Chapter Seven
Gwendraith Castle
Wales
Her father had no idea she had come.
Asmara rode astride her frisky stallion, gazing up at Gwendraith Castle as she neared the bottom of the hill that it was perched upon.
As far as Cader was concerned, she was still at Llandarog, going about her boring duties and generally being occupied as a commander of men who were now in charge of Llandarog Castle.
But that was far from the case.
Four long weeks and she was ready to scream.
Cader and his men were quite happy holding fast to the castle, eating their daily meals, going about their duties, and any number of utterly unexciting and dull tasks.
Fairynne had been sent home, back to their mother in their small village of Talley, but Cader had kept Asmara with him.
She’d earned the right to stay as far as he was concerned, but remaining at Llandarog was the last thing Asmara wanted to do.
She wanted to go to Gwendraith.
Therefore, on a sunny, autumn afternoon when her father was out with some of his men, hunting in the countryside, Asmara had slipped out of Llandarog and headed northeast towards Gwendraith.
The weather was surprisingly calm, as the terrible rains they’d suffered had been gone for over a week, so the roads were passable, and the ride north had been a pleasant one.
Asmara had given the horse its head, and it had glided with swift and sure hooves.
Truly, it had been foolish leaving Llandarog, but something was drawing her to Gwendraith. Someone was drawing her there. She’d tried to pretend as if he were of no concern to her and that she simply wanted to go where the action was but, increasingly, she knew that wasn’t the truth.
She couldn’t get Blayth out of her mind.
She’d missed him. What a fool she was! She hardly knew the man but, still, she’d missed him.
No man had ever intrigued her like the big, scarred warrior, and she didn’t want to remain at Llandarog, dying of boredom, while Blayth was at Gwendraith and living an exciting life.
How exciting, she didn’t know, but she intended to find out. She wanted to be where he was.
She was most definitely a fool.
The ride to Gwendraith went without incident and she arrived in the late afternoon.
Having never been to Gwendraith, she didn’t know what to expect, and what she found was a big castle on a hill overlooking a small village and the green, green Welsh landscape below.
A small river carved a blue ribbon at the base of it, drifting out into the valley beyond.
A road led up the rocky hill and she passed a few stone huts and herds of puffy sheep being tended by shepherds bearing nasty-looking crossbows.
She thought she recognized them, some of the trossodol that her mother had referred to, the mercenary-like criminals who followed Morys.
She didn’t remember seeing some of them in the battle for Llandarog but now, they were at Gwendraith.
Undoubtedly, they’d come from Brecfa. But she turned her attention away from them and to the road that led to a big gatehouse, with twin towers on either side.
Once she was through the gatehouse, a massive lower bailey opened up that covered nearly the entire hilltop.
The bailey was full of outbuildings and men, and she continued up the road which now led to the keep at the top of the slope.
Although the curtain wall and exterior defenses were grand, there wasn’t much to protect the inner ward, so it explained how easily the Welsh were able to overtake the castle.
There was simply a gate to protect the inner ward, so once the army came over the walls and through the main gatehouse, there wasn’t much to stop them from taking the keep.
It was an interesting flaw in an otherwise magnificent castle.
Given the vastness of the outer ward, the inner ward was quite small.
In fact, it was more of a courtyard in the center of a keep, which was built up around it.
A servant, a Welshman with an accent so thick that she could barely understand him, indicated for Asmara to follow him into the keep.
Dismounting her horse, she collected her satchel and complied.
Upon entering the foyer, Asmara was surprised to see that she was in a big chamber that was two stories tall.
To her left was an enormous, arched door that opened up into what she thought might be the great hall simply for its size, but to the right was another doorway with heavy iron bars attached to it that led into what was evidently the lord’s chambers and more.
It was a rather low-ceilinged doorway that led into dark passages beyond.
The servant took her into the hall, which had a floor made of stone.
That was rare, when most halls on the ground level had dirt floors.
Asmara sat down at a very big table, propped up by stones on one side because it was missing a leg, as the servant rushed off to find her something to drink and eat.
She found herself looking around the hall of Gwendraith, impressed with the sheer size of the place.
Behind her, several very tall lancet windows emitted some light and ventilation into the room, and above her head was a minstrel’s gallery.
Most Welsh castles didn’t have that feature, which led her to believe that, at some point, the Normans built this hall.
The size of it and the details had their mark all over it.
Even though Asmara was weary from her travels, she couldn’t seem to sit still.
She stood up and wandered over to the hearth, a massive thing that was taller than she was.
It had been cleaned of the ashes, ready to burn tonight as the hall filled with Welshmen.
She touched the stones around it and noted the iron fire back that, when hot, would project even more heat into the room.
As she stood there and fingered the stone, she didn’t hear someone enter the hall behind her.
It was Blayth.
In truth, he couldn’t believe his eyes. He had been in the outer bailey, preparing to enter the forebuilding that led down to the vault, when he saw her ride in.
At first, he thought that he might have been seeing things, but the long-legged woman with the long, dark hair rode past him, at a distance, and he knew there couldn’t be two like her in the entire world.
Asmara ferch Cader was making an appearance and Blayth dropped what he was doing to follow her trail into the inner ward.
For a man who never gave women much thought, he’d given Asmara a good deal of it.
She’d impressed him greatly with her skill the night Llandarog was captured, and as man with a warrior’s heart, he was coming to appreciate a woman with the same.
He still didn’t believe women belonged in battle, but Asmara wasn’t just any woman.
She was quite different, as he’d seen, and when he’d departed Llandarog last month to come to Gwendraith, he was genuinely sorry to have left her behind.
The little minx had grown on him and instead of letting her memory fade during his time at Gwendraith, it had only seemed to grow stronger.
He wasn’t hard-pressed to admit that he was glad to see her.
Now, Blayth stood in the massive arched doorway of Gwendraith’s hall, watching Asmara over near the hearth and thinking that, quite possibly, she’d grown more beautiful since the last time he saw her.
He simply watched her, digesting the way her body moved, her graceful limbs and lovely hands.
It seemed so strange to him that such beautiful fingers could kill a man.
He watched her drag her hand over the stone of the hearth.
She was as flawless as he’d ever seen.
“Why are you here?” he heard himself ask.
Asmara whirled around to face him, surprise evident on her face. Shock was more like it. But she covered it quickly, coming away from the hearth and heading in his direction.
“My… my father sent me,” she lied. “There is nothing happening at Llandarog these days. The men are growing fat and lazy. He thought that you could use me here at Gwendraith.”
That voice, Blayth thought. Like warm honey, pouring into his ears. He felt like a fool to realize that he had actually missed that voice, but the truth was that he didn’t care why she’d come. Only that she had.
“The English have not tried to take back Llandarog?” he asked.
She shook her head as she drew closer. “Nay,” she said. “What about this place? Have they tried to regain it?”
Blayth lifted a challenging eyebrow. “They would not dare.”
There was that dry wit again. He’d used it on her one or twice, and Asmara had thought he might have been mocking her with it.
But now she was coming to think that it was purely his personality.
It was a very small insight into a mysterious and complex man, so she decided to play along and see where it took her.
“Why?” she asked. “Because you are here?”
“Why else?”
She grinned. Before she could reply, however, the servant returned with a tray of food and drink, and Asmara realized how thirsty she was.
She headed over to the table, pulling the cloth from the tray and peering at the contents – watered ale, hard white cheese, crusty bread, and small apples.
Asmara plopped down on the bench and began to pour herself some ale.
“Will you join me?” she asked Blayth.
His response was to move to the table and sit opposite her as she drained her cup of ale, smacking her lips. He watched her as she poured herself another cup.
“I have not eaten since early this morning, so forgive me for being rude,” she said. Then, she looked around the table as if searching for something. “I do not see another cup. If you wish to drink from the pitcher, I do not mind.”