But he knew, instinctively, that wasn’t going to be the end of it. When he sent his missive to Bhrodi de Shera, he would make sure to mention Llywelyn’s bastard. It would either cement the matter, or complicate it.
Asmara, who had been standing by the hearth during the entire conversation between Howell and Morys, could hardly believe her ears when she heard her uncle’s revelation. She heard the shouting and the buzz of the men but, unfortunately, she couldn’t see the warrior that had the entire room rumbling with shock.
Blayth the Strong.
Nearly dry from the heat of the hearth, and coughing on the smoke she couldn’t avoid, Asmara finally stepped away from the fire as she tried to get a look at the man known as Blayth, who was evidently, in reality, the bastard of Llywelyn the Last. It was an astonishing disclosure. She tried to push between the men to get a look at him, but the men were standing in tight groups and wouldn’t move. They didn’t like a woman trying to push them around, anyway, so she ended up skirting the room, making her away along the walls until she caught sight of her father standing near the feasting table.
Then, she was more assertive pushing through the crowds of men, shoving them aside until she reached her father’s teulu, who moved aside for her easily. Once she came to stand next to her father, she had a clear view of the table and of her Uncle Morys on the opposite side. She tugged on her father’s sleeve.
“I heard what Morys said,” she said, leaning in to him. “Where is Blayth?”
Cader glanced at her. “Where have you been?” he asked. Then, because she was butted up against him, he couldn’t help but notice that she was damp. “What happened to you? Why are you wet?”
Asmara was too ashamed to tell him. “It is nothing to worry over,” she said, trying to distract him. “Dadau, Fairynne is here. She followed us even though you told her not to.”
As Asmara had hoped, her father’s attention veered away from her wet clothing and on to his disobedient daughter. “Where is that foolish chick?” he said in a rare display of emotion. “She will sorely regret having disobeyed me. Where is she?”
Asmara shrugged. “I do not know,” she said. “That last I saw, she was heading for the stables.”
Cader sighed heavily. “I am going to make it so she’ll have to walk home because her arse will be too sore to ride.”
Asmara didn’t care much about her sister at that point; this was a discussion they had about her frequently, so it was nothing new. Increasingly, she was curious about the warrior known as Blayth, the man whose true identity had been revealed, so she strained to see over near Morys, who was still lauding the lineage of his greatest warrior.
“Morys’ voice carries all the way over here,” she said, disapproval in her tone. “Who is Blayth, Dadau?”
Cader was still lingering on his youngest, and naughtiest, daughter, but he managed to point in Morys’ direction. “There,” he said. “See the big brute standing behind your uncle? The one with the scarred head?”
Scarred head. A bolt of shock ran through Asmara as her gaze fell on the pale warrior she’d tangled with earlier. Her mouth popped open with astonishment when she realized who her father meant.
“Him?” she asked, aghast. “That… that beast of a man?”
“Aye.”
“That is Blayth?”
“Aye.”
Asmara’s mouth was still hanging open as she came to understand what her father was telling her. Truly, it took a moment to sink in; the man with the slow, deliberate speech, the one who had looked at her with eyes that seemed to look right into her soul, was none other than the mysterious warrior known as Blayth the Strong.
Good Christ… was it actually true that the man was a bastard of royal blood in disguise? It was all so overwhelming. Shocking, for certain. Now, Asmara didn’t know whether to feel privileged or embarrassed that Llywelyn’s bastard had thrown her in the trough.
She settled for embarrassed.
“What now?” she asked, averting her gaze from the warrior across the hall. “Do we fight with him, Dadau? Is that what we shall do?”
Cader nodded. “It would seem we are to be part of a resurgence of rebellion,” he said. “Morys has stirred the hearts of men with his tale of Llywelyn’s bastard. Can you not see that?”
Asmara looked at the men around them, men who were shouting their excitement for what was to come. There was indeed rebellion in the air now that the situation had been explained to them – Howell had proposed the plan and Morys had sealed their fates with his talk of a new hero among them. Indeed, Asmara could see what was coming. She looked at her father.
“Do you believe Morys?” she asked.
Cader was certain that men were listening to her question and even more certain that they were interested in his answer. He could not, and would not, go against his brother, even if he did have misgivings. Sometimes, there were things more important than the truth and, much like Howell, he would not tear this group apart by disputing Morys’ claim. He could see that Morys’ words were like a tonic to men who had been so beaten down by wars with the English, and oppression, that the mere mention of a new hero to lead them was feeding them all with renewed hope.
He couldn’t take that away from them.
After a moment, he turned to his daughter.
“I will not question him,” he said. “For now, I want you to find your sister and keep her with you. It is too dangerous for her to wander about with all of these men. Both of you will retreat to the stables and remain with the horses while I speak with Howell and my brother. I must discover what they intend for us to do in this plan to assist Rhys ap Maredudd, so you will wait for me whilst we have our war council. Go, now.”
Asmara didn’t want to leave, not with battle plans to be discussed, but she decided to respect his wishes by obeying him. It was one thing to dispute her father when no one was watching, and entirely another to do it in front of a room of cymry. She would not shame her father so. But before she departed, she spoke quietly.
“Whatever happens, Dadau, I will ride with you,” she said. “Swear this to me. If you do not, I will follow you into battle. You will not go without me.”
Cader looked at her. He knew she meant every word. “Nay,” he said after a moment, reluctance in his tone. “I will not go without you. I have fought many a battle with you and your skill with a bow, so I do not plan to leave you behind. You are valuable to me.”
“And Fairynne?”
“She is not so valuable, but do not tell her that. In fact, do not tell her anything about this. I shall tell her myself.”
“Aye.”
When she turned to leave, he grasped her arm to stop her. “Can you tell me when you plan to stop being a warrior and start being a woman?” he asked. “I should like to have grandsons and that will not happen so long as you can outshoot most men with your bow. Men do not like to be humiliated so.”
Asmara grinned at her father, who simply shook his head in resignation. He knew her answer without hearing her answer; it was always the same. Someday, Dadau, but not today. Releasing her, Cader’s thoughts lingered on his strong, intelligent daughter, realizing that, yet again, they would soon be heading into battle. Only the coming battles, he suspected, would be unlike anything Asmara had experienced in the past. She’d fought in ambushes, and in the siege of Weobley Castle when the English tried to build stone fortifications. She was cool under fire, possessing her father’s innate sense of calm, and she was quick-thinking and resourceful. Cader had seen it. But, God, he didn’t want to take his beloved daughter into the coming battles against English who wouldn’t care if she was a woman. They’d kill her regardless.
But he knew he couldn’t make her stay at home with her mother, either.
With some concern for the future, but resigned to what was to come, Cader made his way over to Howell and Morys to discuss the coming plan of attack.
God help them all.
PART TWO
A MAN AND HIS DESTIN
Y
CHAPTER FOUR
Two weeks later
Llandarog Castle, eight miles east of Carmarthen Castle
The heavens had opened up and hell had poured forth.
The summer had been unseasonably wet and, true to form, storm upon storm had rained across the area for the past two weeks. The storms had been cold, too, and the feeling in the air was very much like autumn or even a cold spring.
But it wasn’t something that bothered the Welsh. Wales could be wet even in the best of times, so they were used to the discomfort of constant rain and the chill of the wind. The weather did nothing to dampen their spirits or their determination in what needed to be done.
The time to act was upon them.
The plan outlined at Carmarthen Castle was that the three castles in question – Llandarog, Idole, and Gwendraith – would be taken simultaneously. It was decided that the castles needed to be seized all at once to prevent the English from sending reinforcements to one or more of them.
Therefore, the Welsh fighting force in the south, comprised of about four thousand men, was split into three groups. One was led by Morys and Cader, the second by Howell and his men, and the third by another warlord named Kimble whose lands lay to the north near Cilgerran. He carried men from the mountains with him, Welshmen who fought with guerilla tactics rather than in organized groups.
In fact, given that the siege of a castle wasn’t something the Welsh normally did because they didn’t possess the big siege engines necessary for such grand operations, the smartest tactic for them to take was stealth. That was how they worked best. A head-on siege wouldn’t work on any of their targets because all three had serious defensive features, so it was decided that only a few select men would make their way into the castles to open the gates for the rest of the Welshmen to enter and engage in hand-to-hand combat with the English inside.
It was the kind of tactic that Blayth was best at.
Even though it was Morys and Cader in charge of the siege of Llandarog Castle, it was Blayth who would lead the breach of the gatehouse with the enormous portcullis. He had an uncanny knowledge of the English defenses and the night before their assault on Llandarog, Blayth stood outside of Morys’ tent, listening to the conversation of the men gathered with Morys. In particular, he could hear two familiar voices, men who had become his friends over the years. Aeddan was one of them, a warrior of thirty years and three, with big brown eyes and a quick temper, and Pryce was the other, a sometimes-foolish younger man who was Aeddan’s brother.
Both men were Blayth’s shadows. Where he went, they went, and he couldn’t remember when they hadn’t always been by his side. In fact, their faces were some of the first Blayth could remember after awakening from the weeks of unconsciousness after his terrible injuries.
Morys, and Morys’ wife, Auryn, had mostly taken care of him, but when it came time to regain his strength and re-learn even the most basic things, Aeddan and Pryce ap Ninian had helped a great deal. It had been the brothers who had helped him learn to speak again, and the brothers who had helped him strengthen the right side of his body, which the head wound had terribly weakened. They had worked with him, side by side, sympathizing in his frustrations but never allowing him to quit.
Because of them, Blayth had grown bigger, faster, and stronger. He chopped wood, lifted stones and tree branches, rode horses, wrestled men, and any number of extreme activities that saw the weakened, nearly-dead warrior build himself up into something broad and muscular. His body had healed faster than his brain and, in truth, that was something of an ongoing process. He still forgot certain words and, at times, his speech could be slow. But the thought processes behind those damaged traits were still sharp, perhaps sharper than they had ever been. It was simply difficult for him to express himself at times.
Yet, the hard work had paid off. The result had seen them develop a close bond and Blayth considered Aeddan and Pryce his brothers. Since he had no other family, he loved them as if they were his blood, and as he stood on a rise watching the town of Llandarog in the distance, he could hear Aeddan and Pryce as they squabbled with a few other warriors over the game of dice they were playing.
The brothers were fond of gambling and, too many times, they had tried to gamble for every possession from anyone they ever knew. They had a bit of a reputation. When Blayth heard a smacking sound, as if someone had been struck, and then instant silence, he fought off a smile. He knew that Pryce, who could be rather obnoxious, had pushed too far. When he glanced over his shoulder to see Pryce leaving the tent with his hand over his eye, he couldn’t hold back the smile then.
Some things never changed.
But some things did. Even as Pryce wandered away, Blayth’s attention moved to Cader’s encampment towards the north. He could see them through the trees. There were no fires, nothing to alert Llandarog Castle that there were Welsh watching them in the forest, but he could see the outline of the tents nonetheless because the rain was starting to lighten and the moon was quite bright behind the gathering clouds.
Seeing Cader’s encampment had him thinking of something he’d tried to push out of his mind for two weeks, ever since Carmarthen Castle and the chance encounter with a woman he hadn’t been able to shake. He’d discovered that she was Cader’s daughter, the brother that Morys rarely spoke to, but spoke of a good deal. Blayth felt as if he knew Cader simply from Morys’ frequent mention of the man, but if Blayth was to believe anything Morys said, then he would believe that Cader was a quiet, meek man who was stubborn and grim.
He wasn’t a brother Morys was proud of.
But Blayth had been around Cader during their time at Carmarthen Castle when they were planning their attacks on the three castles, and he came to see Cader as a man who was quiet but intelligent. He had excellent insight into the battles to come and his suggestions were sound. But he’d also been the one to suggest the breach of Llandarog, and even now as Blayth watched the castle in the distance, he didn’t like Cader’s suggestion for one particular reason.
The man suggested using his daughter.
Blayth sighed heavily at the thought of a woman in battle. It wasn’t unheard of, but Blayth personally didn’t think women belonged in warfare. Cader had lauded his daughter’s skill, and the others who had fought with her seemed to agree, and it was Blayth who was to take an advance party, including Cader’s daughter, and scale Llandarog’s one exterior tower.
The tower was set in the curtain wall, high on a rise, so Blayth and his men were to scale the hill and then the daughter and Pryce, who was tall and skinny, were to climb the tower as Blayth and the others protected them with their long bows. Once the woman and Pryce slipped into the slender lancet windows on the tower, they were to make it to the curtain wall where they would lower ropes so Blayth and the rest of the party could climb up. Then, they were all to make it to the gatehouse and open the gate for the rest of the army and try not to get killed in the process.
That was the plan for taking Llandarog.
It wasn’t a bad plan. In fact, it was an excellent one providing they weren’t seen. The moon would be setting towards morning, making the land quite dark, and that was when Blayth was to take his group to the tower. That was when he was to help that leggy, beautiful woman climb that tower.
Nay, he didn’t like it at all.
So, he stood there and brooded, thinking of the woman he’d been unable to shake. That wasn’t like him, considering he wasn’t one to think of women in general. Something told him that, once, there had only been one woman for him, although he really had no memory of her, or of anything else for that matter. He remembered nothing prior to the day he awoke, somewhat lucid, in Morys’ sod hut those years ago. He didn’t even remember his name; all he could say was one word.
Wolf…
He gave himself that name and he didn’t even know why.
The lack of memory didn’t bother him like it used to. Morys had told him who he was, and where he’d come from, and h
e accepted the man’s word on the matter. But there were times when he dreamed of men he knew he loved, of women with Scottish accents, and of castles he’d never seen. But on nights like this, with an impending battle, he felt more at home than anywhere else. He knew he’d been born and raised a warrior, and even if he couldn’t remember his past, he was certain about his future.
He would lead the fight to free Wales from the English.
“Great Lord?”
A quiet, feminine voice roused him from his thoughts and he turned to see Cader’s daughter standing a few feet away. He’d never even heard her approach, but his hearing on his right side wasn’t very good because of the head wound, so events like this weren’t unusual. He usually had Aeddan or Pryce watching his back for such things but tonight there were no such observers.
Looking at her, Blayth began to feel the same way he did the first time he met her – interested, perhaps even a little giddy. Two weeks of trying to put her out of his mind, and then ignoring her when she was nearby, just went up in a puff of smoke.
He turned in her direction.
“Lady Asmara,” he said in his low, deliberate speech. “Your presence honors me.”
Wrapped in a dark, oiled cloth against the rain, Asmara’s features were pinched red from the cold. She had come from her father’s encampment, moving with stealth through the damp foliage, until she reached Morys’ encampment. She was wet and weary from what had been two weeks of a rather difficult existence on battle campaign, but her golden eyes were bright.
“My father has sent me,” she said. “He wishes for me to speak to you about our coming operation on the morrow.”
“What do you wish to know?”
Asmara opened her mouth to say something, but she quickly shut it. She simply looked at him as if scrutinizing him and, after several long moments, she cleared her throat softly.
“I wish to know why you did not tell me who you were when we met at Carmarthen,” she said. “I introduced myself. It would have been polite for you to tell me who you were.”
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