The only potential hole in the plan had been Aeddan and Pryce, who had been at Llandeilo, although they hadn’t been involved with Blayth until well after the battle when Morys brought the man back to Brecfa. Even then, Morys had been vague about who Blayth was, mostly because he didn’t want it to get out that he was trying to save an English knight. He could have been viewed as a traitor, in fact, and that was a real fear.
Therefore, Aeddan and Pryce knew Blayth had come from Llandeilo, but they didn’t know much more than that. It had been Morys who had convinced them of Blayth’s true identity with a rather madcap story about Llywelyn’s loyal teulu being at Llandeilo at the same time. Aeddan and Pryce believed him because they had no reason not to.
But Morys was always fearful his elaborate story would unravel.
The more he entangled himself in it, the deeper the story became.
And that was why Morys kept Blayth away from any contact with the English, fearful that it might trigger memories in him that were long buried or, worse still, someone might recognize him. Morys had no idea of Blayth’s true identity other than the fact that he was wearing a de Wolfe tunic, so clearly, he was from the House of de Wolfe, but that was all Morys knew.
That torn, bloodied de Wolfe tunic was still at Brecfa, buried in a trunk and hidden away from the world.
Now, what Morys feared had evidently happened. Blayth had contact with an English knight. Astonished as he was that Blayth had undermined his authority, that really wasn’t his primary concern. What he was most concerned with was if that contact had stirred something in Blayth. With that in mind, he swallowed whatever outrage he might be feeling.
There were things he had to discover.
“I see,” he said after several long moments. “Did you speak to the man, then?”
“I did,” Blayth replied.
“And what did you tell him, exactly?”
“Just what I told you – I sent him with a message for the Marcher lords.”
Morys eyed him. “And he agreed?”
Blayth nodded. “He did,” he said. “He gave his name as Corbett Payton-Forrester, the garrison commander of Gwendraith. He serves William de Valence and, I would imagine, that means he is a man of honor. He said he would deliver the message and I believe him. But he also said something odd.”
“What is that?”
“He mistook me for someone he used to know.”
“James de Wolfe,” Asmara spoke up. She had been listening to the conversation and spoke up before she really thought that perhaps she shouldn’t. “He seemed quite sure that Blayth was someone named James de Wolfe.”
Morys looked at her, such surprise on his face that it was difficult to conceal. “How – how would you know any of this?” he demanded.
“She was there,” Blayth said. He couldn’t help but notice that Morys was suddenly quite upset; the man’s entire countenance had changed and his body was coiled as if ready to burst. “I took her with me as a witness in case the knight said anything of note. But he did not; the only thing he really said was that he believed I was someone he once knew.”
Morys’ heart was beating heavily against his chest as he realized his fear, that godawful fear he’d been living with for the past five years, may have very well happened. What were the odds of such a thing? Dear God, he’d tried so hard to keep Blayth away from the English for this very reason.
He could hardly believe what he was hearing.
“You should not have permitted her to be there,” he snapped, rising to his feet. He was so unsteady that he had a nearly panicked urge to leave. “Did you tell him who you were?”
He was nearly barking at Blayth, who cooled dramatically. He didn’t like being barked at. “Of course I did,” he said. “It was dark. The man could hardly see. Clearly, he was mistaken. It is nothing to become irate over.”
It was a succinct answer and over his panic and anger, Morys realized something – that Blayth was still Blayth. He still believed he was the bastard son of Llywelyn in spite of the English knight evidently recognizing him. Now, Morys had a name to put with Blayth’s mysterious past.
James de Wolfe.
And it meant nothing to Blayth.
Morys wasn’t quite sure how to feel now. Was it possible that this would be an event to be quickly forgotten? Certainly, it would be remembered if Morys continued to have a tantrum over it, so he labored to calm himself. He had to push aside his shock if there was any hope of salvaging the situation. Therefore, he forced a smile, putting a hand on Blayth’s broad shoulder.
“Forgive me,” he said. “It has been a long day and a long journey. I am simply weary, and news such as this has upset my exhausted mind. I will retire, and I shall see you come the morrow.”
With that, he abruptly left the table, wandering out among the happy, drinking men, presenting a far more subdued figure than when he had entered the hall.
If Morys had hoped to ease the situation and not make it such a major event, then he had failed. Asmara was watching him leave, wondering why the man had become so upset over the English knight mistaking Blayth for someone he once knew. It seemed very odd that Morys should become so upset over such a thing.
… unless it wasn’t a mistake at all and Morys knew it.
Asmara glanced at Blayth, who had returned to the last of his food. If Morys was displaying bizarre behavior, Blayth didn’t seem to care about it. But he wasn’t seeing what Asmara was seeing – a man who had clearly been unbalanced by the English knight who had addressed Blayth as someone else. The truth was that before Blayth was the man sitting with her, he was someone else.
The mystery behind the mysterious man deepened.
PART THREE
TIMES OF CHANGE
CHAPTER NINE
Lioncross Abbey Castle
Early October
“Your father will be very glad to hear of your release,” Chris said. “Praise God that the Welsh released you.”
Corbett was wolfing down a bowl of warmed-over stew and cramming hunks of bread into his mouth. He was absolutely starving, exhausted from his ride from Gwendraith. It had taken him a little over two days to reach Lioncross, and he’d forced himself to ride through the day as well as the night, regardless of his discomfort. As long as the horse held up, he could make it.
And he did.
He almost wept when he saw the enormous, squat towers of Lioncross’ curtain wall come into view. It had been mid-morning on the third day since leaving Gwendraith, and as he’d passed through the iconic gatehouse of the castle, with its massive lion-head corbel over the entry, the tears he’d been trying so hard to hold back finally made it to the surface. He told the sentry who he was, where he had come from, and why he was there, and it seemed to throw the entire castle into a frenzy.
De Lohr’s knight, Augustus de Shera, was a friend of Corbett’s. His family was allied with the House of de Shera and it was Augustus who had run out to meet him, and then nearly carried him into the hall. Even now, Augustus sat next to him with an expression of great concern on his face, watching him eat.
Chris was a little more subtle, but not much. He sat across from Corbett, trying to make it seem as if all was right and well in the world again with Corbett’s release. But that was far from the truth.
“The Welsh overtook Gwendraith in three days,” Corbett said, mouth full as he tried to speak and eat at the same time. “They had over a thousand men, at the very least, and they rained arrows on us so much that some of their men were able to build ladders and mount the walls. While we were protecting ourselves from the hail of arrows, the Welsh were aggressively trying to get into the castle.”
Chris thought of the news his spies had brought to him not long ago, and how he’d sent his own son north to Bhrodi with the news of a rising Welsh rebellion.
“I have heard of this new rebellion,” he said. “I have men in Wales that watch the countryside for just this very thing. I was told over a week ago about Llandarog, Gwendrait
h, and Idole Castles and how the Welsh had taken them. We speculated that the Welsh were trying to starve out Pembroke by cutting off the roads east, but we do not know for sure. Do you?”
Corbett shook his head, shoving more bread into his mouth. “Nay,” he said. “I have been kept in a tiny cell for the past month, in the dark. I have not been told anything, nor do I know anything, but I have come to you with a message.”
Chris’ brow furrowed with interest. “Me?” he said. “Someone is sending me a message?”
Corbett shook his head and swallowed his bite. He took several big gulps of wine before continuing. “Not you in particular, my lord,” he said. “The English Marcher lords. My message is for all of you. That was the only reason I was released – to bring you this message.”
Chris was growing increasingly interested. “What is this message?”
Corbett stopped shoveling food into his mouth for the moment and his expression grew serious. “I am to tell you that a new rebellion is rising, led by a bastard son of Llywelyn the Last.”
Chris sat forward, his arms resting on the feasting table. “I have heard this already,” he said. “My men have told me that because they heard it from their Welsh contacts. They said someone named Blayth the Strong is leading the rebellion.”
Corbett seemed to appear inordinately pale. “That is true,” he said. “I met the man they call Blayth. He is the one who told me to deliver this message.”
Chris’ eyebrows lifted. “You met him?” he repeated. “Did he tell you anything else?”
Corbett suddenly lost his appetite. He wiped his hand over his face in a nervous, weary gesture, and both Chris and Augustus could see that his hands were shaking. He’d been steady enough until the subject of Blayth the Strong arose, and on the entire ride to Lioncross he had been eager to tell de Lohr what he had seen, but now… now, the whole thing seemed mad. He was coming to wonder whether or not he’d imagined it all.
The dead had returned.
“It is not what he told me, my lord,” he said hoarsely. “It is what I saw. I am coming to wonder if I was momentarily insane because, in truth, I saw a ghost. A ghost from the past.”
Chris wasn’t following him, nor was Augustus, but they could see how upset he was. Augustus put a brotherly hand on the man’s back.
“What ghost?” he asked. “What did you see?”
At first, Corbett couldn’t even bring himself to say it. He knew that once he did, there would be no stemming the flood. The dam would have broken and men would either call him mad or they would praise him. He would be a lightning rod for controversy and speculation. Aye, he knew all of this, but he also knew he had to speak. He took a deep breath.
“You must understand that I have spent almost a month in total darkness,” he said quietly. “Any light at all is torture to my eyes and, even now, the light hurts them. I do not know if I will ever see clearly again. I was pulled from my cell by a beast of a man, very big and blond and scarred. So terribly scarred. The first thing I noticed about him was that the entire left side of his head is battered and scarred. His ear is missing. As he spoke to me, my eyes adjusted to the light and I saw his face. The man identified himself as Blayth the Strong.”
Chris still didn’t understand his meaning. “But why did you say you saw a ghost?”
Corbett sighed heavily and closed his eyes. “Because I believe that Blayth the Strong is James de Wolfe,” he nearly whispered. “I will swear upon my oath that James de Wolfe has returned from the dead.”
Chris stared at him a moment as the news sank in. Then, it hit him; his eyes widened and a hand flew to his mouth in disbelief. As he sat back and nearly reeled off the bench, Augustus was the one to grab Corbett’s arm as if the man had snakes coming out of his mouth.
“De Wolfe?” he gasped. “James de Wolfe? But… but that is not possible. He was killed five years ago at Llandeilo!”
Corbett nodded, peeling Augustus’ fingers from his arm because they hurt. “I know,” he said. “God help me, I know. We were told that James died there. But I swear to you upon my grandmother’s grave that James de Wolfe is calling himself Blayth the Strong, and it is he who is leading this rebellion.”
Chris was standing up now. He didn’t even know how he ended up on his feet, only that he had. His hand was still over his mouth as he struggled with the news he’d just been told. It was outrageous in so many ways, something no sane man would believe. Finally, he shook his head.
“That is not possible,” he muttered. “It is just not possible.”
“Why?” Corbett nearly demanded. “Were you at Llandeilo? Did you see his corpse?”
Chris began wiping at his mouth as if to wipe away the shock, his mind going back five years to that terrible and turbulent time.
“Nay,” he said. “I was with Roger Mortimer to the north of Llandeilo. Originally, I had been with de Wolfe and Gloucester, but Mortimer demanded more men and Edward told me to ride with him, so I did. Had I been with de Wolfe and Gloucester, the outcome of Llandeilo might have been different, but it was not. When I heard… when I heard of James’ death, I was devastated for William. I have been told it is something he has never recovered from.”
“Yet he married his youngest daughter to Bhrodi,” Augustus pointed out. “I heard that he did it because he did not want to lose another son in Wales, so he did it specifically for the alliance it would bring him. He did it for peace.”
Chris was looking at Augustus at this point, both of them overwhelmed by the possibility that James de Wolfe might not have died in Wales. “My God,” Chris finally breathed. “I know he had to leave James’ body behind. William was crushed because of it.”
Augustus lifted his eyebrows. “Then if he had no body to bury, it is possible that James did not die at all.”
“But William swore he was dead when he left him,” Chris said. “I spoke to him and to Paris de Norville shortly thereafter. In their retreat, they had to leave James behind. But they both swore he was dead.”
Corbett could see the shock between the two men as they tried to rationalize what they’d been told. There was urgency in their tones, and disbelief coupled with the pain of a lost knight, who might not be so lost after all.
The realization was staggering.
“I have a theory,” Corbett said, trying to stop the building perplexity. “You know that the House of de Wolfe is intertwined with the crown. I do not know how deep it goes, but we know that Edward greatly admires and respects William. I, too, have been wondering in earnest why we were told James was dead, yet I clearly saw him in Wales, claiming the identity of another man. It occurred to me that mayhap he is there for a reason – a royal reason.”
Chris and Augustus looked at him in confusion. “Explain,” Chris said.
Corbett had been harboring this crazy idea since he first realized he was looking at James de Wolfe and he could only hope it made some sense to Chris and Augustus.
“It was the man who called himself Blayth who released me from the vault after a month of confinement and torture,” he said evenly. “He seemed very insistent that I ride to one of the major Marcher lords to deliver his missive – that this new rebellion was rising, and that the bastard of Llywelyn was behind it. It was the way he said it that made me think… it made me think that, mayhap, James had assumed the identity of this Blayth.”
Chris was greatly puzzled. “Assumed this identity? Why?”
“So that Edward could have a man inside the rebellion,” Corbett replied. “Edward could have a man lead the Welsh to defeat. What better way to destroy the Welsh than from the inside?”
It was frightening to realize that it all made sense. Suddenly, Chris caught on to exactly what he was saying.
“An agent for Edward?” he breathed.
Corbett nodded. “That was my thought, my lord.”
Chris pondered that possibility. “But… but I saw William after James’ death. The man was genuinely distraught. I have never seen a father more
grief-stricken.”
“It is possible Lord William does not know of his son’s mission,” Corbett insisted. “It is possible no one does but Edward and James. Mayhap, it was James’ directive to fake his death and become someone else. In any case, I know that I saw James de Wolfe. He is alive, and he is leading a rebellion.”
Chris could hardly believe it. He looked at Augustus, seeing the same astonishment reflecting in the man’s eyes. It was all so overwhelming he didn’t know what to think or where to start with any of it.
“Either way, the implications are staggering,” Chris finally said. “If James is leading this rebellion and plans to destroy it from within, we cannot interfere. But if he is not an agent for Edward and he is, indeed, leading the rebellion as Blayth the Strong, calling himself the bastard of Llywelyn… I simply cannot comprehend why he would do it. None of it makes any sense.”
The mood between the three men plummeted. It was a dark and confusing time, with no one really knowing where to turn. They couldn’t contact Edward about it, especially if James was an agent, and they couldn’t risk reaching out to James in any fashion.
“What will you do, my lord?” Augustus asked quietly. “Surely you cannot keep this news from Lord William.”
Chris eyed his knight for a moment before turning away, shaking his head. “Nay,” he muttered. “He must know. If my son had been found living years after I believed him to be dead, I would certainly want to know. I cannot withhold such information. But I am not sure how to tell him, either, especially since no one else but Corbett has seen him. Although I do not doubt the man’s word, a second opinion is needed, don’t you think?”
Augustus nodded. “I knew James,” he said. “Would you have me go into Wales to see for myself?”
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