Chapter Sixteen #3
“We have all been cruelly betrayed by this man,” he said.
“I will not let him leave because he is a traitor. He is loyal to his English captors and plans to run to them and tell them of our plans. That is why I will not let him leave and why his woman is willing to kill me! She knows he is a traitor, too, and she is trying to help him!”
Asmara was infuriated as men began to grumble.
Morys was collecting quite a crowd, but that was what he liked – an audience.
She was shocked to hear the lies coming forth, but she also knew that there were men who would believe him without question.
If Morys was able to rile them up enough, then there would be trouble.
“That is not true!” Asmara shouted. “Listen to me, my brothers! Morys has been lying to you from the beginning about Blayth. He has told you that he is the bastard son of Llywelyn the Last, our noble prince, but that is not the truth. He told you that so that he could control you and force you to fight in this rebellion. If there is a traitor here, it is Morys ap Macsen and not Blayth, who has also been lied to by him. He is a victim in all of this as much as any of you. Do not believe a word Morys has told you!”
More grumbling came from the crowd that was gathering.
Furious, Morys could hardly believe that Asmara had dared to contradict him.
No one contradicted him, not ever, and he was losing all control.
His temper was spiraling as he realized Asmara was planting a seed of doubt among the men, a seed of doubt that could see his legacy ended. She was ruining everything.
She was going to pay.
“You would believe a woman?” he screamed. “She and her father have long hated me because I am the eldest son, the leader of all men, and she lies to erase your love for me. Blayth is a traitor and he must be stopped!”
He continued to shout venom as Asmara was turning to Aeddan, still standing next to her.
When she spoke to Aeddan and Pryce in the stable those days ago, when she’d been trying to discover more about Blayth, she had seen the lack of blind respect from the brothers when it came to Morys.
She could only pray that they loved Blayth more, and trusted him more, because she could no longer hold back the truth.
If this situation was going to veer out of control, then Blayth would need help.
Only the truth would open that door.
“Do not listen to him,” she hissed. “He has been lying to you about Blayth. You were there when he brought Blayth back from Llandeilo, were you not?”
Aeddan, greatly torn and confused by what was going on, nodded. “I was.”
“Then you know that Blayth came from Llandeilo.”
“Morys said he was delivered by Llywelyn’s teulu and…”
She cut him off, shaking her head. “Blayth was an English knight, wounded at Llandeilo,” she hissed.
“His real name is de Wolfe, but Morys lied to you. He has fabricated everything – Blayth’s name, his history – everything.
He is not Llywelyn’s bastard son. He is an English knight, but he did not remember that.
Yet, Morys knew, and he lied to Blayth and told him he was someone he was not.
Morys told him that he was Llywelyn’s bastard so he could feed the rebellion.
He only told Blayth tonight of his true past, and now Blayth has a chance to discover who he really is, only Morys will not let him go.
If you love Blayth, you will help him. Help us, Aeddan! ”
Aeddan was looking at her in utter shock. “He… he is Saesneg?”
She nodded rapidly, glancing at Morys because now he was pointing at Blayth again and shouting about his treachery. “He is,” he said. “And Morys knew. Blayth did not, so he is not to blame. The only one to blame is Morys. Help us leave before it is too late!”
It took Aeddan a few moments to overcome his astonishment and realize that what Asmara said made a great deal of sense.
Morys’ story about how Blayth came into his possession never made sense to Aeddan but out of respect to Morys, he accepted it.
Nay, he wasn’t surprised at all to discover that Blayth, the damaged warrior, was actually an English knight.
It made all the sense in the world.
Aeddan had been there from the beginning.
He’d been there when Blayth had awoken from his lengthy unconsciousness, and he had been there when the man learned to speak and walk again.
Aeddan had helped him with everything, so he knew that Blayth had no memory of who he was prior to his terrible injury.
But Morys knew.
Damn the man… he knew.
“But where is Blayth going?” he asked after a moment, feeling her panic. “Does he even know?”
Asmara shook her head. “He is not going to betray the Welsh if that’s what you are asking,” she insisted. “You must believe me. He only wants to find out who he really is, Aeddan. He has a chance to discover his true past. And Morys does not want him to go, so he is lying to everyone, still!”
He is lying to everyone, still. That seemed to snap something in Aeddan, who could see what was happening.
He could see the entire picture – Morys, caught in his web of lies, was trying to salvage the situation by turning everyone against Blayth.
He didn’t know why he should believe Asmara, but he did.
God only knew how long he’d hated Morys and he’d hidden that hate behind obedience and forced gratitude, but he wasn’t going to let the man destroy Blayth, someone he considered another brother.
He had to help.
Just as he moved to do so, the gates began to lurch open and Morys, startled by the sound, turned to look to the gates.
It was a reflexive reaction, brought on by the creak of the chains.
But when he turned to look, he accidentally pulled the trigger on the crossbow.
The iron-tipped arrow flew right at Asmara, hitting her in the left shoulder.
As she cried out in pain and jerked back in the saddle, Asmara also squeezed the trigger of the crossbow she was holding, and the arrow went flying. By chance, it found its mark in Morys’ neck, and the man collapsed into the mud, mortally wounded.
Panic ensued. Men were yelling, charging forward, and Blayth did the only thing he could do – he grabbed Asmara’s reins and spurred his horse towards the open gates, trampling Morys as he went.
Together, he and Asmara galloped out of the gates and into the silver-bathed landscape beyond, fleeing the frenzy of Welsh who had been both stirred up and repulsed by Morys’ words.
But the chaos quickly died as Blayth and Asmara fled into the night, and men began to discuss what should be done. Some wanted to follow them, but Aeddan called them off. There would be no following, he said. Blayth had committed no crime.
The only crime had been committed by a man who was not long for this world.
So the Welsh began to disburse for the most part, milling around with some confusion on the cusp of a most confusing night.
Beaten down into the mud by two fleeing horses, Morys struggled for air as Aeddan stood over him and watched him labor.
He couldn’t even make a move to help the man, so great his hatred and disgust. Morys had finally demonstrated what he was fully capable of, and that greed had ultimately destroyed him.
As Morys’ breathing began to grow unsteady, Aeddan knelt down beside him and watched his chest rise and fall for the last time.
“I hope you can still hear me,” he rumbled. “If there is any justice in this world, I have seen it served tonight. You received exactly what you deserved.”
With that, he stood up and walked away, moving to the open gates to watch Blayth and Asmara as they disappeared into the night.
In truth, the more he thought on what Asmara had told him, the more hope and even happiness he felt for Blayth.
A man who had been the prisoner of a vile beast, fed lies and kept like a prized animal, now had the chance for true freedom.
Whether or not it was at the head of a rebellion was no longer the issue.
The man had a chance to find himself, and Aeddan hoped for the best. When he told his brother what had happened, Pryce hoped for the very same thing.
They could only pray for the best for a man they looked upon as a brother, English or Welsh.
Godspeed, Blayth.