The Original de Wolfe Pack Complete Set: Including Sons of de Wolfe

by Kathryn Le Veque

  Morys, who had been willing to go along with Howell on anything, wasn’t so pleased to realize that his cousin, Rhys, was at the head of the coming revolt. Because of Rhys, and other great-grandsons of Rhys ap Gruffydd, the lands that men like Morys and Cader controlled were greatly reduced. The grandsons and great-grandsons of the last king took precedence, something that Morys and Cader’s father and grandfather had fought against. Therefore, Morys was greatly displeased to hear that his cousin was behind this latest push.

  Ystrad Tywi was the larger area that used to comprise Deheubarth, an area of great rivers and valleys, both strategic and rich. The English knew this, which is why they’d settled heavily in the area. Loosely translated, it meant the Vale of the Towy River, which was a major river that cut through the land.

  It was key.

  “A bold proposal,” Morys finally said, saying what everyone else was thinking. Then, he shook his head, perhaps in disapproval. “Does Rhys truly think he can take the Ystrad Tywi from the English? They’ve sunk their claws into it and it will not be an easy thing to take it back.”

  Howell wasn’t a fool. He knew that a bold proposal like this would be met with doubt. “We have a plan, Morys,” he said. “I know that you and your cousin are not on the best of terms, but Rhys has a plan that he believes will work so long as you and your men are willing to try.”

  Willing to try. Morys didn’t like the sound of that. Trying wasn’t succeeding as far as he was concerned. It was a foolish effort. In fact, he didn’t like the sound of any of this because the truth was that he thought that he would be leading this revolt, or at least helping to lead it. Instead, he was being asked to try something. That didn’t sit well with him.

  “Did he ask you to relay this plan to me?” he finally asked.

  “He did,” Howell said. But he looked at the room once more. “He asked me to relay it to all of you. We are cymry, after all. This is our land. We have suffered the Norman invasion for over two hundred years and, still, they come. Still, they live on our lands and claim them as their own. Many men have fought to reclaim it, and many men have failed. But I believe that this time, it will be different. If we fight hard enough, if we show them how unwilling we are to have them in our country, then surely they will grow tired of losing men. Or are you so willing to return to your villages and let the English dictate terms to us in our own country?”

  That was something that every Welshman abhorred, and Howell knew it. He was hitting their pride now. As the collection of men continued to mutter to each other, discussing the possibilities, Howell turned to Cader to see how he was reacting to the situation.

  It was typical Cader behavior; he remained calm, impassive. He was standing on the opposite side of the table, his focus on his brother from a distance away. Cader was the reasonable brother, but this was where some strategy came in. Howell knew that if he addressed Cader directly, Morys would be offended since he was the older brother. Moreover, if Cader agreed to listen, then Morys couldn’t let the man be more reasonable than he was, so he would agree to listen, too.

  Howell was counting on that sibling rivalry.

  “Will you at least listen, my lord?” he asked Cader. “Surely you wish to reclaim what belongs to us.”

  Cader’s gaze moved from Morys to Howell. After a moment, he nodded. “I will listen.”

  As Howell knew, Morys would not be outdone. “As will I,” he said loudly. “Tell us the plan, Howell. What does my cousin wish from us?”

  That was what Howell needed – the two ap Macsen brothers willing to listen. That would spur the rest of the group to listen, too. When Howell spoke, it was to all of them.

  “Rhys and his men plan to move on Pembroke Castle.” A great hiss of disbelief went up and Howell held up his hands, begging for silence. “Listen, if you please. William de Valence, Lord of Pembroke Castle, has left Pembroke. Our spies tell us that the man has been sent to France and that he took nearly half of his army with him. This means that Pembroke is weakened and it is Rhys’ intention that we take advantage of that. While Rhys and his men move to encircle Pembroke, he asks that we move on Llandarog, Idole, and Gwendraith castles. If we can claim these, then we can block off the main roads leading from Pembroke to Cardiff and beyond. We can then starve out the garrison and claim Pembroke.”

  It was a shocking plan, but one that was opportunistic and, in truth, feasible. Morys listened to it with flaring nostrils, not at all happy that his cousin had relegated him to laying siege to smaller castles, but he also saw the brilliance of the plan as a whole.

  “It is true that my cousin has an intriguing plan,” he said loudly so all would hear him, “but there are other castles near Pembroke that we would have to consider as well, some of them English garrisons. Carew and Narberth castles are English. Then there is the bishop’s castle of Llawhaden. If we cut off the roads, there are still plenty of English who will try and break our blockade.”

  Howell nodded patiently. “That is why I have sent word to the northern warlords,” he said. “Morys, we cannot reclaim our country if we fight in splintered groups, and that is what has happened. With the south of Wales subdued, King Edward has gone to the north. He has mostly subdued the north as well. But if we can work together and take back our country piece by piece, then we may have a chance of taking it back as a whole. Are you opposed to trying?”

  Morys shook his head. “I am not,” he said. “Who comes from the north to support us?”

  Howell glanced at the group because he wanted to see their expressions as he spoke the names of some of Wales’ most powerful warlords.

  “The sons of Dafydd ap Gruffydd fight to the north,” he said. “There are several. There is also Bhrodi de Shera, the King of Anglesey. I plan to send word to Bhrodi myself and I am sure he will support us.”

  That drew a strong reaction from the crown. “De Shera is in league with the English,” one man shouted. “His father was English and he married a Saesneg!”

  Howell shook his head. “He married her for peace,” he said. “That does not mean he sides with the English. He is a Welshman at heart, and a great one. Do any of you doubt de Shera’s loyalty to Wales?”

  The men backed down after that, for no one doubted Bhrodi de Shera’s loyalties. He was a great warlord who had proven his worth time and time again. But he was a man with a Norman name and Welsh blood, making him something more than a Welsh warlord. He had the trust of the Edward, oddly enough, and that made the Welsh somewhat wary of him. A man could only have loyalty to one country, so they believed. But still, no one was ready to denounce the man who held the title of Earl of Coventry as well as being the hereditary King of Anglesey. Better still, his wife was from the great House of de Wolfe, a family of knights who commanded thousands of Saesneg warriors.

  Bhrodi de Shera was a man to be feared, above all.

  “He is loyal,” Morys said after a moment. “I would not speak ill of the man, for he has proven himself many times over. But we have something more powerful than even de Shera here in the south, something that will turn the tides for us once and for all.”

  Howell was curious. “What is it?”

  Morys turned to look at the pale warrior standing behind him. His eyes fixed on the man, proudly, as a father would show pride in a son. He walked towards the warrior, pointing to him.

  Now, it was Morys’ time to show his worth in all of this.

  He was a man with a secret.

  “Blayth,” he said, drawing out the name to ensure everyone heard him. “We have Blayth, the man whose very name means wolf. He knows what the Saesneg are thinking, and if anyone can lead this fight, it will be our battle wolf. I would put my trust in no one else; not even de Shera.”

  Men began grumbling again, some of them agreeing, some of them not. Given that Blayth had earned an almost legendary reputation in a few short years, men weren’t ready yet to contradict Morys, but they were uncertain.

  Morys knew this, but he had something else in mind,
something that would put these men right into the palm of his hand. It was something he’d been working on the day he realized that badly wounded warrior he’d found near Llandeilo was going to live. He’d known even then that the man was something special, and he knew what no one else knew about him – that he was, indeed, a Saesneg. But Blayth had no recollection of who he was, or where he’d come from. In fact, his very name stemmed from nearly the only word he’d been able to say as he recovered from his injury those years ago – wolf.

  That word had become his Welsh name, Blayth, and from that name sprang a warrior of legend, something that Morys had perpetuated. He’d created the stories, and spread many of the rumors, but the one thing he hadn’t needed to exaggerate was Blayth’s prowess in battle. The man was unbeatable. His men, and the Welsh in general, were badly in need of a hero since the death of the lasts Welsh prince.

  Morys intended to give them one.

  “I give you the man who will lead us to freedom,” Morys finally boomed. “Some of you have fought with him and know the truth of my words, but some of you do not know. You have heard rumor how he came into my service, but I will tell you the truth once and for all. I have been protecting the man’s identity because it has been entrusted to me. I swore an oath never to reveal his true family lineage, but since my cousin has decided to once again throw the south into turmoil with his plans for Pembroke, I find that I must reveal the true identity of Blayth, the greatest warrior Wales will ever know. He, and only he, can lead us to victory. And do you know why?”

  Morys was, if nothing else, a man who could stir crowds. He had a magnetic presence and a natural air of command that made men take notice of him and as he spoke most passionately, the men were naturally drawn to what he was saying. One of the men shouted the obvious question.

  “Why, lord?” the man demanded. “Tell us of Blayth!”

  Morys pointed to Blayth. “See his head?” he shouted. “See the damage to his head? The Saesneg did that. They tortured the poor lad and tried to burn the Welsh right out of him, but they could not do it. They could not destroy his Welsh heart!”

  The men in the room, Cader and Howell included, were looking seriously at Blayth, who was solely focused on Morys. It was as if there was no one else in the room, oblivious to an entire room of men staring at him. Enjoying the fact that he had everyone’s attention, Morys continued.

  “The Saesneg tried to destroy him,” he said passionately. “They tried to destroy his heart, because it is a pure Welsh heart. The Saesneg knew who he was, but those loyal to Cymru smuggled him out of his prison and gave him over to me. These men, these smugglers, were old and beaten, because they were the teulu of our greatest warrior. They knew who Blayth was and they entrusted his care to me.”

  By this time, Howell had made his way over to Morys. He was still standing on the worn and beaten feasting table, but he climbed down in order to be at Morys’ level.

  “We have all wondered where Blayth came from,” he said. “From the looks of him, it makes sense that the English tortured him.”

  Morys nodded, putting a hand on Howell’s shoulder. In truth, Morys was enjoying the performance of a lifetime because, for his own glory, he had to sell this. The man with no sons, and no children at all, had to cement legacy. It all rested with a story he’d spent years building about a wounded warrior who had no memory.

  Morys would provide him with that memory.

  “The Saesneg captured Blayth at a very young age and kept him in their prisons,” he said. “It was the loyal teulu of Llywelyn ap Gruffydd that freed Blayth from the Saesneg. That is because the English knew, as you will now know, that Blayth the Strong is, in truth, Blayth ap Llywelyn. He is the bastard son of the last Prince of Wales, Llywelyn ap Gruffydd.”

  A collective gasp went up in the group. No one had been expecting that answer, least of all Howell or even Cader. They looked at each other in shock before Howell returned his attention to Morys.

  “He… he is Llywelyn’s son?” he said, incredulous. “But – how? We have not heard of such a child of Llywelyn. He only had a daughter, and she has long been a ward of the Saesneg. Now you are saying that the man had a son?”

  Morys nodded confidently. “Blayth was sold by his whore of a mother to the Saesneg,” he said. “The bitch sold her child for gold and the Saesneg took him to their great city, to their great Tower, and there he has been his entire life. Men believe he is a Saesneg because of it, but that is not true. He was freed and brought to me to protect him, and it is Blayth who shall lead our countrymen to victory against Edward. Who else but a man who has been tortured and wronged to lead the charge against those who tried to destroy him?”

  It made perfect sense to the Welsh, who were increasingly excited about what they’d been told. A buzz filled the room as men began to speak of the unknown bastard son of Llywelyn the Last, but the conversation wasn’t entirely positive. There were those who were not thrilled by such news.

  “Llywelyn was a northern prince,” one older man shouted. “His gain was only for the north. Why should we want his bastard for us?”

  Morys suspected that might be an issue, but he would not allow old prejudices to mar his glory seeking. “Llywelyn may have been a northern prince, but he fought for all of Wales,” he said. “He did what was necessary to secure our country for north and south. Now that we have his bastard in our midst, a man who has already proven that he has greatness in his blood, would you truly allow old hatreds to ruin our chance to take back our country from the Saesneg? It is a very real possibility, now that we have Blayth among us. Would you deny a Welsh prince his destiny?”

  Of course, no one would. Wales was full of history of Welsh princes fighting the English, and sometimes each other. But England was the greater threat and they were all united against it.

  Now, they had renewed hope.

  It was almost too good to be true, but gradually, men began to realize the opportunity that was presented. Morys ap Macsen was a passionate patriot and the men trusted him. Over the past few years, Blayth’s record on the battlefield spoke for itself. He was a fierce warrior, fearless in the face of the enemy, and his reputation had been cemented. Surely such a man could have only sprung from Llywelyn’s loins.

  And now, he would fulfill his destiny.

  At that point, there were no more voices of protest. In truth, it was a thrilling prospect. But standing next to Morys, Howell’s reaction was decidedly different. He couldn’t decide if he believed Morys or not. He knew the man; he was a teller of tall tales, but he was also a fearsome warrior and deeply dedicated to Wales. As the men of the hall began to take up a cheer for Blayth, Howell grasped Morys by the arm.

  “Swear this to me,” he muttered. “Swear to me that all you have said is true.”

  Morys looked him right in the eye. “It is true.”

  Howell shook his head, still torn. “Then why have we never heard of Llywelyn’s bastard? No one has ever spoken of a bastard son.”

  Morys was completely confident in his answer. “I told you,” he said patiently. “His mother was a servant and she sold the lad when he was but an infant. Do you truly think she would then tell everyone that she sold Llywelyn’s son to the English?”

  Howell glanced at Blayth, standing like a massive sentinel behind Morys. He was pale, scarred, and every inch the seasoned warrior. If one wanted to believe that he was from Llywelyn’s loins, then it would be easy to do so. Men seeking hope, something to cling to, would be willing to believe such a thing.

  But Howell still wasn’t sure.

  “But you said that Llywelyn’s teulu knew of him,” he said. “Are you telling me that in all of these years, they never once bargained for his freedom?”

  Morys fixed him, pointedly. “Would you?” he asked. “The fact that the English did not kill him as an infant was a miracle in and of itself. Do you think if the teulu had tried to bargain for him, that Edward might not change his mind?”

  That was the truth. Any
true Welsh prince wasn’t long for this world if the English had anything to say about it. The fact that they evidently kept the man alive, and tortured him, was something beyond horrific, and Howell began to soften, just a little.

  “So they knew of him,” he finally said. “Then what? Have they been tracking him all this time? The man must be forty years old. He is not a young man.”

  Morys shook his head. “He is not,” he said. “And to answer your question, it is true that Llywelyn’s men spent years tracking the child who eventually became a man. Always, they kept their eye on him, even if it meant serving the English king himself. Anything to be close to him. When the time was right, they moved to free him.”

  The entire situation sounded too wild to believe, and Howell still wasn’t convinced. “But why you?” he demanded quietly. “Why should they bring him to you?”

  Morys lifted an eyebrow. “Because I can protect him,” he said simply. “Think on it, Howell. My father is the fifth son of a prince of Deheubarth. My cousins, like Rhys, are entrenched in fighting each other. All they want to do is kill each other. But Cader and I are not so engaged in politics, or in trying to kill each other, but we still understand the need for discretion and protection. If you want to hide a man like Blayth, then you would choose someone like me. Only I would understand the importance of Blayth, and I have kept him protected accordingly for the past five years. But now… now, he must fulfill his destiny and I must help him. Surely you can understand this.”

  Some of what he said made sense, but Howell was still torn. It all seemed so outlandish to him but in the same breath, it was a fantastic story that he wanted to believe. He wanted to have faith. The cries of the men in the hall were growing now as the warlords began to understand that a great man was among them and Howell looked around, knowing that if he were to publicly dispute Morys’ claim, it would only tear apart the group as a whole. And for what they were about to do, this group needed to be cohesive. If a man they believed to be the bastard son of Llywelyn the Last was the adhesive, then so be it. It was with misgivings that Howell let the subject drop.