Chapter Fourteen
I will marry Asmara.
Those words were still ringing around in Morys’ head. It was still morning and he’d awoken not long before and, having eaten a leisurely meal, he’d been interrupted from disrobing the serving woman who’d brought his meal to him by Blayth, who seemed most eager to speak with him about something.
Frustrated, he’d sent the serving woman away only to have Blayth tell him, almost immediately, that he was planning on marrying Asmara.
Any good mood Morys had felt that morning crashed into a nasty heap.
In truth, he wasn’t surprised to hear Blayth’s declaration.
Some part of him was waiting for it, no matter how hard he’d tried to separate Blayth from his niece.
There were things a woman could do to a man to make him forget everyone and everything else, including things that were the most important to him.
The best laid plans had often been destroyed by a woman, and now Blayth had fallen into the feminine trap.
Stupid, stupid man.
But Morys had a plan. He always had a plan, and sometimes those plans involved ugly truths and half-lies, anything to convince Blayth that marrying Asmara was not in his best interest. The man was struck dumb by a lovely woman with long legs, and she’d more than likely already spread those legs for him, but Morys wasn’t going to let all of his hard work be ruined by his treacherous niece.
Perhaps his brother put her up to it, perhaps not. That didn’t much matter now. What mattered was that, in the end, Morys was going to win, no matter what the price.
It was time to lower the hammer.
“Well?” Blayth said. “Did you hear me?”
Morys nodded faintly. “I hear you.”
“And you have nothing to say about it?”
Morys lifted his eyebrows. “I have a good deal to say about it,” he said. “You simply caught me off guard, ’tis all. I have a great many things to say about this.”
Blayth held up a finger. “I will tell you this now before you say a word,” he said. “Asmara will be my wife and, as such, you will respect her. No more brutal comments about her or her father in my presence. I will not stand for you belittling or insulting her. Is this in any way unclear?”
Morys had little patience for Blayth trying to lecture him. “I told you before that you will not dictate my behavior when it comes to my brother,” he said. “Just as I would not tell you how to behave with yours, if you had one.”
That wasn’t the answer Blayth wanted. “Insult her and you shall have to answer to me,” he said. “I will not be discreet about my reaction.”
Morys didn’t say anything. He simply looked away, plotting what he was going to say next. He knew that it had to be powerful, powerful enough to get Blayth’s attention, because if he wanted to keep the man at his side, it would have to be with more power than what Asmara ferch Cader possessed.
“So you think my brother will let you marry his daughter, do you?” he said. “When Cader knows the truth about you, he will not. No man will want you for his daughter.”
Blayth eyed him. “Speak plainly.”
“Do you truly want me to?”
Blayth sighed sharply. “I have no time for your foolery, Morys,” he said. “I came to tell you that I plan to wed Asmara, and I will. I will seek her father’s permission as soon as possible and there is nothing you can say to discourage me.”
Morys fixed on him. “You do not want to challenge me on this subject,” he said, his voice low and threatening. “I can tell my brother every sordid detail about your past and ensure he forbids his daughter to marry you.”
Blayth knew that Morys was capable of lies and venom, so he wouldn’t put it past the man.
“Why, in God’s name, would you do that?” he asked.
“Just because I marry Asmara does not mean my dedication to the rebellion is any less. I will still be at your side, fighting for a free Wales. Why should marrying her make a difference?”
Morys grunted unhappily. “You have a destiny to fulfill,” he said. “You have always known you have a destiny to fulfill, but if you stray from the course, then I will see you destroyed before I see you ruin what I have worked so hard for.”
Now he was speaking of destruction, harsher words than Blayth had expected.
Morys was plain when he spoke and rarely used metaphors, so Blayth knew he was speaking of killing him.
The reaction went beyond what Blayth had believed Morys capable of, and he was genuinely puzzled that the man should be so rabidly jealous about a woman he intended to marry.
“I told you to speak plainly,” he said. “So now you intend to destroy me, do you?”
“If you do not fulfill your destiny. If you do not do as you are told.”
“What, exactly, am I being told to do that I have not already done? What has you so angry that you would threaten me when I tell you that I wish to marry?”
Morys could see that Blayth was not going to be intimidated.
If he had any hope of maintaining control over him, then he had to hit and hit hard.
He knew that. Blayth had never shown any measure of initiative since Morys had known him, always so willing to follow, always so willing to take directions.
But now, the Blayth he’d known for five years wasn’t the same man with the introduction of Asmara.
She was bringing out the assertive man in him, a man no longer willing to be told what to do and when to do it.
If Morys lost control of Blayth, then all of those dreams for his personal glory would be gone.
It was all he wanted, this man he’d built a persona around, a man who would give him a final legacy as the man who protected – nay, championed – Llywelyn’s bastard son.
The one who would lead all of Wales to freedom.
He couldn’t lose that now!
The hammer he’d been lowering needed to hit the ground.
“Listen to me and listen well,” Morys snarled. “You owe me your very life. Were it not for me, you would have been killed long ago.”
Blayth remained calm. “I am aware of that.”
“Nay!” Morys snapped. “You are not aware of anything. You are only aware of what I have told you. You and your feeble mind have been strengthened by me and protected by me. What do you remember of your life before you came into my care, Blayth?”
“You know I remember very little.”
Morys slammed down the cup he’d had in his hand, spilling the contents onto the floor.
He stood up by the chair he’d been sitting in, rushing at Blayth like a madman.
Blayth didn’t flinch, however; he was certain that was what Morys wanted.
Morys was looking for an excuse to strike him and Blayth wouldn’t give him one.
However, what came forth from Morys’ mouth after that did far more damage than any blow from a fist ever could.
“Exactly,” Morys hissed. “You remember nothing. You do not remember when I found you on the field of battle at Llandeilo. You do not remember how I protected you from the Welsh who wanted to kill you. Do you?”
His words were somewhat confusing and Blayth’s brow furrowed. “Protected me from – ?”
Morys cut him off. “Aye,” he snarled. “You big, foolish brute. Do you wish to know the truth of everything? Do you wish to know why my brother will never give you his consent to marry his daughter? Then I shall tell you and mayhap you will forget this foolish pursuit. You will understand why you must remain Blayth the Strong, the bastard son of Llywelyn the Last, and you must remain dedicated to this cause.”
Blayth was watching Morys work himself up into a sweat and, to be truthful, he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted to hear what would come out of the man’s mouth. A distinct sense of foreboding swept him.
“So what will you tell me?” he asked. “Fabrications? More stories to enthrall the men? Your stories lost their sheen to me some time ago, so do not think to lie to me.”
Morys didn’t rage at that insult. In fact, he seemed to cool rather dramatically. An odd smile came to his lips.
“Is that what you think?” he said. “That I have spun fabrications to enthrall the men? In your case, I have, but I did it to save your life. If they knew who you really were, then they would kill you. You would be dead before you could draw another breath.”
Blayth faced him warily. “What does that mean?”
Morys could see he had his attention. This was the moment he thought would never come, but he was prepared for it nonetheless. Blayth had to understand why he could never be anything other than what he was, and that included Asmara’s husband.
“It means that I found a dying English knight on the battlefield in Llandeilo,” he said, oddly calm as he faced him.
“The man had the left side of his head smashed and the Welsh were beginning to strip him. They saw a target for their vengeance and intended on killing him, but do you know what I saw? An English knight of the highest order who could tell me everything I wanted to know about the English and their plans for Wales. I thought he could tell me their movements and all the inner secrets of Edward’s plans of conquest. That was what I saw, and I saw it in you.
You were that dying English knight, Blayth. ”
Blayth frowned. “What in the hell are you talking about?”