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

by Kathryn Le Veque

  But it wasn’t enough. Morys had to ensure Blayth would never again try to leave him, not even for something as normal as marriage.

  “Do you understand why you cannot marry Asmara now?” he said. “You are English, Blayth. My brother would never allow his daughter to marry a Saesneg and I am certain Asmara would not want to marry one, either.”

  Asmara. At the mention of her name, thoughts of her suddenly filled Blayth’s mind and he found himself feeling a great deal of angst because of it. His natural instinct was to refute Morys, to tell the man that it wouldn’t matter to Asmara. But the truth was that she had already suspected he wasn’t who Morys said he was. She had made it clear that she’d always had suspicions, so perhaps telling her the truth wouldn’t matter. For certain, he couldn’t keep it from her.

  But Morys couldn’t know that.

  Morys had gone out of his way to threaten him and tell him that the Welsh would kill him if they knew who he really was. Blayth suspected that was true, but he couldn’t believe it from Asmara. She cared for him, deeply. Perhaps she even loved him. Surely the truth of his identity wouldn’t deter her. At least, he hoped not, because he didn’t feel it was something he could keep from her. He wasn’t like Morys; he didn’t lie to suit his needs or wants. Therefore, he had to tell her.

  “I understand,” he finally said, rising from the chair.

  Morys went to him, putting a hand on the man’s arm. “Do you?” he asked earnestly. “You cannot tell her. You cannot tell anyone what I have told you. If you do, your life is forfeit, not to mention what they would do to me. I have protected you all of these years, Blayth. You owe me that much.”

  Blayth just wanted to get out of there. His mind was whirling with everything he’d been told, and he simply wanted to remove himself from Morys’ presence. But more than anything, he wanted to find Asmara to tell her what Morys had told him. Tactfully, of course, but he had to tell the woman she’d been right all along.

  She’d known.

  “I told you that I understood,” he said after a moment, trying not to snap. “And I appreciate… everything you have done for me.”

  He started to move away, heading towards the chamber door, but Morys stopped him. “Where are you going now?”

  Blayth sighed with some irritation, pulling his arm from Morys’ grasp. “To think on what you have told me,” he said. “I find I am quite overwhelmed by it all, as you can imagine. Do Aeddan or Pryce know any of this?”

  Morys shook his head. “They know nothing.”

  “Then they shall not hear it from me.”

  Morys didn’t try to grab him again as he headed for the door. “Remember,” he said firmly. “You are Blayth the Strong, bastard son of Llywelyn ap Gruffydd and a great leader among our men. You are far more valuable to the Welsh than you ever were to the English.”

  Blayth paused before he opened the door, but he didn’t say anything. He was so confused that he didn’t know what to say any longer. He simply nodded his head, opened the door, and departed, leaving Morys standing in the center of his chamber, hoping his words had impacted Blayth enough so that he understood his place in the world – the unwanted English knight who had become a Welsh hero.

  But even as Blayth left the chamber and headed off, something told Morys to keep an eye on the man. He was starting to get a mind of his own, something that didn’t sit well with Morys. He was thinking for himself lately, and that was dangerous. It made Blayth unpredictable at best. Morys swore he would see the man dead before he saw him ruin the greatest rebellion Wales had yet to see.

  But there was a bright side in all of this. If push came to shove, Morys knew what he needed to do.

  Sometimes heroes made the very best martyrs.

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  It had been a very strange meal as far as Asmara was concerned.

  She hadn’t seen Blayth for the rest of the day, after they’d agreed to marry and he left her at the stable, and she knew he’d gone to speak to Morys about their betrothal. She assumed, probably correctly, that he’d been with Morys the rest of the day, because she never saw him again after that, not until the evening descended and the men gathered in the great hall for their meal.

  Asmara gathered there, too, sitting on the end of the great feasting table as she waited for Blayth to appear, but he never did. Morys appeared with Aeddan and Pryce, but as the two younger men smiled and acknowledged her, Morys looked right through her as if she didn’t exist. They all sat down and the meal of boiled mutton was served, but still no Blayth. Asmara ate little, keeping her eye out for him, but he never came and, eventually, she left the hall to hunt for him.

  It wasn’t like Blayth not to come to the hall, especially when he knew she would be there. She fought down the fear that something might be wrong, that he was sick or injured, because it wasn’t like the man not to be present, especially when Morys was there. Just as she left the hall and headed for the entry, she passed by what used to be the former guard room for the keep. She almost didn’t look at the door, but she saw movement that drew her attention. The door was cracked open enough so that she could see half of a booted leg.

  She recognized the boot.

  Blayth had distinctive boots, probably because his feet were so big, and they were made up of different pieces of leather, in different colors, creating a patch-work pattern. Asmara hadn’t seen anyone else with that kind of boot, so she felt fairly confident that Blayth was inside the chamber as she knocked softly on the door. Because of the noise in the hall, she knocked again, louder. The door jerked open then and she found herself looking into Blayth’s pale face.

  “What are you doing in here?” she asked. “I have been waiting for you. Are you ill?”

  He looked weary and emotional. “Nay,” he shook his head, his voice soft. “I am not ill. I was going to find you, but…”

  He trailed off, looking miserable, or so Asmara thought. She grew concerned. “But what?” she asked. “What is wrong?”

  He motioned her into the chamber and shut the door, bolting it. It was dark inside but for a weak fire in the hearth, and he went to the hearth to throw more fuel on it. Light, and warmth, began to bloom.

  “Sit, please,” he told her quietly. “I must speak with you.”

  Asmara found a small stool near the bed and she pulled it out, perching herself on it. She watched him as he knelt by the hearth, stirring the embers and creating warmth against the cloying darkness, and she received the distinct impression that something was very wrong. His mood was almost as dark as the chamber around them. Patiently, she sat until he finished stirring the embers and stood up, brushing off his hands.

  “Did you eat anything?” she asked.

  He shook his head as he went to sit on the edge of the bed. “Nay,” he replied. “I am not hungry.”

  “Why?”

  He shook his head. “There is much on my mind, I suppose.”

  “What has you so worried that you cannot eat?”

  Blayth sat on the end of the bed, his gaze falling on Asmara. He knew that if he wasn’t able to marry her, his heart would break into a million pieces. It was such a fragile heart, the one part of his body and mind that he’d not yet learned to toughen up, so even as he looked at her, he could feel disappointment sweep him.

  He didn’t want to lose her.

  He would be unwanted yet again if he did.

  “I do not even know where to start,” he said softly. “I have been sitting here all day, trying to think of what to say to you and how to say it. I can think of no other way to speak in such a serious subject except to be honest.”

  Asmara could see how troubled he was. “Go ahead,” she said. “What is so terrible?”

  “I am afraid I will never see you again once I tell you.”

  “That will not happen. Do you not have any more faith in me than that?”

  He smiled faintly. “You are as strong as you are faithful and beautiful,” he said. “I have every confidence in you. But th
e matter is quite… serious.”

  Asmara watched him as he spoke and a thought occurred to her. “Did you speak with Morys today?” she asked. “About our marriage, I mean.”

  “I did.”

  “What did he say to you?”

  So she was intuitive as well as beautiful. Blayth sat forward so he was closer to her as she sat upon the squatty stool. He gazed at her a moment, watching the firelight play off her features, before speaking.

  “You said something to me today,” he said. “You told me that you believed Morys knew much more about my past then he has told me.”

  She nodded. “I did say that. I believe it is true.”

  “It is.”

  Curiosity crossed her features. “How do you know?”

  Blayth smiled faintly. Closing his eyes tightly, he hung his head, so very troubled with what he was about to say. But it was necessary.

  “The easy thing to do would be to keep this information from you,” he said. “But I have too much respect for you to do that. I cannot start our marriage on a lie.”

  She cocked her head. “And I am grateful for that,” she said. “But what is so terrible?”

  He didn’t say anything for a moment. Then, he extended his hand to her and after a moment of puzzlement, she timidly lifted her hand and put it into his big, callused palm. He brought her hand to his lips and kissed it sweetly, feeling his entire body tingle with the thrill of it. Something about the woman made him feel as if he were walking on clouds every time he touched her.

  “You were there when the Saesneg knight called me by a name,” he nearly whispered. “Do you remember?”

  Asmara gripped his hand, holding it tightly. “I do,” she said without hesitation. “He called you James.”

  “It would seem that he was not wrong.”

  She stared at him a moment, trying to figure out what, exactly, he meant. “What do you mean?”

  He kissed her hand again. “You have expressed suspicions that Morys has given me my memories,” he said. “You said yourself that it seemed strange that he should be the one to tell me of my past, to tell me what my name was and give me an identity. It seems that your suspicions were correct, Asmara. When I told Morys that you and I were to be wed, he told me that your father would never permit it because I am, in truth, an English knight. He has kept it hidden from me all this time.”

  Asmara’s eyes widened in shock, briefly, but she didn’t erupt, nor did she pull her hand from his grip. But the realization that she had been right all along was in her expression.

  “You are?” she whispered.

  He nodded. “I have been struggling with how to tell you this because I do not want to ruin what we have started,” he said. “I will be honest with you; I have never been so happy in my life. My memory is brief, only since I came into Morys’ care do I remember my life as it is, and in that time I have never felt truly happy. I have served Morys out of a sense of obligation, and out of my sense of duty to the cymry. When he told me that I was the bastard son of Llywelyn ap Gruffydd, that served as the kindling to my great sense of duty to all men of Welsh birth. But there was no real joy in any of it, not until I met you. I… I simply do not want to lose you, but I understand if your feelings have changed.”

  Asmara stared at him, seeing his pain and humility in the situation. But as he spoke and told her the news, she realized that it was no great surprise. She’d known from the beginning that something was odd with Blayth and Morys, so it was really a confirmation of her suspicions. After a moment, she shook her head.

  “I suppose I knew you were not who Morys said you were from the very first,” she murmured. “There were so many signs that pointed to something else, that you were a tir allan, an outlander. Somehow, I knew you were not the son of Llywelyn, but it did not change my opinion of you. If you are English, or if you are Welsh, it does not change who you are, Blayth. You are still a man of strength and skill and dedication. And it does not change how I feel about you.”

  It was the answer he was hoping to hear and he brought her hand to his lips again, pressing it against his mouth, feeling utter and complete gratitude. In fact, the relief he felt was almost more than he could bear.

  “Are you certain?” he whispered, lips against her hand.

  She could see how worried he was and she reached out, putting her hand on the top of his thick, blond hair.

  “I am,” she murmured. “Nothing has changed with me, but I must ask you – how do you feel about all of this? And why would Morys confess it all to you?”

  He relished the feel of her hand upon his head, touching that which was so damaged as if there was no damage at all. No revulsion. He was still wanted, thank God, and wanted by the only person in the world that he cared about.

  “Morys wanted to stress to me how your father would not approve of his daughter marrying a Saesneg,” he said quietly. “He told me that so I would forget my desire to marry you, fearful my secret would be revealed. He assured me that if the truth was known, the Welsh would turn against me and kill me, which is probably true. If they discovered that Llywelyn’s bastard was not Welsh at all, it would be devastating. You must not tell anyone what I have told you.”

  She shook her head. “I will not, I swear it,” she said. “But what will you do now? Will you continue to lead the armies as if nothing is amiss?”

  He shrugged. “I thought I would. But as I considered everything today, my ideals have changed somewhat,” he said. “Morys told me that I had been abandoned by the English at Llandeilo, and that when he found me, I was a dying English knight and there were Welshmen swarming over me who wanted to kill me. He chased them away and brought me back to Brecfa, creating the entire persona of Blayth the Strong, son of Llywelyn. Wolf was the only word I could say for quite some time, apparently, which is why he gave me my name. But when I think back to what Payton-Forrester said to me, it all makes a good deal of sense. Do you recall when the man told me my family name was de Wolfe?”

  Asmara nodded. “I do.”

  “Then it seems I was trying to say my name,” he said quietly. “The House of de Wolfe was at Llandeilo. Morys said they abandoned me.”

  She squeezed his hand. “Mayhap they could not bring you,” she said. “You were badly injured and it is possible they simply could not take you with them when they retreated. I have been told that Llandeilo was madness.”

  Blayth nodded. “I pointed that out to Morys, but he insists I was abandoned and the English do not want me,” he said. “He says my only choice is to remain Blayth and continue as a Welshman.”

  “Do you believe that?”

  “All things considered, I would… except for one thing.”

  “What is that?”

  His gaze was intense. “The way Payton-Forrester looked at me when he called me James,” he said, thinking back to that moment. “You were there, Asmara – you saw his face. He was almost weeping with joy when he saw me. Did that look like a man who had seen someone who was intentionally abandoned?”

  Slowly, she shook her head. “Nay,” she said. “He seemed most happy to see you at first. And then… then it was like he was frightened to have recognized you. I remember thinking that it was most strange.”

  Blayth remembered that moment clearly. Although he hadn’t thought much of it at the time, because he was more concerned with Payton-Forrester delivering his message, in hindsight it did seem a bit strange.

  “Indeed,” he said. Then, he shook his head, a gesture of frustration. “I have been sitting here wondering if what Morys told me was true in that I was intentionally abandoned at Llandeilo. With him, there is no knowing if that is the truth. In these dreams I have, I see men that I know that I should know, yet I cannot recall their names. But the feelings I have for them are not those of animosity, but those of affection. I do not even know if these men are real, but something tells me that I am dreaming of memories of my past. I have always wondered, but after what Morys told me, now I am coming to think that i
s exactly what has happened. What my conscious mind cannot remember, my dreams seem to be able to.”

  She could see that he was confused and frustrated. She clutched his hand in both of hers. “It is possible,” she said. “Mayhap you will never know.”

  He eyed her. “I think that I will. I cannot go to my grave with these doubts, wondering about my past and what really happened to me.”

  “Then what will you do?”

  “Payton-Forrester was heading to Lioncross Abbey Castle,” he said. “More than likely, he is still there. I think I should go there, too. Mayhap, he will tell me more of what he knows about me.”

  She looked at him warily. “Do you think you should?” she asked. “Will it be safe?”

  He shrugged his big shoulders. “If I am truly English, then I have nothing to fear,” he said. “In any case, there is something burning within me that must know. I must know who I am and Payton-Forrester can tell me.”

  Asmara could see that he meant it and, in truth, she didn’t blame him. The man had his whole life taken from him and now there was a chance for him to find out who he was. Certainly, the lure of truth was strong.

  “Very well,” she said. “When will you go?”

  Blayth shrugged, averting his gaze. “Tonight,” he said. “I feel as if I cannot wait. I must go and I must go now.”

  Asmara could feel his sense of urgency. “Will you tell Morys?”

  He nodded. “I will tell him tonight.”

  Asmara watched him as he looked off into the darkness of the room, a man with a million different thoughts on his mind. She didn’t want him to go and leave her here, a target of Morys’ animosity. But more than that, she simply didn’t want to be without him. She was becoming quite attached to him and the thought of him going away filled her with angst and sorrow.

  “Please take me with you,” she said quietly. “I do not want to be left behind. I want to go where you go and be at your side as you discover these truths about your past. Will you please take me?”