Chapter Twenty-Two #4
Penelope nodded fiercely. “Very,” she said.
She tried to explain something that even she herself didn’t quite understand.
“When I left you in the stable, I walked out here and there he was, sitting under the yew tree. I started talking to the woman about her horse and then I saw him… he said that he was waiting for someone. Bhrodi… it is a miracle!”
Bhrodi was astounded. He turned to look at Asmara and Blayth, who were now turning around to look at him.
Greatly shocked, Bhrodi took a few steps towards them, inspecting the big, blond warrior with the scarred head.
He couldn’t take his eyes off the man as Penelope walked beside him, her hands wrapped up in his big palm.
It wasn’t that Bhrodi didn’t believe Penelope because, clearly, something had happened.
Everyone was in tears, their features ashen, as if they had all just had a great shock.
But Bhrodi didn’t have an emotional stake in this, other than his wife, so he could be a little more objective.
He looked closely at the big warrior with the beard and in looking into the man’s eyes, he could see the faint resemblance to his wife. They both had the same eyes.
His jaw dropped.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Blayth,” the man responded without hesitation.
Blayth. The man mentioned in Howell’s missive, Bhrodi thought quickly. He wasn’t only astonished by the man’s appearance, but quite curious about it as well. The man was supposed to be in Wales leading a rebellion, wasn’t he? So why was he here at Lioncross Abbey?
“Why are you here?” he asked in his perfect Welsh.
Blayth didn’t know who the man was other than the fact he must have been Penelope’s husband. His sister. He was big and dark, and had the look of a warrior about him, but Blayth wasn’t going to answer any questions until he knew who, exactly, he was.
“Forgive me,” he replied. “I do not know you. What is your name?”
“Bhrodi de Shera.”
Blayth knew that name; he’d heard it a thousand times, a name revered by the Welsh. The man was the hereditary King of Anglesey. He remembered hearing that Bhrodi had married a Saesneg, but he had no idea that the man’s wife was Penelope de Wolfe.
It seemed it was a day full of surprises, and things were coming full circle, but Blayth was still cautious. He wasn’t sure just how devout, or rabid, Bhrodi might be about the Welsh rebellion, so he wasn’t sure how much he wanted to tell the man.
He would proceed cautiously.
“Great lord,” he said, bowing his head respectfully. “I have heard of your greatness. It is an honor to meet you.”
Bhrodi was watching him like a hawk. He kissed Penelope’s hand before letting it go, taking a step away from her and crooking a finger at Blayth.
The man immediately obeyed, and Asmara tried to follow, but Bhrodi held up a hand to stop her, so she didn’t go any further.
She stood there, concerned, as Bhrodi pulled Blayth with him into a private conference.
With the women looking after them rather anxiously, Bhrodi came to a halt and turned to Blayth.
He took a moment just to look the man over again, now that he was at close range, and he could see every detail of him from his damaged head, to his wife’s eyes, to the shape of William de Wolfe’s face.
Beneath that reddish-blond beard, he suspected the man looked a great deal like William. He folded his big arms over his chest.
“What are you doing here?” he asked quietly. “I received word from Howell ap Gruffydd that you were helping drive Rhys ap Maredudd’s rebellion in the south. You are aware that Howell has asked for my support.”
“I am, great lord.”
“Then if you’ve come to Lioncross to create some sort of a ruse or betrayal, I am going to tell you to go back to Howell. This is no place for you.”
Blayth understood his concern but, in explaining his presence, he was going to have to tell Bhrodi things he wasn’t so certain he wanted to tell him. He wanted to proceed cautiously, but it may not be possible.
The truth was the only thing he could give the man.
“I am not here to create a ruse, great lord,” he said. “I am not sure how to explain this to you without telling you everything, so suffice it to say that I am no longer part of the rebellion.”
Bhrodi’s brow furrowed. “Why not?”
“Because I am English. I have come to Lioncross to discover who I truly am.”
Bhrodi cocked his head curiously. “I do not understand.”
Blayth conceded the point. “I know,” he said.
“I was discussing it with your lady wife before you came. You see, I was badly injured at Llandeilo five years ago. You can see the damage on my head. When I awoke from this wound, I had no memory of who I was. I was taken in by Morys ap Macsen, who told me that I was the bastard son of Llywelyn the Last. Without any knowledge of my past, I trusted him. I believed him. But recently, Morys told me the truth of who I am, and I have decided that discovering my true past is more important than fighting in a Welsh rebellion when I am not even Welsh. If that offends you, great lord, then I beg your forgiveness. But that is why I have come to Lioncross – to find out who I really am.”
It was an astonishing story, but one that made sense to Bhrodi. He was sure there was much more to it but, in that brief explanation, he didn’t sense lies or deceit. He sensed that Blayth truly meant what he said and, clearly, his reaction to Penelope and hers to him were genuine.
“Then… you are not here to try and wreak havoc?” he asked.
Blayth smiled thinly, shaking his head. “Nay, great lord,” he said. “The only havoc I seemed to have wrought is upon your lady wife when she told me who I was.”
It all seemed honest enough, but there was one more thing on Bhrodi’s mind. “I will ask you a question and you will tell me truthfully,” he said. “Know that I will not punish you in any way, but I must know the truth. Will you do this?”
“If I can, great lord.”
“Are you an English agent for King Edward, sent to destroy ap Maredudd’s rebellion?”
Blayth looked at him in surprise, such a genuine reaction that Bhrodi knew right then that the man wasn’t who he’d been suspected of.
“Nay, great lord,” he said, perplexed. “Have men been saying that about me?”
Bhrodi shrugged. “I heard someone say it,” he said. “Then it is not true?”
“Nay, great lord, I swear with all my heart it is not.”
Bhrodi believed him. “That is good,” he said. “Because that has been something of a concern. For your father’s sake, I was hoping that your reported death wasn’t some elaborate hoax.”
Blayth shook his head as if the entire concept baffled him. “Not at all, great lord,” he said. “It seems like something terribly cruel to do. I hope my father did not think that.”
“He does not know. And he never shall from my lips.”
Blayth understood. “Nor mine,” he said. From the corner of his eye, he could see Penelope and Asmara standing together, now in quiet conversation, and he was drawn to the woman who had identified herself as his long-lost sister.
He very much wanted to be part of that conversation, too.
“Now, if I may have your permission to speak with your lady wife and find out about my family, I would be grateful.”
Bhrodi simply nodded and Blayth smiled, a genuine gesture. But before turning to the women, he paused one last time.
“I have been told that I am a de Wolfe, but you must understand that being cymry is the only thing I remember,” he said.
“I find myself in a very strange position now, a Saesneg by birth, but a Welshman by heart. I would be proud to call you brother in any case. But knowing what I do about you, and how the Welsh feel about you, I hope that from time to time you will permit me to speak to you of the Wales I remember.”
For the first time, Bhrodi smiled at the man. He could sense a kind man, perhaps even a gentle nature, which seemed odd considering the reputation Blayth the Strong had amassed as a warrior.
“I would be honored,” he said. “But remember this – the English heritage you have and the love of your family are as strong as anything I have ever seen. They adore you, James. Do not be afraid to embrace that. It is something few men ever know.”
Blayth simply nodded, perhaps lingering on the thought of being loved beyond measure, before turning for the women and making his way over to them.
Bhrodi simply stood there and watched as Penelope pulled the man over to the benches beneath the yew tree, where Blayth the Strong would learn about James de Wolfe from one of the people who had loved him best.
A sister who had once called him her Favorite Brother.
Truth be told, he still was.