Chapter Fifteen
It had been a very strange meal as far as Asmara was concerned.
She hadn’t seen Blayth for the rest of the day, after they’d agreed to marry and he left her at the stable, and she knew he’d gone to speak to Morys about their betrothal.
She assumed, probably correctly, that he’d been with Morys the rest of the day, because she never saw him again after that, not until the evening descended and the men gathered in the great hall for their meal.
Asmara gathered there, too, sitting on the end of the great feasting table as she waited for Blayth to appear, but he never did.
Morys appeared with Aeddan and Pryce, but as the two younger men smiled and acknowledged her, Morys looked right through her as if she didn’t exist. They all sat down and the meal of boiled mutton was served, but still no Blayth.
Asmara ate little, keeping her eye out for him, but he never came and, eventually, she left the hall to hunt for him.
It wasn’t like Blayth not to come to the hall, especially when he knew she would be there.
She fought down the fear that something might be wrong, that he was sick or injured, because it wasn’t like the man not to be present, especially when Morys was there.
Just as she left the hall and headed for the entry, she passed by what used to be the former guard room for the keep.
She almost didn’t look at the door, but she saw movement that drew her attention.
The door was cracked open enough so that she could see half of a booted leg.
She recognized the boot.
Blayth had distinctive boots, probably because his feet were so big, and they were made up of different pieces of leather, in different colors, creating a patch-work pattern.
Asmara hadn’t seen anyone else with that kind of boot, so she felt fairly confident that Blayth was inside the chamber as she knocked softly on the door.
Because of the noise in the hall, she knocked again, louder.
The door jerked open then and she found herself looking into Blayth’s pale face.
“What are you doing in here?” she asked. “I have been waiting for you. Are you ill?”
He looked weary and emotional. “Nay,” he shook his head, his voice soft. “I am not ill. I was going to find you, but…”
He trailed off, looking miserable, or so Asmara thought. She grew concerned. “But what?” she asked. “What is wrong?”
He motioned her into the chamber and shut the door, bolting it. It was dark inside but for a weak fire in the hearth, and he went to the hearth to throw more fuel on it. Light, and warmth, began to bloom.
“Sit, please,” he told her quietly. “I must speak with you.”
Asmara found a small stool near the bed and she pulled it out, perching herself on it.
She watched him as he knelt by the hearth, stirring the embers and creating warmth against the cloying darkness, and she received the distinct impression that something was very wrong.
His mood was almost as dark as the chamber around them.
Patiently, she sat until he finished stirring the embers and stood up, brushing off his hands.
“Did you eat anything?” she asked.
He shook his head as he went to sit on the edge of the bed. “Nay,” he replied. “I am not hungry.”
“Why?”
He shook his head. “There is much on my mind, I suppose.”
“What has you so worried that you cannot eat?”
Blayth sat on the end of the bed, his gaze falling on Asmara.
He knew that if he wasn’t able to marry her, his heart would break into a million pieces.
It was such a fragile heart, the one part of his body and mind that he’d not yet learned to toughen up, so even as he looked at her, he could feel disappointment sweep him.
He didn’t want to lose her.
He would be unwanted yet again if he did.
“I do not even know where to start,” he said softly. “I have been sitting here all day, trying to think of what to say to you and how to say it. I can think of no other way to speak in such a serious subject except to be honest.”
Asmara could see how troubled he was. “Go ahead,” she said. “What is so terrible?”
“I am afraid I will never see you again once I tell you.”
“That will not happen. Do you not have any more faith in me than that?”
He smiled faintly. “You are as strong as you are faithful and beautiful,” he said. “I have every confidence in you. But the matter is quite… serious.”
Asmara watched him as he spoke and a thought occurred to her. “Did you speak with Morys today?” she asked. “About our marriage, I mean.”
“I did.”
“What did he say to you?”
So she was intuitive as well as beautiful. Blayth sat forward so he was closer to her as she sat upon the squatty stool. He gazed at her a moment, watching the firelight play off her features, before speaking.
“You said something to me today,” he said. “You told me that you believed Morys knew much more about my past then he has told me.”
She nodded. “I did say that. I believe it is true.”
“It is.”
Curiosity crossed her features. “How do you know?”
Blayth smiled faintly. Closing his eyes tightly, he hung his head, so very troubled with what he was about to say. But it was necessary.
“The easy thing to do would be to keep this information from you,” he said. “But I have too much respect for you to do that. I cannot start our marriage on a lie.”
She cocked her head. “And I am grateful for that,” she said. “But what is so terrible?”
He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, he extended his hand to her and after a moment of puzzlement, she timidly lifted her hand and put it into his big, callused palm.
He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it sweetly, feeling his entire body tingle with the thrill of it.
Something about the woman made him feel as if he were walking on clouds every time he touched her.
“You were there when the Saesneg knight called me by a name,” he nearly whispered. “Do you remember?”
Asmara gripped his hand, holding it tightly. “I do,” she said without hesitation. “He called you James.”
“It would seem that he was not wrong.”
She stared at him a moment, trying to figure out what, exactly, he meant. “What do you mean?”
He kissed her hand again. “You have expressed suspicions that Morys has given me my memories,” he said.
“You said yourself that it seemed strange that he should be the one to tell me of my past, to tell me what my name was and give me an identity. It seems that your suspicions were correct, Asmara. When I told Morys that you and I were to be wed, he told me that your father would never permit it because I am, in truth, an English knight. He has kept it hidden from me all this time.”
Asmara’s eyes widened in shock, briefly, but she didn’t erupt, nor did she pull her hand from his grip. But the realization that she had been right all along was in her expression.
“You are?” she whispered.
He nodded. “I have been struggling with how to tell you this because I do not want to ruin what we have started,” he said.
“I will be honest with you; I have never been so happy in my life. My memory is brief, only since I came into Morys’ care do I remember my life as it is, and in that time I have never felt truly happy.
I have served Morys out of a sense of obligation, and out of my sense of duty to the cymry.
When he told me that I was the bastard son of Llywelyn ap Gruffydd, that served as the kindling to my great sense of duty to all men of Welsh birth.
But there was no real joy in any of it, not until I met you.
I… I simply do not want to lose you, but I understand if your feelings have changed. ”
Asmara stared at him, seeing his pain and humility in the situation.
But as he spoke and told her the news, she realized that it was no great surprise.
She’d known from the beginning that something was odd with Blayth and Morys, so it was really a confirmation of her suspicions. After a moment, she shook her head.
“I suppose I knew you were not who Morys said you were from the very first,” she murmured.
“There were so many signs that pointed to something else, that you were a tir allan, an outlander. Somehow, I knew you were not the son of Llywelyn, but it did not change my opinion of you. If you are English, or if you are Welsh, it does not change who you are, Blayth. You are still a man of strength and skill and dedication. And it does not change how I feel about you.”
It was the answer he was hoping to hear and he brought her hand to his lips again, pressing it against his mouth, feeling utter and complete gratitude. In fact, the relief he felt was almost more than he could bear.
“Are you certain?” he whispered, lips against her hand.
She could see how worried he was and she reached out, putting her hand on the top of his thick, blond hair.
“I am,” she murmured. “Nothing has changed with me, but I must ask you – how do you feel about all of this? And why would Morys confess it all to you?”
He relished the feel of her hand upon his head, touching that which was so damaged as if there was no damage at all. No revulsion. He was still wanted, thank God, and wanted by the only person in the world that he cared about.
“Morys wanted to stress to me how your father would not approve of his daughter marrying a Saesneg,” he said quietly.
“He told me that so I would forget my desire to marry you, fearful my secret would be revealed. He assured me that if the truth was known, the Welsh would turn against me and kill me, which is probably true. If they discovered that Llywelyn’s bastard was not Welsh at all, it would be devastating.
You must not tell anyone what I have told you. ”
She shook her head. “I will not, I swear it,” she said. “But what will you do now? Will you continue to lead the armies as if nothing is amiss?”