iron implement with wine as he emerged and headed over to the blazing fire. Now that Asmara was tended, he hoped to get some sleep before the night was through but, upon reflection, he thought that was a ridiculous hope. He’d be awake all night in case Asmara needed him. He and the surly priest were about to keep each other company.
“I will pay you for your services before we leave,” he said. “I am grateful for your assistance.”
Jestin snorted as he wiped the iron implement. “As if I had a choice,” he said. “You burst in without invitation.”
Blayth couldn’t disagree. “You are fortunate that is all I did, considering you called the lady fire-tongued.”
“Well… she is.”
“She most certainly is, but that is not for you to say.”
Jestin continued to snort as he put his things away. “I will grant you the husband’s privilege of insulting your wife, but I will not apologize for what I said,” he replied. “She said you were attacked. Where did this happen?”
“Gwendraith,” he said. It wasn’t a lie, after all. “And before you ask me why we came so far before seeking help, we feared that we were followed.”
“Were you?”
“I do not believe so.”
Jestin began pulling out other things. It seemed as if the man was constantly busy, unable to remain still. The cat that Blayth had swept from the bed came slinking into the chamber and the priest petted the cat, putting it up on the table and pouring it some goat’s milk.
“She also said that you were going to visit your family,” he said. “Where are you from?”
Blayth didn’t know how to answer that, considering he didn’t really know himself. “North,” he said, simply because that was the direction they were traveling. He found his attention turning towards the broadswords in the corner again and he meandered in that direction, hoping to change the subject away from him. “How did you come by these swords? They are quite beautiful and expensive, I would imagine. Did someone give them to you?”
Jestin came away from the table in the shadows where he had been standing. He had two cups in his hand and held one out to Blayth as he approached. “Go on,” he said. “Take it. It is cider.”
Blayth complied. He sniffed it before taking a drink of quite possibly the most potent alcohol he’d ever had the misfortune to drink. It was like a stream of fire going down his throat.
“God’s Bones,” he muttered. “That is cider?”
Jestin nodded. “I make it myself from the apples in the orchards surrounding Sanctiadd.”
“What is Sanctiadd?”
“My church.”
“I see,” Blayth said, taking another sup of cider and trying not to cough. “You make liquid fire from those apples.”
Jestin gave him a lopsided grin. “Mayhap,” he said. “Usually, I drink alone. It is rare I have someone to share it with. Even though you barged into my home and were rude, I forgive you. Now you will sit down and tell me of your journey. Your lady will sleep for a long while, so we will have time to converse.”
Blayth planted himself on a stool near the hearth, a small thing against his considerable size. “There is not much to tell of our journey, other than the attack,” he said. “I am more interested in knowing about all of these things you have collected. If I am not mistaken, you also have English shields against the wall.”
The potent liquid fire had the effect of loosening Jestin’s tongue because he had already downed nearly his entire cup, indicative of a man who was used to the strong drink.
“They are indeed English,” the priest said, moving to pour himself more of the cider. “You could say that I am the Keeper.”
Blayth looked at him. “The Keeper of what?”
Jestin glanced at the man. “Of what you see,” he said. “I am the Keeper.”
“But where do you get it?”
Jestin brought the pitcher over to Blayth and poured more into his cup. From the tension they’d endured since pushing their way into the residence to the relative peace of the moment, it seemed rather strange to Blayth that they were now drinking together like old friends, but he went along with it. He was glad he didn’t have to spend the entire night protecting an injured woman from an irate priest.
“I get it from the battles in this valley and others,” Jestin said as he plopped down onto a chair that nearly gave way because he sat down so hard. He steadied the chair and himself before continuing. “This entire valley has seen many battles and there are always things left behind. Sometimes there are battles to the south, at castles along the southern hills, and sometimes I go there, too. When I hear of them, I go. I gather what I can and bring it back here for safe keeping.”
Blayth thought that was an extremely odd thing to do. “But why?”
Jestin pondered the question as he slurped his cider. “Why not?” he said. “These are the fragments of men that must be guarded. These represent men who have died in senseless ways. These are the remnants of lives and, in God’s eyes, they must never be forgotten.”
It was a touching thing to say and, in a sense, Blayth could understand. “So… you keep these to remind God of the men who owned them? Of the men who died?”
Jestin nodded. Then, he peered more closely at Blayth, studying the man in the firelight. “You look as if you have been badly wounded in battle,” he said, gesturing to the left side of his head. “You speak slowly, as if the damage is lasting. What happened to you?”
Blayth wasn’t sure how much to tell him. “I do not remember,” he said honestly. “It was a terrible battle and I was wounded, but I was eventually healed. It took time.”
“Then you understand when I say that these remnants of battle must be preserved. They are tributes to the dead.”
Blayth nodded slowly. “I understand,” he said. “There are a good many English remnants here as well as Welsh.”
Abruptly, Jestin stood up and went over to the great clutter against the far wall. He began to rummage through the wooden shields, once proud symbols of the men who had owned them, and he pulled one shield out to hold it up.
“Do you see this?” he said, displaying a blue and white striped tri-cornered shield. It was beautiful and well-made. “This is from Llandeilo. There was a great battle there a few years ago and the English army was badly destroyed. I found this near a dead de Valence knight. That is the Earl of Pembroke, you know.”
Llandeilo. Blayth’s heart began to pound when Jestin brought up that fateful battle, the one that had changed the course of his life. God, he knew so little about it, but hearing the priest speak of it, he was almost frantic to know what the priest knew. Had he seen anything? Did he witness the carnage?
What did the man know?
“I am aware of Pembroke,” Blayth said, sounding surprisingly calm. “You… you were at Llandeilo?”
Jestin carefully set the shield against the wall. “It is not far from here,” he said. “Panicked men came to tell me about it, so I took my cart and went to the battlefield.”
“Did you see the battle?”
He shook his head. “Only the aftermath,” he said. “Only when the English wounded were being killed and the Welsh were stripping the dead.”
Blayth wasn’t sure what more to ask the man even though he had a thousand questions on his mind. His speech simply wasn’t swift enough to keep up with them, so it was better if he kept his mouth shut and didn’t sound like a fool. But one prevalent thought came to the forefront – if the priest came after the battle, then the armies were already gone at that time. That meant the House of de Wolfe and the other English had retreated.
They would be heading north whilst the priest was heading south along the same road.
Did he see them?
“If you were heading to the battle when the English were retreating, the surely you saw their armies,” he said, feeling anxious and curious. “They must have come this way, heading to the Marches.”
Jestin was pulling forth another shield. “I saw them,” he said. “They were fleeing quickly. They left their wounded; I know because I saw them. It was a slaughter, I am afraid. The English were ambushed, you see, and they could not take the dead.”
Blayth stared at him. They could not take their dead. He had no idea that just those few words could mean so much to him. Morys had told him that he’d been abandoned and unwanted, cast aside by the English, but the priest was telling him otherwise. A man who had been there, and who had seen the carnage, was telling him something completely different.
So Morys had lied to him yet again.
“You are certain of this?” he found himself asking.
“There is no doubt,” Jestin said. “I saw them fleeing and they could only take what they could carry. They left wagons behind, animals, and the dead and wounded. I was able to save some of the wounded from the Welsh, who were killing them all, but there were so many more I could not save. So… I brought their fragments back with me to preserve them. With me, they are protected, and they are remembered. They are not the lost dead.”
He sounded sorrowful as he said it, a man who seemed to have no country boundaries. He was a man of God and that was all that mattered to him. Before Blayth could respond, Jestin held up a big shield, tri-cornered, with a dark green background, gold around the edges, and a black wolf head in the middle. The wolf had its mouth open and big fangs, a very fearsome head, indeed.
“See this shield?” he said. “Someone told me this is the House of de Wolfe. This is one of the greatest families in England. I have one of their tunics here, somewhere. They left a good deal behind when they fled.”
Blayth stared at the shield, feeling something strange wash over him. He couldn’t stop looking at the shield because there was something oddly familiar about it. He was certain he’d never seen it before – or had he? Either way, he had a very strange feeling when he looked at it, as if he knew it but didn’t know it. It was both confusing and mesmerizing. Before he realized it, he was on his feet, moving to the shield even as Jestin set it down. Blayth took the shield from him and held it up in front of his face, looking at it, feeling oh-so-unsteady as he did.
And then it hit him.
He’d seen the shield in his dreams.
When he realized that, he almost dropped the thing. It was the strangest sensation he’d ever known but, as he continued to stare at the shield, he knew for a fact that he recognized it now. He had seen it in his dreams.
A de Wolfe shield.
Oh, God.
“What you have done,” he said, his voice trembling, “is noble. That you would remember men who have been left on the field of battle is one of the greatest acts of kindness I have ever heard. I am sure that if their families knew, they would thank you.”
Jestin could hear the quiver in his tone and turned to see that he was still looking at the de Wolfe shield. He seemed oddly awestruck by it.
“Sometimes, they do thank me,” he said.
Blayth was still looking at the shield. “What do you mean?”
Jestin began to look around at the other things in his collection. “Sometimes the fathers come looking for their sons,” he said. “In fact, a year after the battle, an older knight came looking for his son. Some of the villagers had told him that I collect things from the battlefield, so he came to see if I knew of his son. Unfortunately, I did not. It has happened before, you know, men looking for their sons. But so far, I have never been able to help them. What I keep here with me are the bones of what once was. I do not deal with the living, or even the bodies of the dead. Just the bones of battle.”
Blayth set the shield down, feeling more emotion than he’d ever felt in his life. It was such a monumental moment to him in such an unexpected place. But something Jestin said stuck with him and the question that was poised on his lips was something he could barely force himself to ask.
But he had to.
For the sake of his soul, he had to.
“This older knight,” he whispered. “Who was he?”
Jestin was over by the broadswords now, pulling one forth. “He did not give his name,” he said. “But he asked if I knew of his son.”
“What was his son’s name?”
Jestin snorted, an ironic sound. “Your name, in fact,” he said. “James.”
Blayth’s breath caught in his throat. “Was… was he English?”
“He was,” he said. “He did look at my collection, in fact, and he saw the shields. He seemed to look at the one you were looking at, but he did not say anything about it. He did not ask to take it. I could not tell him about his son, so he simply went away.”
The de Wolfe shield. The old knight had been looking at the de Wolfe shield. Was it a sign that he was from the House of de Wolfe, looking for a lost son? Blayth closed his eyes, struggling with all his might not to weep because his eyes stung with tears. He turned away from the shields, the swords, and sat back down by the fire, laboring with everything he had not to break down.
You were left behind, Morys had said. You were unwanted. Was it possible that the older knight had been his own father, coming to look for the son he’d lost? How many other knights named James were at Llandeilo?
Something told Blayth that his father had, in fact, returned for him. He didn’t know why he should think so, out of all the men who had fought at Llandeilo, but his gut told him his father had returned.
My God, Blayth thought to himself. He came back for me.
Opening his eyes, he blinked away the tears, noticing his cup of cider nearby and he snatched it, draining it and feeling all of that liquid fire course into his belly. Jestin, however, was oblivious to his emotional turmoil, still rifling through the clutter he had in neat stacks against the wall. He had absolutely no idea that this conversation, and those few words he’d delivered, had such an impact on the man seated before his hearth. The clouds had parted, and the sun shone brightly now, the light of understanding and realization in that he hadn’t been abandoned.
He wasn’t unwanted.
Blayth poured himself another full cup of cider.
“Even if you could not help him find his son, I am certain that the families of the men who once owned these possessions appreciate what you have done,” he finally said, his throat tight with emotion. “I am sure it means more than you know.”
Jestin carefully replaced the broadswords, inspecting his collection before heading back to the hearth and his fire-breathing cider.
“I do it because there is something in me that demands it,” he said. “I do not do it for the men who war monger. I do it for their souls, so that in death, they will know some peace. But the bones of war are not all I gather – I collect a great many things, as I told you. I have collected many documents over the years, and many items in general. You saw that the other chamber is full of such things. I even write down legends and stories that I have heard, local stories told to inspire or frighten the children. I record them so that someday, men will know of the legends of our land and they will know of our greatness.”
Blayth cocked an eyebrow. “Then you are a scholar as well as a priest and a healer?”
Jestin nodded. “When I told you that I was a Keeper, I meant it. I keep many things.”
Blayth downed his second cup of cider, finding that it went down easier the more he drank.
“You are like the birds that collect food and twigs to build their nests,” he said. “You feather your nest with anything you can get your hands on, including the bones of war, as you have put it.”
Jestin nodded. “Now you see why I did not unbolt the door for you at the first. I have much to protect.”
“I do not blame you.”
Now, they both had at least two cups of the potent cider in them and tongues, as well as everything else, were loosening. Whatever defenses they’d had up between them were melting away as Jestin poured himself more liquor.
“I am sorry if we started out badly,” he said as he poured. “I am not the rude sort, but I am careful. These days, we must all be careful.”
Blayth nodded, his head buzzing with drink. “That is very true,” he said, thinking of Morys and how the man had lied and manipulated him. “We must be careful even with those we are close to.”
“You speak as if you have known betrayal.”
Blayth sighed heavily. “You could say that.”
Jestin studied him carefully for a moment, the enormous man with the scarred and damaged head.
“Tell me of yourself, James,” he said. “You seem to me like a man who has seen much in life. What great stories can I write about you?”
Blayth lifted the cup to his lips, but he was grinning. “You would not believe me if I told you.
“Try me.”
Blayth took a long drink of cider before looking at the man. Truth be told, the story of his life, or at least what he remembered of it, was something that folktales were made of. Morys had always insisted that he would be a legend in his own time, but Blayth didn’t really believe it. Perhaps as the real bastard son of Llywelyn, he might have been, but as James de Wolfe, an English knight who’d been used and manipulated by an ambitious Welsh lord, he really wasn’t anything at all.
But the tale of Blayth was a fascinating story.
Perhaps it was something worth remembering.
More cider, and a bit more prompting, and Blayth told Jestin the tale of Blayth the Strong, the bastard son of the last Welsh prince, and the greatest hero of all.
It was a story worthy of a legend.