Chapter Three #2
Morys turned to look at the pale warrior standing behind him. His eyes fixed on the man, proudly, as a father would show pride in a son. He walked towards the warrior, pointing to him.
Now, it was Morys’ time to show his worth in all of this.
He was a man with a secret.
“Blayth,” he said, drawing out the name to ensure everyone heard him. “We have Blayth, the man whose very name means wolf. He knows what the Saesneg are thinking, and if anyone can lead this fight, it will be our battle wolf. I would put my trust in no one else; not even de Shera.”
Men began grumbling again, some of them agreeing, some of them not. Given that Blayth had earned an almost legendary reputation in a few short years, men weren’t ready yet to contradict Morys, but they were uncertain.
Morys knew this, but he had something else in mind, something that would put these men right into the palm of his hand.
It was something he’d been working on the day he realized that badly wounded warrior he’d found near Llandeilo was going to live.
He’d known even then that the man was something special, and he knew what no one else knew about him – that he was, indeed, a Saesneg.
But Blayth had no recollection of who he was, or where he’d come from.
In fact, his very name stemmed from nearly the only word he’d been able to say as he recovered from his injury those years ago – wolf.
That word had become his Welsh name, Blayth, and from that name sprang a warrior of legend, something that Morys had perpetuated.
He’d created the stories, and spread many of the rumors, but the one thing he hadn’t needed to exaggerate was Blayth’s prowess in battle.
The man was unbeatable. His men, and the Welsh in general, were badly in need of a hero since the death of the lasts Welsh prince.
Morys intended to give them one.
“I give you the man who will lead us to freedom,” Morys finally boomed.
“Some of you have fought with him and know the truth of my words, but some of you do not know. You have heard rumor how he came into my service, but I will tell you the truth once and for all. I have been protecting the man’s identity because it has been entrusted to me.
I swore an oath never to reveal his true family lineage, but since my cousin has decided to once again throw the south into turmoil with his plans for Pembroke, I find that I must reveal the true identity of Blayth, the greatest warrior Wales will ever know.
He, and only he, can lead us to victory. And do you know why?”
Morys was, if nothing else, a man who could stir crowds. He had a magnetic presence and a natural air of command that made men take notice of him and as he spoke most passionately, the men were naturally drawn to what he was saying. One of the men shouted the obvious question.
“Why, lord?” the man demanded. “Tell us of Blayth!”
Morys pointed to Blayth. “See his head?” he shouted. “See the damage to his head? The Saesneg did that. They tortured the poor lad and tried to burn the Welsh right out of him, but they could not do it. They could not destroy his Welsh heart!”
The men in the room, Cader and Howell included, were looking seriously at Blayth, who was solely focused on Morys. It was as if there was no one else in the room, oblivious to an entire room of men staring at him. Enjoying the fact that he had everyone’s attention, Morys continued.
“The Saesneg tried to destroy him,” he said passionately.
“They tried to destroy his heart, because it is a pure Welsh heart. The Saesneg knew who he was, but those loyal to Cymru smuggled him out of his prison and gave him over to me. These men, these smugglers, were old and beaten, because they were the teulu of our greatest warrior. They knew who Blayth was and they entrusted his care to me.”
By this time, Howell had made his way over to Morys. He was still standing on the worn and beaten feasting table, but he climbed down in order to be at Morys’ level.
“We have all wondered where Blayth came from,” he said. “From the looks of him, it makes sense that the English tortured him.”
Morys nodded, putting a hand on Howell’s shoulder.
In truth, Morys was enjoying the performance of a lifetime because, for his own glory, he had to sell this.
The man with no sons, and no children at all, had to cement legacy.
It all rested with a story he’d spent years building about a wounded warrior who had no memory.
Morys would provide him with that memory.
“The Saesneg captured Blayth at a very young age and kept him in their prisons,” he said.
“It was the loyal teulu of Llywelyn ap Gruffydd that freed Blayth from the Saesneg. That is because the English knew, as you will now know, that Blayth the Strong is, in truth, Blayth ap Llywelyn. He is the bastard son of the last Prince of Wales, Llywelyn ap Gruffydd.”
A collective gasp went up in the group. No one had been expecting that answer, least of all Howell or even Cader. They looked at each other in shock before Howell returned his attention to Morys.
“He… he is Llywelyn’s son?” he said, incredulous. “But – how? We have not heard of such a child of Llywelyn. He only had a daughter, and she has long been a ward of the Saesneg. Now you are saying that the man had a son?”
Morys nodded confidently. “Blayth was sold by his whore of a mother to the Saesneg,” he said.
“The bitch sold her child for gold and the Saesneg took him to their great city, to their great Tower, and there he has been his entire life. Men believe he is a Saesneg because of it, but that is not true. He was freed and brought to me to protect him, and it is Blayth who shall lead our countrymen to victory against Edward. Who else but a man who has been tortured and wronged to lead the charge against those who tried to destroy him?”
It made perfect sense to the Welsh, who were increasingly excited about what they’d been told. A buzz filled the room as men began to speak of the unknown bastard son of Llywelyn the Last, but the conversation wasn’t entirely positive. There were those who were not thrilled by such news.
“Llywelyn was a northern prince,” one older man shouted. “His gain was only for the north. Why should we want his bastard for us?”
Morys suspected that might be an issue, but he would not allow old prejudices to mar his glory seeking.
“Llywelyn may have been a northern prince, but he fought for all of Wales,” he said.
“He did what was necessary to secure our country for north and south. Now that we have his bastard in our midst, a man who has already proven that he has greatness in his blood, would you truly allow old hatreds to ruin our chance to take back our country from the Saesneg? It is a very real possibility, now that we have Blayth among us. Would you deny a Welsh prince his destiny?”
Of course, no one would. Wales was full of history of Welsh princes fighting the English, and sometimes each other. But England was the greater threat and they were all united against it.
Now, they had renewed hope.
It was almost too good to be true, but gradually, men began to realize the opportunity that was presented.
Morys ap Macsen was a passionate patriot and the men trusted him.
Over the past few years, Blayth’s record on the battlefield spoke for itself.
He was a fierce warrior, fearless in the face of the enemy, and his reputation had been cemented.
Surely such a man could have only sprung from Llywelyn’s loins.
And now, he would fulfill his destiny.
At that point, there were no more voices of protest. In truth, it was a thrilling prospect.
But standing next to Morys, Howell’s reaction was decidedly different.
He couldn’t decide if he believed Morys or not.
He knew the man; he was a teller of tall tales, but he was also a fearsome warrior and deeply dedicated to Wales.
As the men of the hall began to take up a cheer for Blayth, Howell grasped Morys by the arm.
“Swear this to me,” he muttered. “Swear to me that all you have said is true.”
Morys looked him right in the eye. “It is true.”
Howell shook his head, still torn. “Then why have we never heard of Llywelyn’s bastard? No one has ever spoken of a bastard son.”
Morys was completely confident in his answer. “I told you,” he said patiently. “His mother was a servant and she sold the lad when he was but an infant. Do you truly think she would then tell everyone that she sold Llywelyn’s son to the English?”
Howell glanced at Blayth, standing like a massive sentinel behind Morys.
He was pale, scarred, and every inch the seasoned warrior.
If one wanted to believe that he was from Llywelyn’s loins, then it would be easy to do so.
Men seeking hope, something to cling to, would be willing to believe such a thing.
But Howell still wasn’t sure.
“But you said that Llywelyn’s teulu knew of him,” he said. “Are you telling me that in all of these years, they never once bargained for his freedom?”
Morys fixed him, pointedly. “Would you?” he asked. “The fact that the English did not kill him as an infant was a miracle in and of itself. Do you think if the teulu had tried to bargain for him, that Edward might not change his mind?”
That was the truth. Any true Welsh prince wasn’t long for this world if the English had anything to say about it. The fact that they evidently kept the man alive, and tortured him, was something beyond horrific, and Howell began to soften, just a little.
“So they knew of him,” he finally said. “Then what? Have they been tracking him all this time? The man must be forty years old. He is not a young man.”