Chapter Sixteen
Morys’ plan had spectacularly backfired.
He realized that as he sat and listened to Blayth tell him of his future plans. Whatever he’d hoped telling the man the truth would accomplish, those hopes were dashed.
He’d hoped that by telling Blayth of his past, and of his true identity, that it would scare Blayth into staying the course and continuing to be a beacon of hope for the Welsh.
Morys had made it clear that the English had abandoned him at Llandeilo and, therefore, didn’t want him.
And he’d emphasized that Blayth only had value as a Welsh legend.
He thought he’d made an excellent argument for everything, and he was certain that when the conversation was over, that Blayth understood his place in the world regardless of his true background.
But that hadn’t been the case.
Now, Blayth wanted to find out the truth behind his past. It had taken him a day to figure that out, to decide that none of Morys’ arguments meant anything to him.
Blayth had pulled him out of the hall and into a small, dark chamber off the hall the smelled as if the dogs had been using it as their privy.
What Blayth had to say couldn’t wait, so half-drunk, Morys stood in stunned silence as Blayth explained his desire to go to Lioncross Abbey Castle to seek out Corbett Payton-Forrester, who had called him James down in the dank recesses of the vault.
He was convinced that Payton-Forrester would know more about who he had once been, and Blayth expressed a very strong desire to discover what the man knew.
That hadn’t been the outcome Morys had expected.
At first, he’d been calm about it. He’d explained, yet again, how Blayth had been abandoned.
A loved and wanted man would not have been abandoned on the field of battle, he said.
He’d tried to convince Blayth that seeking more information from Payton-Forrester would be foolish; it might even be deadly.
Clearly, the English hadn’t wanted him so why show them that the man they’d tried to discard was still alive?
But the argument hadn’t worked with Blayth.
He was determined to go.
Slipping…
Morys could see the rebellion slipping away.
The myth he’d built, the larger-than-life story of Blayth the Strong, son of Llywelyn the Last, was slipping away and the more he tried to grasp at it, the more it slipped between his fingers.
The harder he pulled, the more Blayth pushed.
Soon enough, Morys could see that there was no reasoning with the man. His mind was set.
Morys was losing the battle.
That was when the situation grew desperate.
Morys had considered before what he needed to do if Blayth decided to veer from the course – heroes made the best martyrs, he reminded himself, but if Blayth was going to depart this night and head into England to seek his truth, then there was no knowing when he would return, if ever.
Blayth swore he only wanted to find out the truth of his past and of his true identity, but Morys couldn’t be sure that the man wouldn’t return to who he was before. Blayth hadn’t made that very clear.
If he did, there would be no chance for a hero’s death in battle.
Morys was a man who, if nothing else, had always been adaptable.
He’d manipulated Blayth, lied to him, coerced him, and anything else he had to do in order to control the man.
Blayth the Strong was more than a fictitious character – he had become a legend that the hope for Welsh freedom had been built upon.
Now, that legend was leaving Gwendraith.
The rebels were due to return to Carmarthen Castle in several days to plan the next phase in their uprising, and Blayth couldn’t confirm that he would be present at that gathering.
He could be in England, still chasing after his lost past, because it seemed as if now that was the most important thing to him.
No more rebellion, no more legacy.
As far as Morys was concerned, he’d badly errored when he told Blayth the truth about his past, and now he had to remedy the situation and try to salvage what he could.
It was time to do something drastic.
Therefore, he let Blayth leave and go about gathering his things for his journey, whilst Morys went to plan for what needed to happen. Blayth would never realize what was happening until it was too late.
Dealings were about to get dirty.
“The moon is so bright that it is almost like the sun,” Asmara observed as she stood at the mouth of the stables, gazing up into the crisp night sky. “How far do you think we can travel tonight?”
Blayth was finishing securing his crossbow to his saddle. “To Llandovery, at least,” he said. “We shall find a place to sleep outside of the town and then continue on in the morning.”
She turned to look at him. “We could wait until dawn and leave,” she pointed out. “We could make at least thirty-five miles in the daylight.”
He pulled his horse over to where she was standing. “And we will,” he said. “But we are going to do several miles tonight also. Unless you are too weak and feeble to do it.”
She scowled at him although, this time, she knew the insult wasn’t malicious. Insults were becoming terms of endearment these days, and she knew he was jesting with her.
“I can outride you any day,” she said. “I will still be riding when you are on the ground, writhing in pain because your little onion sacks are beaten to death from the strain of travel.”
He started to laugh, knowing exactly what she meant. “Onion sacks?” he repeated. “You mean my ballocks?”
She turned her nose up at him. “I do not use such language.”
He laughed out loud. “God’s Bones, woman, you just referred to them by calling them onion sacks,” he said. “Whatever you call them, they are all the same – a man’s balls.”
Asmara couldn’t stop the giggling. “Do you truly say such things in the presence of a lady?”
He eyed her. “Since when do you call yourself a lady?” he asked, watching her whirl to him in outrage. He held up a finger. “You are a woman, and a beautiful one, but you are also a warrior. I have never known the term lady and warrior to be interchangeable.”
He had a point. Asmara simply shrugged and moved to mount her steed. “You have called me demoiselle since we have known one another,” she said as she heaved herself up into the saddle. “Does that not mean lady?”
He mounted his horse also. “It does,” he said. “It means a young, unmarried lady.”
Asmara gathered her reins, pausing to look at him as he gathered his. “That is something else that told me you were not who Morys said you were,” she said, watching him look at her questioningly. “You called me demoiselle.”
He smiled at her under the moonlight. “What would you have me call you?”
She shrugged coyly and looked away. “That is not what I mean,” she said. “I meant that no one but the English or the French do that. That told me that you were not Welsh-born or, at the very least, you did not grow up in Wales.”
Blayth reined his horse over to her. “I will ask you again,” he said softly. “What would you have me call you?”
That low, slow voice was purring at her and Asmara could feel her cheeks flame; she was grossly unused to the flirtatious games played by men and women.
“Whatever you wish,” she said. “My name is Asmara.”
“And it is a beautiful name,” he said. “But I think I should like to call you something else.”
“What?”
“Cariad.”
It meant sweetheart in Welsh, and Asmara’s red cheeks grew redder.
She’d never in her life been called anything other than her name, not even by her father, although her mother had often called her and Fairynne pet names.
Gwirion, mostly, which meant “silly”. But that was different, from a mother to a daughter.
But this… this was from a man who was to be her husband.
She’d never felt so giddy in her entire life.
“If that is what you would like to call me, I will not contest,” she said.
He laughed low in his throat, seeing even in the moonlight how embarrassed she was. Clucking softly to his horse, the animal began to move forward, followed by Asmara and her excitable young stallion.
“I have never called a woman cariad,” he said. “You will be my first.”
“As you will be mine.”
It was a sweet sentiment between two people who were unused to such things.
In warm silence, the pair headed out of the stable yard and into the outer bailey, which was mostly devoid of men at this hour.
Pinpricks of light emitted from the keep, from several of the outbuildings, and from the gatehouse as men settled in for the night.
With the moon bathing the land in a silver glow, Asmara and Blayth headed for the two-storied gatehouse.
There were men upon it, men with torches, and as they drew closer to the gate, Blayth called up to the men who were manning it.
“Open the gates,” he boomed.
It was usual for there to be a delay of several seconds before the gates started moving.
But in this case, the seconds turned into a minute and more.
Blayth called to the gate guards again, thinking they might not have heard him, but then he saw Aeddan and Pryce heading towards him from the small guard room built into the gatehouse.
Curious, he moved his horse towards them to ask what the issue was, but that was when he saw Morys emerging from the gatehouse guard room as well. He wasn’t a welcome sight.
Something told Blayth that the situation was about to turn.
“What is amiss that you will not open the gates?” he asked Aeddan as the man drew near.
Aeddan didn’t look pleased. There were other men around, Welsh warriors, but he kept his voice down because he didn’t want them to hear.
“Morys wishes to speak with you,” he said as he reached Blayth. “He told us to hold the gates when you came. Blayth… he is armed.”
Blayth’s eyebrows lifted. “Armed? Why?”