Now, Blayth stood in the massive arched doorway of Gwendraith’s hall, watching Asmara over near the hearth and thinking that, quite possibly, she’d grown more beautiful since the last time he saw her. He simply watched her, digesting the way her body moved, her graceful limbs and lovely hands. It seemed so strange to him that such beautiful fingers could kill a man. He watched her drag her hand over the stone of the hearth.
She was as flawless as he’d ever seen.
“Why are you here?” he heard himself ask.
Asmara whirled around to face him, surprise evident on her face. Shock was more like it. But she covered it quickly, coming away from the hearth and heading in his direction.
“My… my father sent me,” she lied. “There is nothing happening at Llandarog these days. The men are growing fat and lazy. He thought that you could use me here at Gwendraith.”
That voice, Blayth thought. Like warm honey, pouring into his ears. He felt like a fool to realize that he had actually missed that voice, but the truth was that he didn’t care why she’d come. Only that she had.
“The English have not tried to take back Llandarog?” he asked.
She shook her head as she drew closer. “Nay,” she said. “What about this place? Have they tried to regain it?”
Blayth lifted a challenging eyebrow. “They would not dare.”
There was that dry wit again. He’d used it on her one or twice, and Asmara had thought he might have been mocking her with it. But now she was coming to think that it was purely his personality. It was a very small insight into a mysterious and complex man, so she decided to play along and see where it took her.
“Why?” she asked. “Because you are here?”
“Why else?”
She grinned. Before she could reply, however, the servant returned with a tray of food and drink, and Asmara realized how thirsty she was. She headed over to the table, pulling the cloth from the tray and peering at the contents – watered ale, hard white cheese, crusty bread, and small apples. Asmara plopped down on the bench and began to pour herself some ale.
“Will you join me?” she asked Blayth.
His response was to move to the table and sit opposite her as she drained her cup of ale, smacking her lips. He watched her as she poured herself another cup.
“I have not eaten since early this morning, so forgive me for being rude,” she said. Then, she looked around the table as if searching for something. “I do not see another cup. If you wish to drink from the pitcher, I do not mind.”
His gaze lingered on her a moment before reaching out to take the pitcher. A smile flickered across his lips before he downed nearly the entire contents. Asmara watched him closely, studying everything about the man. She was thrilled to be sitting with him, just the two of them. There was so much she wanted to say, and wanted to know, that she hardly knew where to start.
“If you will recall,” she said as she popped a piece of cheese into her mouth, “the first time we were alone together, you tossed me into a water trough. The second time, you accused me of trying to pry information out of you on behalf of my father. I wonder how you will insult me the third time?”
He wiped his lips with the back of his hand. “You said there would be no third time.”
“That is true, but here we are. If you are going to offend me, then get on with it.”
His lips twitched with a smile again; that smile that always seemed to be right on the surface. “I am afraid of what will happen if I do,” he said. “I emerged unscathed the first two times. I fear my luck will not hold out again.”
Asmara grinned, flashing that toothy smile. “I will be truthful with you,” she said. “The night before we moved on Llandarog, my father did not send me to pry information out of you. I will swear that upon my grandmother’s grave.”
He believed her. Truth was, he had always believed her. “I was wrong to slander your honor,” he admitted. The tone of the conversation was comfortable enough that he did not feel the need to keep his defenses up, his natural guard. He was very anxious to speak with her. “But you must understand that I knew virtually nothing about you up to that point, and Morys has never spoken fondly of Cader.”
Her smile faded. “I know,” she said. “I can only imagine what he has said about my father. Whatever it was, it is not true. My father is a fine man.”
Blayth nodded. “He must be to have raised so fine and strong a daughter,” he said, watching her eyes widen in surprise at what was clearly a compliment. “Some men have different ways of commanding men. Morys’ way is to shout and, at times, color the truth. Your father’s way seems to be far quieter.”
“Quiet and trusting,” she said, although she was still feeling a bit of a thrill from his compliment. “He tells his men what must be done and he trusts them to do it. That does not make him weak.”
“I know.”
“I am glad you do. Morys does not think that way.”
Blayth knew Morys well enough to know just how the man thought. Sometimes, it was overbearing, in truth, but he didn’t say so. He owed Morys much in life and he would not speak ill of him, not even in a private conversation.
“As I said, Morys has an aggressive manner, but it is one that men respond to,” he said.
She looked up from her cheese. “Like you?”
“I owe him a good deal.”
Asmara nodded faintly, her thoughts moving to Blayth’s mysterious background. She couldn’t help her curiosity and, somehow, now that it was just the two of them, it didn’t seem intrusive. There was no one to listen in on them, and she was genuinely interested.
“It sounds as if he owes you a good deal, too,” she said. “Truly, you do not have to speak of it if you do not want to, but I heard Morys at Carmarthen Castle when he spoke of how the English purchased you from your mother and then tortured you for your entire life. I… I simply want to say that I think that is horrible and I am very sorry they did that. No man deserves that kind of treatment, and certainly not you. The hatred and resentment you must feel for the Saesneg is beyond my comprehension.”
They were wandering into an area that Blayth never spoke of. His past was a strictly taboo subject, except for Aeddan and Pryce and Morys. Those were the only people he ever felt comfortable discussing his limited memory with.
But Asmara… he’d only ever sensed that the woman was brave, truthful, and pure. He’d never thought anything else. Every man who had ever fought alongside her had a very high opinion of her, and the night Llandarog Castle fell, Blayth had the opportunity to see just how brave and skilled she really was. The woman was impressive on so many levels.
But did he trust her enough to speak of his past with her?
He was so used to avoiding the subject that he simply wasn’t certain.
“Feelings of hatred and resentment are unproductive,” he finally said. “I am not a man to waste effort on things beyond my control.”
It was a simple answer, but a truthful one. Asmara received the impression that he didn’t want to speak further of it, which was something she’d sensed that night before Llandarog fell.
“That is a sensible attitude,” she said. “I am sorry if you do not wish to speak of it. You warned me off the night Llandarog fell and I suppose you had every right if you thought I was trying to pry but, as I said, I honestly was not. I just thought… I thought I should tell you how I felt about what happened to you. You endured a terrible thing.”
There was pity there, something he wasn’t used to in the least. It made him feel strangely adverse to her pity yet, in the same breath, welcoming it. He’d had absolutely no comfort in his life that he could recall, although sometimes he would dream of a woman with dark hair, a woman that he held some affection for. There was also the older woman with the Scottish accent. But those were only dreams. In reality, Morys’ wife, Auryn, was the only women he’d spent any length of time around, and she was limited in her ability to show emotion given that she was married to a man who show
ed her nothing at all.
The truth was that he was to blame for his aversion to women. What was he? A man with horrible scars, ugly to look at, and certainly not a man that any woman would want as a companion or husband. So, he avoided women, keeping a wall up around him so that nothing and no one could break through that wall and hurt him.
It was safer that way.
But now… now, a beautiful, brave woman was showing him a measure of compassion and he had no idea how to feel about it. All he knew was that it touched something in him, something deep that was kind and soft and wanted to be nurtured. There was something in him that was responding to her compassion, whether or not he was comfortable with it. As Asmara turned back to her bread and cheese, he spoke softly.
“I do not remember very much, to be truthful,” he muttered.
She looked up from her food. “You do not remember much of your captivity?”
He sighed, a long and thoughtful sound, as he leaned forward on the table, his arms resting on the tabletop and his hands folded.
“What we are to speak of does not leave this room,” he told her.
Asmara sensed his seriousness right away. “Of course not,” she said. “I would never repeat something you told me in confidence.”
“See that you do not. If I hear that you have told others of this conversation, you will not like my reaction.”
Her features stiffened. “So you have managed to offend me a third time,” she said. “I told you that I would not speak of it. I meant it. But since you clearly do not trust my word, do not speak of anything you do not wish for me to hear. Let us speak on the weather instead.”
She turned back to her food, angrily tearing at the bread and shoving it into her mouth. Blayth watched her, realizing that he had insulted the woman yet again. He couldn’t seem to not insult her. Watching her frustrated actions, he felt remorse for his behavior.
“I have spent my life, or what I remember of it, protecting myself,” he said. “I did not mean to offend you, demoiselle. Mayhap I am accustomed to dealing with unsavory characters all around and that leads me to treat everyone the same way. I… apologize.”
A surprising response. At least, Asmara thought so. She cooled somewhat, but not entirely. “If you keep insulting me and then apologizing, at some point, I am no longer going to accept your apologies. Do you understand?”
“I do.”
“Good.”
Her gaze lingered on him as she returned to her food, but her movements were far less angry. Blayth watched her peel apart her cheese.
“As I said, I do not remember much of anything,” he said quietly.
His tone sounded so… lost. Confused, even. Asmara pushed her food aside because she realized that she was no longer hungry. Her conversation with Blayth was taking precedence over everything. For the first time since she’d known him, Blayth the Strong sounded vulnerable.
Human.
“You mean of your captivity with the English?” she asked. “I am not surprised. I am sure it was a terrible existence.”
He shook his head. “That is not what I mean,” he said. “I do not remember anything prior to Morys finding me.”
Her brow furrowed with confusion. “Morys finding you?”
He nodded. “I awoke five years ago in Morys’ sod hut in the Vale of Brecfa, with the sounds of the River Marlais nearby,” he said. “Morys told me that I had been saved from the English and he told me who I was. What memories I have, he has given to me.”
Asmara was still confused. “But you remember nothing?” she asked. “How does Morys know so much of your past?”
“Because my father’s teulu told him,” he said. “They delivered me to Morys for safekeeping, so I could hide from the English who will capture me once again if they find me.”
That was essentially the same story Morys had told everyone that day at Carmarthen Castle but, to Asmara, it was beginning to sound strange. Blayth had no memory of his life before he came to Morys, and it was Morys who told him of his past. But Blayth couldn’t remember any of it so he had to trust that what the man was telling him was the truth.
… but was it?
“That is a terrible story,” she said. “And… and you remember nothing prior to Morys?”
He lifted his big shoulders, averting his gaze as if that would help him draw on long-buried memories. “Not really,” he said, “although sometimes I have dreams. I dream of men that I feel as if I should know. I dream of them frequently, in fact. I can almost call them by name, but not quite. As if their names are right at the forefront of my mind but I cannot quite bring them forth.”
Asmara was listening intently. “Surely that is frustrating.”
He gave her a wry smile. “It is,” he said. Then, his eyes took on that faraway look again. “In my dreams, I can see their faces. I know they are English because I can see the armor they are wearing. Not all of the time, but sometimes. Morys has told me that those men were my captors. Those are the bastards who did this to me.”
He had his hand up on the left side of his head, touching the area that was so damaged and scarred. Asmara was deeply surprised to see the emotion in him, the vulnerability of a man who had such a fearless reputation.
“It is possible,” she said. “Surely you would not forget men who harmed you so terribly.”
Blayth dropped his hand from his head as it brushed over the ear that was no longer there. “That is the strange part,” he said. “I see these men and I do not feel as if I hate them. It is hard to describe, but when I dream of them, I feel… love. The love that one would feel for a family, I suppose. I do not think these men were the ones who tortured me, as Morys has said. I feel as if they are something else.”
“What else?”
He sighed heavily. “I do not know. I wish I did.”
Asmara couldn’t help but feel a good deal of pity for the man. “Your story is a tragic one,” she said, “but you have come through it. You are a man that everyone admires, and you have a great destiny to fulfill. Mayhap through you, Wales will finally know a measure of freedom, as your father had once hoped for.”
He lifted his eyebrows, as if not at all convinced of that. “Either that, or I will end up dead like my father,” he said. “Morys says that the English will kill me if they capture me. That is why he has kept me away from them, even in battle. In fact, we have the English garrison commander of Gwendraith in the vault at this very moment that he has not let me go near. Morys has interrogated the man for more information on English plans in the south of Wales but, so far, the man has not told him anything he did not already know.”
Asmara found that most interesting. “Does Morys plan to kill him?”
Blayth shook his head. “Nay,” he said. “I told him not to kill the captive. I think we can use the man to our advantage.”
“How?”
A glimmer came to his eye. “Because even if the man refuses to tell us anything more of the Saesneg plans in this area, we can send him back to England with a message of our own. A message to the Marcher lords that a new force is rising in Wales. I will succeed where so many other Welsh lords have failed.”
Asmara shrugged. “How?” she said. “Please do not take offense to this, but it seems as if Morys tries to think for you. You are clearly a strong and intelligent man. Do you really need Morys to tell you what to do?”
That smile was on Blayth’s lips again. “Make no mistake,” he said. “Morys may be louder than I am, but it is I who give the commands. Morys has taken many of my own ideas and claimed them as his own, and I suppose I do not care. Morys is a man who needs glory and attention. I do not. All that you see, every successful battle, every successful move, is because of me.”
Asmara didn’t doubt him for a moment. “I believe you,” she said. “Speaking of Morys, where is he?”
“He has gone to Carmarthen Castle, taking his teulu with him, including Aeddan and Pryce. He went to confer with Howell.”
“And you rem
ained here?”
“He left me in command. And I have an English knight to send back to the Marcher lords with a message.”
“Does Morys know this? I thought you said he kept you away from the English.”
He shrugged. “He is not here, so whatever I do is of my own decision,” he said. “In fact, I was heading to the vault when I saw you arrive. Mayhap you would like to attend me as I speak to the man? Nothing will insult the Saesneg more than to realize the Welsh Dragon Princess has the power over his life or his death.”
The thought was a pleasing one. “I have never met an English knight before.”
Blayth stood up from the table. “Nor I,” he said. “At least, not that I recall.”
Because he was standing, Asmara stood up as well. “I would like to see this Saesneg,” she said. “I am curious about him, I admit. English knights are difficult to come by. At least, captive ones are.”
Blayth’s smile broke through. “You can look, but you cannot touch. No beating the man to death.”
She feigned shock. “Me? Why would you say such a thing?”
His grin broadened. “Something tells me that you have a rabid hatred for the English,” he said. “And we need this one alive if our message is to make it back to England.”
They were walking to the hall entry now, with Asmara walking beside Blayth for the first time. Normally, she’d been behind him or far away from him but, this time, she walked alongside him. It felt right and natural to her.
She liked it.
“I will not move against the man unless he tries to capture you,” she said. “It is wise of you to bring me as your bodyguard.”
He looked at her, amused. “Demoiselle, I am quite happy to have you as my teulu,” he said. “I will be the envy of every man.”
Something about the way he looked at her made Asmara feel hot all over. If he continued to look at her like that, she would swear fealty to him as his teulu and never look back.
It was a rather wonderful feeling, after all.
The vaults, or dungeons, of Gwendraith were rather strange. Since the castle sat atop a rocky hill, much of the rock was incorporated into the structure of the castle, and that included the vaults, which were actually old storage pits that had been converted for use as cells.
The Original de Wolfe Pack Complete Set: Including Sons of de Wolfe Page 253
