CHAPTER ONE
August, Year of our Lord 1287
Carmarthen Castle, Wales
It was a gathering among gatherings, a most important meeting that could, and would, determine quite a bit in a world where the English held parts of Wales, while still other parts were ruled by various warlords.
But this gathering was different.
Carmarthen Castle was awash with Welshmen, rebels from the mountains, from the seaside, and everything in between. All of them were gathered for a most important conference. Patience, they didn’t have.
But vengeance… they had enough to fill the ocean.
The castle sat on a rocky outcropping above the River Towy, which meandered through the green and lush land on its way to the sea. Gulls flew this far inland, swooping over the river banks and diving for meals from the scraps left on the river banks by the fishermen.
But in the village itself, tension could be felt because the roads and alleys were full of Welshmen from different tribes and ruling houses, all of them converging on the castle. There were many rivals and allies, even though every Welshman considered every other Welshman a cymry, or fellow Welsh. There was a good deal of infighting and hostility among the factions but, in all cases, those hostilities were put aside when it came to the Saesneg.
The English.
And that was why they’d gathered at Carmarthen Castle, which had been through some rough times over the past century. For the past ten years, it had belonged to Howell ap Gruffydd, who had taken it from William Marshal the Younger, but Howell hadn’t done much to effect repairs the castle so badly needed, mostly because he didn’t want a repaired castle to fall back into English hands. The castle had been tossed back and forth between the Welsh and the English over the years but, at the moment, Howell had it. But there was no guarantee that would be the case next year, or even next month.
It was, therefore, symbolic that this meeting take place at Carmarthen. And even as Welshmen flocked to the castle, men were wearing their long, woolen tunics and carrying the weapons that were traditional to Welsh warriors. These were men of mail and shields, teulu to great warlords, and always prepared for a fight. They employed effective fighting methods, and they were rabid in their love of their country.
Howell knew this because he was one of them. Standing on the second floor of the gatehouse of Carmarthen, he was watching the Welshmen as they filtered into the castle. His men were keeping watch to ensure no tempers or old hostilities flared. The peace must be kept, especially in light of what was to come. There was renewed rebellion in the air and Howell was at the head of it, but he couldn’t do it alone. If he could rouse the men of Southern Wales, then perhaps they could reclaim their country once and for all. As he stood there, envisioning the glory to come, one of his teulu, or personal guard, joined him on the wall.
“Almost everyone we have invited has come,” he said. “Men are gathering in the hall and await you.”
Howell was still looking out over the countryside, over the river that flowed like a murky, muddy ribbon. “But Morys has not arrived yet.”
The teulu shook his head. “He has not,” he said. “Morys ap Macsen has not arrived, nor has the man who fights with him.”
Howell drew in a long, thoughtful breath. “Say his name, Hew,” he said quietly. “Blayth yn gryf. They say that any battle Blayth the Strong is involved in is an assured victory because he can read the minds of the Saesneg.”
Hew had heard that, also, but he wasn’t so willing to give credence to the rumors. “Is he a witch, then? I am not certain that I want to follow a witch into battle.”
Howell smiled faintly. “He is not a witch,” he said. “He is something… more.”
Hew was uncomfortable with such talk. “What more?” he demanded. “Lord, must I remind you that we really know nothing of Blayth the Strong?”
“We know enough.”
Hew sighed sharply. “Morys said that he simply appeared in the village one day and no one seems to know where he came from,” he said. Then, he lowered his voice. “I have heard rumor that Morys found him half-dead on the field of battle and brought him back to life. Back to life! Mayhap Blayth is a wraith or a phantom that has taken the form of a man. I do not trust such a man.”
Howell looked at the man. He was an excellent soldier and a loyal servant, but he was also a worrier. He smiled. “You fret like an old woman,” he said. “There is no denying Blayth and his reputation. Many men have fought with him over the past five years and swear by his tactics. Even you have fought with him, Hew, at the skirmish near Pembroke. Do you recall how he outmaneuvered the Saesneg knights and was able to destroy the postern gate at Wiston Castle?”
Hew grew frustrated at the talk, mostly because he knew Howell was correct – the man they called Blayth the Strong was as amazing as everyone said he was. Perhaps there was even some jealousy there.
“The man moves like magic,” he said, almost sarcastically. “But he fights like a Saesneg. Mayhap he is a Saesneg.”
“You cannot know that for certain.”
“How can you say that when no one knows where he has come from?”
Howell shrugged. “Morys knows,” he said, “and I trust the man. He is a strong leader who commands many men, including Blayth. He would not betray us.”
Hew knew better than to question Morys ap Macsen’s reputation. He was a warlord that lived high in the mountains near Brecfa, about a day’s ride from Carmarthen, in a stronghold known as Mynydd Gwyn – White Mountain. He was a man of royal blood, descended from the kings of Deheubarth, from the House of Dinefwr, and was considered a great leader in the south. But he was also petty, ambitious, and conniving, and he very much wanted control of the region that had once been Deheubarth, so much so that it had driven a wedge between him and his younger brother, Cader.
Cader was supposed to be in attendance today as well, which would make things interesting when the brothers ap Macsen were in the same room together for the first time in a long while. Cader at least had some restraint, but Morys had none at all, and that was why Hew was so reluctant to trust the mysterious warrior with no past, the man who led the Welsh to victory time and time again. Morys would say anything, about anyone, if it gained him victory.
Hew didn’t trust him even if Howell did.
“Then I hope you are right,” Hew said after a moment. “I hope Morys’ mysterious warrior can do what we all hope he can do.”
Howell nodded faintly. “As I said, we have all seen him in battle. It is not as if the man hasn’t proven himself.” He paused, his attention moving to the horizon. “But I seriously wonder if Cader will make an appearance. Surely he knows his brother will be here today.”
Hew cleared his throat softly. “I have been wondering the very same thing,” he admitted. “The grandsons of Rhys Gryg are not at peace. In fact, it will make this gathering… interesting.”
Howell grinned, a lopsided gesture. “Let us make sure we keep them on opposite sides of the hall,” he said. “Morys is fearsome, but Cader is as fast as a cat. I do not want them tearing into each other.”
“Nor I.”
“This gathering is not about their relationship. We will remind them of that if we need to.”
Hew nodded, knowing that it might come to that. In all of the skirmishes over the past few years, never once had Cader allied with his brother, so what Howell was about to propose might leave a bitter taste in the mouths of the ap Macsen brothers.
But it couldn’t be helped.
Hew was about to reply but something caught his eye. He leaned forward on the gray stone wall, peering at the road that led up to the gatehouse. Down the road, a party approached, coming closer by the second. Finally, Hew pointed.
“There they are,” he said. “I recognize Morys’ steed.”
Howell saw it, too. “Go,” he said. “Keep the man with you. I will watch for Cader. Meanwhile, make sure everyone has gathered in the hall. I will join you as soon as Cader arrives.”
“And if he does not arrive?”
“We shall know soon enough.”
Hew fled the wall, heading down to inform the teulu in the bailey that Morys ap Macsen was approaching. The man was royalty and would be received as such. But even as the Welshmen in the bailey scrambled to greet the incoming warlord, Howell took a moment to watch them approach until they were nearly underneath him. When Morys saw Howell, he raised a hand. Howell lifted one in return.
But he wasn’t really looking at the grizzled old warlord who was so hairy and big that he looked like a beast more than man. He was looking at the enormous warrior that rode to his right, the very man they’d been speaking of. Blayth the Strong. Howell took a moment to look over the man who was well on his way to earning a legendary reputation; he was a big man, no doubt, with scarred arms and legs, and a massive scar that ran from the left side of neck and disappeared beneath his tunic.
But the most pronounced distinction of Blayth was the left side of his head, which had clearly been damaged in battle at some point. The man had a handsome, symmetrical face and, according to the Welsh women, he was quite alluring in a mysterious, masculine sort of way. His eyes were the color of the sky, his skin fair, and his hair was blond with a hint of red to it. He had a beard, which was neatly trimmed, but he kept the sides of his head shorn, leaving the top longer so that it flopped over his eyes unless he raked it back against his skull. It was that shorn style of hair that made the injury on the left side of his head so much more pronounced; his temple, left cheekbone and nearly the entire left side of his head was badly scarred. His left ear had been mangled and was barely something that even resembled an ear.
But Blayth didn’t hide the damage. He proudly displayed it, like a badge of honor. Howell watched the man and the rest of Morys’ teulu as they passed beneath the gatehouse, his thoughts lingering on the frightening-looking warrior who had already led many a victorious battle. Truthfully, much of the success of the meeting on this day hinged on Morys and his warrior, and Howell prayed that today of all days, the Welsh would once again find a passion for rebellion. He prayed that the cymry were once again fueled with the love of their country and for their freedom from the Saesneg, because for certain, if they weren’t, then all would be lost. He prayed that Blayth the Strong could help fuel that which was dying.
It was time to stir the fires of rebellion yet again.