Chapter Seven #5
Blayth didn’t say anything for a moment; he didn’t want to speak to a man who wasn’t looking at him.
The longer he remained silent, the more perplexed Corbett became until he finally opened his eyes and looked up, squinting against the torchlight with bloodshot eyes.
Their eyes met, and Corbett blinked rapidly, several times, because his eyes were paining him so.
“Well?” he asked. “Will you tell me?”
Blayth nodded. “I will,” he said. “But I will not speak of something so important to a man who will not look me in the eye. What you are to tell your English overlords is simple – you will tell them that a new rebellion is rising in the south of Wales, led by the bastard son of Llywelyn the Last. Surprised? I can see by your expression that you are. This new prince has led the Welsh to capture three smaller castles in the past few weeks – Gwendraith, Idole, and Llandarog. Soon, we will be moving on more castles kept by the English, and we will not fail. I want you to tell the English who control the south of Wales now. Soon enough, we shall capture Pembroke and all of the large castles as well. Then, we shall move north, where we shall purge the English from our country. Do you understand what I am telling you so far?”
In truth, Blayth wasn’t sure if Corbett understood at all because, suddenly, he wasn’t blinking his eyes so much.
He was staring at him with his crusty, red eyes, and his pale face seemed even paler.
His mouth was hanging open now, too, and he was clearly shocked at the mention of a bastard son of Llywelyn the Last. At least, that’s what Blayth thought until Corbett uttered one word.
“James?” he hissed.
Blayth had no idea what he meant. “Nay, the bastard son’s name is not James,” he said. “Do you understand what it is I have told you? Acknowledge that you do.”
But Corbett wasn’t listening; he was quite obviously astonished by something, so much so that his hand flew to his mouth as he stared at Blayth.
“James,” he breathed again. “My God… is it you? My God… I hardly recognized you!”
Blayth was increasingly baffled by the man’s reaction to what he’d been told. It was as if Corbett didn’t understand him at all. It didn’t occur to him that the man thought he was someone else, someone he recognized, but the way Corbett was looking at him was making him feel awkward and confused.
“I do not know what you are saying,” he said. “Who is James?”
“You are!” Corbett gasped. “James… do you not recognize me?”
“My name is Blayth. I told you that.”
Tears were filling Corbett’s eyes, his hand still over his mouth. “Aye… it means wolf,” he whispered. When his hand came away from his mouth, he was smiling. “It means de Wolfe! James, it is me – Corbett! You know me! Surely – you know me! My God, man, we were told you were dead!”
De Wolfe. Blayth had no idea why, but hearing that name hit him in the chest, like a physical blow.
He could hardly breathe. De Wolfe, de Wolfe…
have I heard that name before? Blayth didn’t know, but something about it sounded…
familiar. Oddly familiar. In fact, it made him feel quite unsettled and he stood up, off-balance by the course of the conversation.
“I know not what you mean,” he said. “My name is Blayth. Whoever you think I am, you are mistaken. Now, will you take my message to your English overlords or will I lock you back in your hole again? If I do, I promise you that you will not make it out of this place alive.”
Corbett was weeping, overcome by the sight of a man he thought was dead.
A man he knew. Or, at least, he thought he knew.
James de Wolfe was standing in front of him, looking as if he’d been chewed up and spit out by some great, terrible force, and he had to admit that it didn’t look like the James he remembered.
He was bigger, battered, and his head – so scarred.
But… he knew that face. He knew those eyes, sky blue in color and a sort of cat’s eye shape.
Aye, he knew them well because he’d fostered with the man for seven years.
They’d been squires together, and their families were close friends and allies, but swearing fealty to Pembroke had separated them those years ago.
He hadn’t seen James de Wolfe in years before the man had been killed in Wales, and Corbett had been devastated when he’d heard of it.
But now… dear God, now the dead was rising.
James de Wolfe in the flesh.
But he was a man who evidently had no memory of who, or what, he was.
Above Corbett’s shock, he could see that the man who called himself Blayth, wolf, either had no idea who Corbett was referring to – or, better still – perhaps he couldn’t acknowledge it.
It was possible that the news of James de Wolfe’s death was a cover and James was, perhaps, invested in the rebellion in Wales, perhaps even an agent of Edward in an attempt to control the Welsh.
The House of de Wolfe was heavily invested in Edward’s wars, so it was possible that James was deeper than anyone realized.
Corbett glanced at the woman introduced to him as Lady Asmara.
She was standing behind Blayth, in the shadows, but he could still see her outline.
He couldn’t see her expression, but he suspected he might have gotten James into trouble by recognizing him.
What if he destroyed the man’s cover? The speculation was enough to make Corbett’s head spin but, above it all, he knew he had to get out of there.
A great deal was happening in Wales, beyond a man’s comprehension, and the English needed to know.
Blayth had been right about that – the English needed to be aware of the latest turn of events.
A Welsh prince was rising – and James was trying to get the message out.
God’s Bones, he’d been such a fool! Thinking that, perhaps, he was now part of whatever spy game James was playing, Corbett became quite obedient and compliant.
“Forgive me,” he said after a moment. “You… you looked like someone I once knew. But clearly, I am mistaken. Forgive me. I… I understand your message. I will take it to the English, I swear it.”
Blayth was relieved at the man’s compliance, even though it seemed quite rapid and rather strange. Still… he couldn’t shake the odd sense of discomfort at the name de Wolfe. It was ringing around in his head like a bell even as he tried to ignore it.
“Excellent,” he said. “Take the message straight to the Marcher lords. They will want to know.”
Corbett nodded quickly; perhaps too quickly. “I will, my lord,” he said. “Is… is there any preference to whom I deliver the message?”
Blayth’s eyebrows lifted. “Pembroke is not in residence, so you cannot take it there,” he said, noting a flicker of surprise on Corbett’s face.
“Aye, we know he is not at Pembroke Castle. It would do no good to take it to Chepstow or any of the other castles between here and the Marches. You must take it to someone who has great importance along the Marches. De Clare, mayhap. Or even de Lohr.”
De Lohr! The Earl of Hereford and Worcester was allied with the House of de Wolfe. Surely he would know if James was an agent for Edward. And perhaps in suggesting de Lohr, James was telling him where to go.
“I will go to de Lohr,” he said. “When would you have me leave, my lord?”
“You will be given food. You may leave on the morrow.”
Corbett eyed the hole in the ground that had been his home for the past month. “You will not put me back into my cell, will you?”
Blayth shook his head. “I will not.”
Corbett was greatly relieved to hear that. “Then mayhap you will allow me to leave tonight,” he said. “My eyes are greatly affected by the light and it might be better for me to travel when it is dark.”
Blayth didn’t see any issues with that. Besides…
he wanted to get the man out of Gwendraith before Morys returned, and he wasn’t entirely sure when that would be.
He knew Morys would be displeased that he’d let the garrison commander go because he was certain that Morys was looking at interrogating the man as a sport.
But Blayth thought it was more important to send his message to the Marcher lords.
He simply didn’t want Morys returning and delaying those plans, so the sooner Payton-Forrester took his leave, the better.
“Very well,” he said. “You will remain here for now. Food is being brought to you and I will have a horse brought around. But as soon as the sun sets, you will ride from here and head straight to de Lohr’s seat. Is that clear?”
“It is, my lord.”
“Fail me, and I shall find you and I shall kill you.”
“I will not fail you, my lord.”
Blayth’s gaze lingered on the man for a few seconds longer, as if to drive home his threat, but he soon turned away. Asmara was still standing behind him, where she’d been the entire time, and he took her politely by the elbow to turn her for the vault entry.
Without a second thought to Corbett Payton-Forrester, the pair headed out of the dismally dark vault, leaving the prisoner to ponder what he’d seen, and what he’d been told, and feeling a desperation as he’d never felt before to leave Gwendraith for the sweet green fields of home.
England.
When the sun finally set later that day, and a dark and cool night settled, Corbett was given an excitable young stallion to ride, and ride he did, heading at breakneck speed for Lioncross Abbey Castle.