Chapter Eight #2
Morys effectively cut him off, which was unusual.
Morys was usually more than happy to run off at the mouth about plans and schemes and dreams of glory.
Blayth suspected his silence was because Asmara was there, something that didn’t sit well with Blayth.
He trusted the woman, and she had proven herself to him.
The siege of Llandarog had seen his respect for her irrevocably cemented, and it was beginning to bother him that Morys saw fit to treat the woman as if she were dirt beneath his feet.
Nay, he didn’t like that in the least.
More than that, he was making it clear that he didn’t respect Blayth’s opinion on either Asmara or Cader. That, more than anything, saw his ire rise.
It was time to assert himself.
“There is something else we must discuss that cannot wait until tomorrow,” he said to Morys. “We must discuss the captive English knight.”
Morys was chewing loudly on his meat. “What about him?”
“I sent him back to Lioncross Abbey with a message.”
Morys stopped chewing, his eyes opening wide with shock. “You… you what?” he swallowed the bite in his mouth, nearly choking. “You released him?”
Blayth turned to him, looking him fully in the face in a direct challenge for the man to contest his decision.
“I did,” he said flatly. “You left me in command, and command I did. The man has served his purpose. Your continued interrogation of him was futile, Morys. He wasn’t going to tell you anything.
Therefore, I used him for a better purpose – sending a message back to the English Marcher lords that a rebellion is rising in the south, a rebellion the likes of which the English have never seen before, and it will be led by a bastard son of Llywelyn the Last. Do you think capturing these castles is going to frighten the English?
Of course not. But telling them why we have captured them – and that they will not be the last castles taken by the Welsh – will put the fear of God into them.
I cannot imagine they want to face another Welsh prince, and certainly not one that will unite all Welshmen against them.
There is nothing so fearsome as the spark to the fuel of rebellion. ”
Morys looked at him as if debating how to react to the news.
Truthfully, he was shocked that Blayth had done such a thing.
He’d told the man to stay clear of the prisoner and Blayth had never disobeyed him, so this news was astonishing, indeed.
It was the second time that night that Blayth had shocked him by going against him, but in Morys’ opinion, this infraction was much more serious.
But there was a reason he’d told Blayth to stay clear of the English.
The reason he feared most of all.
It wasn’t just the English prisoner he wanted Blayth to stay clear of.
It was all English. On that June day five years ago when he’d participated in the ambush that had seen several English knights killed, Morys had been there when the English had retreated, leaving their dead and dying behind.
He’d been there when his men had swarmed over a dying English knight bearing the black and dark green of de Wolfe, the distinctive tunic worn by the house that was headed by one of the greatest knights England had ever seen.
William de Wolfe.
Morys had been fighting the English for a very long time.
He knew the colors of the great Marcher lords and beyond – the blue and yellow of de Lohr, the blue and red of de Clare, and so forth.
He knew their allies, like de Wolfe, but rather than kill the dying as his men were doing, Morys had protected the downed de Wolfe knight.
He’d let his men take the tunic and wave it around like a flag, but he hadn’t let his men kill the man who was already dead.
Or so Morys thought.
The knight was a very strong man. His head had been badly damaged, but he was still breathing and still living.
Much as Morys had done with the garrison commander of Gwendraith, he had the idea to save the knight’s life if only to keep the man captive and interrogate him.
That had been the ultimate goal when he’d taken him back to Brecfa, to his sod house where Aeddan and Pryce and his wife, Auryn, had helped him tend the man.
For the first three months, they had no idea if the man would even live, but he did.
He opened his eyes and Morys was thrilled that he’d have a captive to interrogate.
But his excitement was dashed when the man had no memory of anything.
His mind was like a clean slate.
Morys had been forced to change his plans.
As he tried to figure out what to do with the English knight, now working with Aeddan and Pryce as they helped rehabilitate him, he came upon the idea of a new Welsh prince rising from the ashes.
Who better to lead the rebellion against the English than an English knight who had once tried to subdue the Welsh?
He thought it had been a rather brilliant plan, and he’d fed it to Blayth, and to Aeddan and Pryce and his other men, until they were all convinced that Blayth was who Morys said he was.
The only potential hole in the plan had been Aeddan and Pryce, who had been at Llandeilo, although they hadn’t been involved with Blayth until well after the battle when Morys brought the man back to Brecfa.
Even then, Morys had been vague about who Blayth was, mostly because he didn’t want it to get out that he was trying to save an English knight.
He could have been viewed as a traitor, in fact, and that was a real fear.
Therefore, Aeddan and Pryce knew Blayth had come from Llandeilo, but they didn’t know much more than that.
It had been Morys who had convinced them of Blayth’s true identity with a rather madcap story about Llywelyn’s loyal teulu being at Llandeilo at the same time.
Aeddan and Pryce believed him because they had no reason not to.
But Morys was always fearful his elaborate story would unravel.
The more he entangled himself in it, the deeper the story became.
And that was why Morys kept Blayth away from any contact with the English, fearful that it might trigger memories in him that were long buried or, worse still, someone might recognize him.
Morys had no idea of Blayth’s true identity other than the fact that he was wearing a de Wolfe tunic, so clearly, he was from the House of de Wolfe, but that was all Morys knew.
That torn, bloodied de Wolfe tunic was still at Brecfa, buried in a trunk and hidden away from the world.
Now, what Morys feared had evidently happened.
Blayth had contact with an English knight.
Astonished as he was that Blayth had undermined his authority, that really wasn’t his primary concern.
What he was most concerned with was if that contact had stirred something in Blayth.
With that in mind, he swallowed whatever outrage he might be feeling.
There were things he had to discover.
“I see,” he said after several long moments. “Did you speak to the man, then?”
“I did,” Blayth replied.
“And what did you tell him, exactly?”
“Just what I told you – I sent him with a message for the Marcher lords.”
Morys eyed him. “And he agreed?”
Blayth nodded. “He did,” he said. “He gave his name as Corbett Payton-Forrester, the garrison commander of Gwendraith. He serves William de Valence and, I would imagine, that means he is a man of honor. He said he would deliver the message and I believe him. But he also said something odd.”
“What is that?”
“He mistook me for someone he used to know.”
“James de Wolfe,” Asmara spoke up. She had been listening to the conversation and spoke up before she really thought that perhaps she shouldn’t. “He seemed quite sure that Blayth was someone named James de Wolfe.”
Morys looked at her, such surprise on his face that it was difficult to conceal. “How – how would you know any of this?” he demanded.
“She was there,” Blayth said. He couldn’t help but notice that Morys was suddenly quite upset; the man’s entire countenance had changed and his body was coiled as if ready to burst. “I took her with me as a witness in case the knight said anything of note. But he did not; the only thing he really said was that he believed I was someone he once knew.”
Morys’ heart was beating heavily against his chest as he realized his fear, that godawful fear he’d been living with for the past five years, may have very well happened. What were the odds of such a thing? Dear God, he’d tried so hard to keep Blayth away from the English for this very reason.
He could hardly believe what he was hearing.
“You should not have permitted her to be there,” he snapped, rising to his feet. He was so unsteady that he had a nearly panicked urge to leave. “Did you tell him who you were?”
He was nearly barking at Blayth, who cooled dramatically. He didn’t like being barked at. “Of course I did,” he said. “It was dark. The man could hardly see. Clearly, he was mistaken. It is nothing to become irate over.”
It was a succinct answer and over his panic and anger, Morys realized something – that Blayth was still Blayth. He still believed he was the bastard son of Llywelyn in spite of the English knight evidently recognizing him. Now, Morys had a name to put with Blayth’s mysterious past.
James de Wolfe.
And it meant nothing to Blayth.
Morys wasn’t quite sure how to feel now.
Was it possible that this would be an event to be quickly forgotten?
Certainly, it would be remembered if Morys continued to have a tantrum over it, so he labored to calm himself.
He had to push aside his shock if there was any hope of salvaging the situation.
Therefore, he forced a smile, putting a hand on Blayth’s broad shoulder.
“Forgive me,” he said. “It has been a long day and a long journey. I am simply weary, and news such as this has upset my exhausted mind. I will retire, and I shall see you come the morrow.”
With that, he abruptly left the table, wandering out among the happy, drinking men, presenting a far more subdued figure than when he had entered the hall.
If Morys had hoped to ease the situation and not make it such a major event, then he had failed.
Asmara was watching him leave, wondering why the man had become so upset over the English knight mistaking Blayth for someone he once knew.
It seemed very odd that Morys should become so upset over such a thing.
… unless it wasn’t a mistake at all and Morys knew it.
Asmara glanced at Blayth, who had returned to the last of his food.
If Morys was displaying bizarre behavior, Blayth didn’t seem to care about it.
But he wasn’t seeing what Asmara was seeing – a man who had clearly been unbalanced by the English knight who had addressed Blayth as someone else.
The truth was that before Blayth was the man sitting with her, he was someone else.
The mystery behind the mysterious man deepened.