Chapter Seven #3
He lifted his big shoulders, averting his gaze as if that would help him draw on long-buried memories.
“Not really,” he said, “although sometimes I have dreams. I dream of men that I feel as if I should know. I dream of them frequently, in fact. I can almost call them by name, but not quite. As if their names are right at the forefront of my mind but I cannot quite bring them forth.”
Asmara was listening intently. “Surely that is frustrating.”
He gave her a wry smile. “It is,” he said.
Then, his eyes took on that faraway look again.
“In my dreams, I can see their faces. I know they are English because I can see the armor they are wearing. Not all of the time, but sometimes. Morys has told me that those men were my captors. Those are the bastards who did this to me.”
He had his hand up on the left side of his head, touching the area that was so damaged and scarred. Asmara was deeply surprised to see the emotion in him, the vulnerability of a man who had such a fearless reputation.
“It is possible,” she said. “Surely you would not forget men who harmed you so terribly.”
Blayth dropped his hand from his head as it brushed over the ear that was no longer there.
“That is the strange part,” he said. “I see these men and I do not feel as if I hate them. It is hard to describe, but when I dream of them, I feel… love. The love that one would feel for a family, I suppose. I do not think these men were the ones who tortured me, as Morys has said. I feel as if they are something else.”
“What else?”
He sighed heavily. “I do not know. I wish I did.”
Asmara couldn’t help but feel a good deal of pity for the man.
“Your story is a tragic one,” she said, “but you have come through it. You are a man that everyone admires, and you have a great destiny to fulfill. Mayhap through you, Wales will finally know a measure of freedom, as your father had once hoped for.”
He lifted his eyebrows, as if not at all convinced of that.
“Either that, or I will end up dead like my father,” he said.
“Morys says that the English will kill me if they capture me. That is why he has kept me away from them, even in battle. In fact, we have the English garrison commander of Gwendraith in the vault at this very moment that he has not let me go near. Morys has interrogated the man for more information on English plans in the south of Wales but, so far, the man has not told him anything he did not already know.”
Asmara found that most interesting. “Does Morys plan to kill him?”
Blayth shook his head. “Nay,” he said. “I told him not to kill the captive. I think we can use the man to our advantage.”
“How?”
A glimmer came to his eye. “Because even if the man refuses to tell us anything more of the Saesneg plans in this area, we can send him back to England with a message of our own. A message to the Marcher lords that a new force is rising in Wales. I will succeed where so many other Welsh lords have failed.”
Asmara shrugged. “How?” she said. “Please do not take offense to this, but it seems as if Morys tries to think for you. You are clearly a strong and intelligent man. Do you really need Morys to tell you what to do?”
That smile was on Blayth’s lips again. “Make no mistake,” he said.
“Morys may be louder than I am, but it is I who give the commands. Morys has taken many of my own ideas and claimed them as his own, and I suppose I do not care. Morys is a man who needs glory and attention. I do not. All that you see, every successful battle, every successful move, is because of me.”
Asmara didn’t doubt him for a moment. “I believe you,” she said. “Speaking of Morys, where is he?”
“He has gone to Carmarthen Castle, taking his teulu with him, including Aeddan and Pryce. He went to confer with Howell.”
“And you remained here?”
“He left me in command. And I have an English knight to send back to the Marcher lords with a message.”
“Does Morys know this? I thought you said he kept you away from the English.”
He shrugged. “He is not here, so whatever I do is of my own decision,” he said.
“In fact, I was heading to the vault when I saw you arrive. Mayhap you would like to attend me as I speak to the man? Nothing will insult the Saesneg more than to realize the Welsh Dragon Princess has the power over his life or his death.”
The thought was a pleasing one. “I have never met an English knight before.”
Blayth stood up from the table. “Nor I,” he said. “At least, not that I recall.”
Because he was standing, Asmara stood up as well. “I would like to see this Saesneg,” she said. “I am curious about him, I admit. English knights are difficult to come by. At least, captive ones are.”
Blayth’s smile broke through. “You can look, but you cannot touch. No beating the man to death.”
She feigned shock. “Me? Why would you say such a thing?”
His grin broadened. “Something tells me that you have a rabid hatred for the English,” he said. “And we need this one alive if our message is to make it back to England.”
They were walking to the hall entry now, with Asmara walking beside Blayth for the first time. Normally, she’d been behind him or far away from him but, this time, she walked alongside him. It felt right and natural to her.
She liked it.
“I will not move against the man unless he tries to capture you,” she said. “It is wise of you to bring me as your bodyguard.”
He looked at her, amused. “Demoiselle, I am quite happy to have you as my teulu,” he said. “I will be the envy of every man.”
Something about the way he looked at her made Asmara feel hot all over. If he continued to look at her like that, she would swear fealty to him as his teulu and never look back.
It was a rather wonderful feeling, after all.
The vaults, or dungeons, of Gwendraith were rather strange. Since the castle sat atop a rocky hill, much of the rock was incorporated into the structure of the castle, and that included the vaults, which were actually old storage pits that had been converted for use as cells.
At some point, great iron bars were used to cap the pits, held in with mortar and stone.
These pits were in the lower level of the keep but they were accessed in the outer ward by a narrow doorway in the base of one of the keep’s corner towers.
A long, cramped passageway led to the former storage vaults, now a prison.
An iron grate covered the access doorway, too, and it was kept bolted.
When Blayth and Asmara approached, the Welsh guard from the inside unbolted the grate, pulling it open on sticky hinges.
Before Blayth and Asmara headed back into the dark passage, the guard at the gate handed them a torch to light their way.
The passage was narrow and low-ceilinged, as black as pitch if they hadn’t been carrying the torch.
The ceiling was black and greasy from the numerous torches that had been used to light it.
But the passage was also mercifully short, and they emerged into the former storage area with the big pits sunk into the rock.
It was already lit by a torch, but it was hardly enough light to see by, as the space was fairly vast. As Blayth put the torch in an iron sconce, Asmara drifted over to one of the pits.
They were dark and smelled heavily of urine.
There were six in total; she could see two men stuffed into one, and then one man in another, but the other four remained empty.
They couldn’t have been more than four feet deep, meaning the prisoners couldn’t stand up in them.
They remained stuffed into them like corks in a bottle.
As she looked at them, she couldn’t help feel that the conditions were rather barbaric.
It surely must have been a hellish existence for a man to be rammed into one of these small pits.
Even if the prisoners were English.
Over to her right, Blayth had finished securing the torch and he headed to the pit with the single man in it. Throwing the bolt in the top of the grate that covered the pit, he opened the grate, braced his big legs, and reached down to pull the man out.
There was a good deal of grunting and groaning from the prisoner as his stiff body was moved around.
Blayth dragged him across the stony dirt floor until he came to a wall.
Then, he propped the man up against it as Asmara came up behind him and unsheathed her sword.
When Blayth caught a flash of her blade, he looked at her curiously.
“I told you that you could not kill him,” he pointed out.
Her gaze was on the prisoner, but she tore it away long enough to address him. “This is not to kill him,” she said. “This is to protect you should he try to move against you.”
Blayth couldn’t help the grin. “I see you take your position as my teulu seriously.”
Asmara merely shrugged, her gaze returning to the prisoner.
She was quite serious about her stance and Blayth couldn’t help but be flattered.
To have the Dragon Princess as his defender made him feel rather important, but it was more than that.
Her intention to protect him made him feel as if her feelings on the matter were personal.
She wanted to protect him, almost as if he meant something to her.
Was such a thing even possible?
It was difficult not to ponder that very thought as he turned his focus to his prisoner.
The man was in terrible shape. Having been kept in a ball for nearly a month had done awful things to his body.
He tried to stretch out his legs, grunting with pain as he did so, and it was apparent that he was a fairly tall man.
Asmara stayed out of his range as he twisted and grunted, trying to straighten himself out.
“Tell me your name,” Blayth said in a low, threatening tone.
The man was rubbing the back of his neck. “I respectfully refuse,” he said. “I will not have you ransom my family. I am sure you understand.”