Asmara didn’t feel shame like she normally would have because her uncle was simply having a tantrum and pulling her right along with him, showing off to the men around him. Aeddan and Pryce were standing near Asmara, looking very strained and upset by what was going on, so she turned to them rather than responding directly to her uncle.
“Do you know that he has been lying to you this entire time?” she said loud enough for Morys to hear her. “He has been manipulating you and belittling you, pushing you around because he believes it is his right, as a prince of Deheubarth. Ask him why he does not want Blayth to leave Gwendraith. See if he is brave enough to tell you.”
That drew a very strong reaction from Morys. “I told you to shut your lips, you stupid chit,” he snarled. “You, who has sprung from the weak loins of my brother. He is so weak that he could only have females. Females he has raised as sons!”
“At least my father had children,” Asmara fired back. “If I were you, I would be careful who you accuse of being weak. Coming from a man who could not impregnate his wife, I would say you are the weak one in the family.”
Morys’ featured twisted, a macabre expression of rage on his face. “Bitch,” he hissed. “You will regret that.”
He started to lift his crossbow but Blayth was there, putting himself between Asmara and Morys. His gaze was deadly.
“I told you that you would not insult her in my presence,” he said. “And if you intend to use that crossbow on her, know that I will snap your neck before you can reload it. Make a move against her and it shall be your last.”
Morys was quickly moving beyond rational thinking. He was used to being in control, always, and he looked at Blayth’s words as a revolt. Now, the man was challenging him and Morys’ pride took a hit. It was a fragile thing, fed by his inflated sense of self-worth and the submission of the men under his command. It was easily bolstered and even more easily shattered. If he didn’t have control over all things, then he had nothing, and right now he was facing that very possibility with Blayth.
He couldn’t let the man gain the upper hand.
He was going to take him down.
“Did you hear him?” he cried, raising his voice so that even the sentries on the wall could hear him. “Do you know why he is threatening me? Because I know the truth about him!”
The men began to stir in the darkness, hearing Morys’ words. The general consensus believed that Morys was an arrogant man and would like to have his way in all things, but he also had that hereditary respect because of his lineage. He was followed more out of duty than out of love or respect, so when he started shouting about truths and threats, men listened but it was always with some doubt.
In fact, Aeddan and Pryce, now standing next to Asmara, listened to Morys with more doubt than most. They’d been around him far too long to believe anything he said without reservations. As the man began to cause a scene, Asmara turned to Aeddan once more.
“Get into the gatehouse and open the gates,” she pleaded softly. “This is not going to end well if Blayth is not permitted to leave.”
Pryce heard her. Having no love for Morys, he immediately moved towards the gatehouse, trying to stay to the shadows and trying to stay out of Morys’ line of sight. As he moved off, Aeddan whispered to Asmara.
“What is this all about?” he asked.
Asmara kept her eyes on her uncle. Since she didn’t know the man particularly well, she didn’t feel comfortable telling him the truth. That would have to come from Blayth, for it would be Blayth’s decision to trust his friend with such things.
“Whatever he says, it is not the truth,” she muttered, avoiding the question. “All Blayth wants to do is leave Gwendraith, but Morys wants to keep him here.”
“But why?”
She shook her head, unwilling to answer directly. “Just know that Morys is a liar. He will say anything to manipulate men. But I think you already know that.”
Aeddan did. He’d seen it his entire life. He’d seen the man beat down and belittle his own father until the man died at an early age. Before he could question her further, Morys turned to Blayth and pointed at the man.
“We have all been cruelly betrayed by this man,” he said. “I will not let him leave because he is a traitor. He is loyal to his English captors and plans to run to them and tell them of our plans. That is why I will not let him leave and why his woman is willing to kill me! She knows he is a traitor, too, and she is trying to help him!”
Asmara was infuriated as men began to grumble. Morys was collecting quite a crowd, but that was what he liked – an audience. She was shocked to hear the lies coming forth, but she also knew that there were men who would believe him without question. If Morys was able to rile them up enough, then there would be trouble.
“That is not true!” Asmara shouted. “Listen to me, my brothers! Morys has been lying to you from the beginning about Blayth. He has told you that he is the bastard son of Llywelyn the Last, our noble prince, but that is not the truth. He told you that so that he could control you and force you to fight in this rebellion. If there is a traitor here, it is Morys ap Macsen and not Blayth, who has also been lied to by him. He is a victim in all of this as much as any of you. Do not believe a word Morys has told you!”
More grumbling came from the crowd that was gathering. Furious, Morys could hardly believe that Asmara had dared to contradict him. No one contradicted him, not ever, and he was losing all control. His temper was spiraling as he realized Asmara was planting a seed of doubt among the men, a seed of doubt that could see his legacy ended. She was ruining everything.
She was going to pay.
“You would believe a woman?” he screamed. “She and her father have long hated me because I am the eldest son, the leader of all men, and she lies to erase your love for me. Blayth is a traitor and he must be stopped!”
He continued to shout venom as Asmara was turning to Aeddan, still standing next to her. When she spoke to Aeddan and Pryce in the stable those days ago, when she’d been trying to discover more about Blayth, she had seen the lack of blind respect from the brothers when it came to Morys. She could only pray that they loved Blayth more, and trusted him more, because she could no longer hold back the truth. If this situation was going to veer out of control, then Blayth would need help.
Only the truth would open that door.
“Do not listen to him,” she hissed. “He has been lying to you about Blayth. You were there when he brought Blayth back from Llandeilo, were you not?”
Aeddan, greatly torn and confused by what was going on, nodded. “I was.”
“Then you know that Blayth came from Llandeilo.”
“Morys said he was delivered by Llywelyn’s teulu and…”
She cut him off, shaking her head. “Blayth was an English knight, wounded at Llandeilo,” she hissed. “His real name is de Wolfe, but Morys lied to you. He has fabricated everything – Blayth’s name, his history – everything. He is not Llywelyn’s bastard son. He is an English knight, but he did not remember that. Yet, Morys knew, and he lied to Blayth and told him he was someone he was not. Morys told him that he was Llywelyn’s bastard so he could feed the rebellion. He only told Blayth tonight of his true past, and now Blayth has a chance to discover who he really is, only Morys will not let him go. If you love Blayth, you will help him. Help us, Aeddan!”
Aeddan was looking at her in utter shock. “He… he is Saesneg?”
She nodded rapidly, glancing at Morys because now he was pointing at Blayth again and shouting about his treachery. “He is,” he said. “And Morys knew. Blayth did not, so he is not to blame. The only one to blame is Morys. Help us leave before it is too late!”
It took Aeddan a few moments to overcome his astonishment and realize that what Asmara said made a great deal of sense. Morys’ story about how Blayth came into his possession never made sense to Aeddan but out of respect to Morys, he accepted it. Nay, he wasn’t surprised at all to discover that Blayth, the damaged
warrior, was actually an English knight.
It made all the sense in the world.
Aeddan had been there from the beginning. He’d been there when Blayth had awoken from his lengthy unconsciousness, and he had been there when the man learned to speak and walk again. Aeddan had helped him with everything, so he knew that Blayth had no memory of who he was prior to his terrible injury.
But Morys knew.
Damn the man… he knew.
“But where is Blayth going?” he asked after a moment, feeling her panic. “Does he even know?”
Asmara shook her head. “He is not going to betray the Welsh if that’s what you are asking,” she insisted. “You must believe me. He only wants to find out who he really is, Aeddan. He has a chance to discover his true past. And Morys does not want him to go, so he is lying to everyone, still!”
He is lying to everyone, still. That seemed to snap something in Aeddan, who could see what was happening. He could see the entire picture – Morys, caught in his web of lies, was trying to salvage the situation by turning everyone against Blayth. He didn’t know why he should believe Asmara, but he did. God only knew how long he’d hated Morys and he’d hidden that hate behind obedience and forced gratitude, but he wasn’t going to let the man destroy Blayth, someone he considered another brother.
He had to help.
Just as he moved to do so, the gates began to lurch open and Morys, startled by the sound, turned to look to the gates. It was a reflexive reaction, brought on by the creak of the chains. But when he turned to look, he accidentally pulled the trigger on the crossbow. The iron-tipped arrow flew right at Asmara, hitting her in the left shoulder.
As she cried out in pain and jerked back in the saddle, Asmara also squeezed the trigger of the crossbow she was holding, and the arrow went flying. By chance, it found its mark in Morys’ neck, and the man collapsed into the mud, mortally wounded.
Panic ensued. Men were yelling, charging forward, and Blayth did the only thing he could do – he grabbed Asmara’s reins and spurred his horse towards the open gates, trampling Morys as he went. Together, he and Asmara galloped out of the gates and into the silver-bathed landscape beyond, fleeing the frenzy of Welsh who had been both stirred up and repulsed by Morys’ words.
But the chaos quickly died as Blayth and Asmara fled into the night, and men began to discuss what should be done. Some wanted to follow them, but Aeddan called them off. There would be no following, he said. Blayth had committed no crime.
The only crime had been committed by a man who was not long for this world.
So the Welsh began to disburse for the most part, milling around with some confusion on the cusp of a most confusing night. Beaten down into the mud by two fleeing horses, Morys struggled for air as Aeddan stood over him and watched him labor. He couldn’t even make a move to help the man, so great his hatred and disgust. Morys had finally demonstrated what he was fully capable of, and that greed had ultimately destroyed him.
As Morys’ breathing began to grow unsteady, Aeddan knelt down beside him and watched his chest rise and fall for the last time.
“I hope you can still hear me,” he rumbled. “If there is any justice in this world, I have seen it served tonight. You received exactly what you deserved.”
With that, he stood up and walked away, moving to the open gates to watch Blayth and Asmara as they disappeared into the night. In truth, the more he thought on what Asmara had told him, the more hope and even happiness he felt for Blayth. A man who had been the prisoner of a vile beast, fed lies and kept like a prized animal, now had the chance for true freedom. Whether or not it was at the head of a rebellion was no longer the issue.
The man had a chance to find himself, and Aeddan hoped for the best. When he told his brother what had happened, Pryce hoped for the very same thing.
They could only pray for the best for a man they looked upon as a brother, English or Welsh.
Godspeed, Blayth.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Castle Questing
Northumberland, Seat of the House of de Wolfe
William hadn’t been aware of just how long he’d been staring at the missive from his daughter. The faded yellow vellum sat on his massive desk, illuminated by the light from two banks of candles, one on either side of the table. He always kept the desk well-lit because his eyesight wasn’t what it used to be.
Hell, he’d lost his left eye in Wales over forty years ago, and he’d learned to compensate. But now as the years advanced and his body grew older and more tired, his one remaining eye wasn’t very good. He had difficulty reading and, sometimes, difficulty seeing the smaller details in things. But he pretended like everything was fine. He always pretended that everything was fine because he didn’t want his family to worry over him, but worry they did.
His family.
He’d sat staring at that vellum, pondering the contents with a mind that wasn’t quite apt to believe what he’d just read. He’d had to read it four times before setting it aside and simply staring at it. He didn’t want to believe any of it, but he knew that his daughter, Penelope, wouldn’t lie to him and he further knew she wouldn’t have sent the missive unless she had just cause.
That was what the missive was all about – his family.
As William pondered the contents of the missive, he realized that every part of his body was aching with stress and anxiety as a result. Damnation! He thought. He’d allowed the contents of the missive to get past his logical mind and into his veins, where it would pulsate through him and turn his shock into a physical manifestation. If he wasn’t careful, it would tear him apart. He could already feel it, pulling at him, tugging at his arms and legs and chest, and if he allowed it… God, if he allowed it… it could easily destroy him.
Nay… he’d come too far in his life, and he was too happy in his legacy, to allow anything to destroy him. He was William de Wolfe, the Earl of Warenton and the man known as the Wolfe of the Border. Nothing could destroy him.
Nothing but a missive bearing one name that had nearly sent him into oblivion.
James.
It just wasn’t possible. Five years after James’ death in Wales, to receive a message that suggested his son hadn’t died in Wales was foolish at best. Ludicrous, even, and stupid when all else failed. Outrageous! All of these words rolled through William’s mind as he looked at the missive. But in the midst of an explosion of adjectives, one small word also filled his mind, something that had the strength to push aside all of the others.
Hope.
But he couldn’t allow himself to feel any hope at all. It was preposterous. Furthermore, he couldn’t, and wouldn’t, tell his wife the contents of the missive because she, too, would be filled with the same stress and anxiety that he was.
William and his wife, Jordan, had ten children total, with nine living to adulthood, and only one of them lost as an adult – his beloved son, James. It was no secret in the family that William had never quite recovered from James’ death, which was why the missive from Penelope had him reeling. He’d never gotten over the guilt of having left his son behind when the English had retreated at Llandeilo. He had no body to bring home for James’ wife and mother to mourn, and that had made him feel so very weak and guilty.
And now this damnable missive, dredging it all up again.
He felt sick.
But he also knew he needed help. He needed the calm, rational eye of someone he trusted, so when he’d finished absorbing the contents of the missive, he stood up and collected the vellum, rolling it up tightly and holding it against his heart as if that somehow brought him closer to the son he’d lost. With the missive clutched to his chest, he quit the lavish solar of Castle Questing and headed to the upper floors of the enormous keep.
Castle Questing was William’s seat, and had been for forty years. Most of his children had been born here, as had many of his grandchildren, nieces, and nephews. The keep itself was more of a rectangular building, with three floors and
more than two dozen rooms. There was more than enough space for a large family or two, and he shared the home not only with his wife and two of his sons, but he also shared it with another family.
In the days long past when he had served at Northwood Castle as the Captain of the Army, he’d had a dedicated knight corps of nine men. Paris de Norville was his closest friend, a man who also became family when four of William’s children married four of Paris’. Kieran Hage was also his closest friend, a bear of a man who had been third in command at Northwood, and a man who was also family by virtue of the fact that two of William’s children had married into the Hage family, including James.
When William had been granted Castle Questing by Henry III, he’d taken Kieran with him to help him establish his new seat, leaving Paris at Northwood as the Captain of the Army for the Earl of Teviot. But it didn’t matter that Paris was thirteen miles from William and Kieran; the men were as close as they’d ever been, and nothing could change that.
Nowadays, William and Kieran and their families still occupied Castle Questing. Considering Kieran had married Jordan de Wolfe’s cousin, Jemma, long ago, it made the families that much closer, so they were literally one giant family. William saw Kieran daily and had for the past forty years, through good times and bad, and even though William had brothers, he considered Kieran closer to him than a brother could ever be.
And that was why William was taking the missive to Kieran.
Taking the long flight of mural stairs up to the third floor of Castle Questing, William entered the east wing of the keep, a floor and section of the castle that was exclusively used by Kieran and his family. He was heading for Kieran’s chamber at the end of the corridor, a room with windows that faced northeast so Kieran could watch the sunrise. He didn’t move much from his bed these days, something William refused to acknowledge.
But he was the only one.
The Original de Wolfe Pack Complete Set: Including Sons of de Wolfe Page 266