A Wolfe Among Dragons_Sons of de Wolfe Page 3

  Howell knew this because he was one of them. Standing on the second floor of the gatehouse of Carmarthen, he was watching the Welshmen as they filtered into the castle. His men were keeping watch to ensure no tempers or old hostilities flared. The peace must be kept, especially in light of what was to come. There was renewed rebellion in the air and Howell was at the head of it, but he couldn’t do it alone. If he could rouse the men of Southern Wales, then perhaps they could reclaim their country once and for all. As he stood there, envisioning the glory to come, one of his teulu, or personal guard, joined him on the wall.

  “Almost everyone we have invited has come,” he said. “Men are gathering in the hall and await you.”

  Howell was still looking out over the countryside, over the river that flowed like a murky, muddy ribbon. “But Morys has not arrived yet.”

  The teulu shook his head. “He has not,” he said. “Morys ap Macsen has not arrived, nor has the man who fights with him.”

  Howell drew in a long, thoughtful breath. “Say his name, Hew,” he said quietly. “Blayth yn gryf. They say that any battle Blayth the Strong is involved in is an assured victory because he can read the minds of the Saesneg.”

  Hew had heard that, also, but he wasn’t so willing to give credence to the rumors. “Is he a witch, then? I am not certain that I want to follow a witch into battle.”

  Howell smiled faintly. “He is not a witch,” he said. “He is something… more.”

  Hew was uncomfortable with such talk. “What more?” he demanded. “Lord, must I remind you that we really know nothing of Blayth the Strong?”

  “We know enough.”

  Hew sighed sharply. “Morys said that he simply appeared in the village one day and no one seems to know where he came from,” he said. Then, he lowered his voice. “I have heard rumor that Morys found him half-dead on the field of battle and brought him back to life. Back to life! Mayhap Blayth is a wraith or a phantom that has taken the form of a man. I do not trust such a man.”

  Howell looked at the man. He was an excellent soldier and a loyal servant, but he was also a worrier. He smiled. “You fret like an old woman,” he said. “There is no denying Blayth and his reputation. Many men have fought with him over the past five years and swear by his tactics. Even you have fought with him, Hew, at the skirmish near Pembroke. Do you recall how he outmaneuvered the Saesneg knights and was able to destroy the postern gate at Wiston Castle?”

  Hew grew frustrated at the talk, mostly because he knew Howell was correct – the man they called Blayth the Strong was as amazing as everyone said he was. Perhaps there was even some jealousy there.

  “The man moves like magic,” he said, almost sarcastically. “But he fights like a Saesneg. Mayhap he is a Saesneg.”

  “You cannot know that for certain.”

  “How can you say that when no one knows where he has come from?”

  Howell shrugged. “Morys knows,” he said, “and I trust the man. He is a strong leader who commands many men, including Blayth. He would not betray us.”

  Hew knew better than to question Morys ap Macsen’s reputation. He was a warlord that lived high in the mountains near Brecfa, about a day’s ride from Carmarthen, in a stronghold known as Mynydd Gwyn – White Mountain. He was a man of royal blood, descended from the kings of Deheubarth, from the House of Dinefwr, and was considered a great leader in the south. But he was also petty, ambitious, and conniving, and he very much wanted control of the region that had once been Deheubarth, so much so that it had driven a wedge between him and his younger brother, Cader.

  Cader was supposed to be in attendance today as well, which would make things interesting when the brothers ap Macsen were in the same room together for the first time in a long while. Cader at least had some restraint, but Morys had none at all, and that was why Hew was so reluctant to trust the mysterious warrior with no past, the man who led the Welsh to victory time and time again. Morys would say anything, about anyone, if it gained him victory.

  Hew didn’t trust him even if Howell did.

  “Then I hope you are right,” Hew said after a moment. “I hope Morys’ mysterious warrior can do what we all hope he can do.”

  Howell nodded faintly. “As I said, we have all seen him in battle. It is not as if the man hasn’t proven himself.” He paused, his attention moving to the horizon. “But I seriously wonder if Cader will make an appearance. Surely he knows his brother will be here today.”

  Hew cleared his throat softly. “I have been wondering the very same thing,” he admitted. “The grandsons of Rhys Gryg are not at peace. In fact, it will make this gathering… interesting.”

  Howell grinned, a lopsided gesture. “Let us make sure we keep them on opposite sides of the hall,” he said. “Morys is fearsome, but Cader is as fast as a cat. I do not want them tearing into each other.”

  “Nor I.”

  “This gathering is not about their relationship. We will remind them of that if we need to.”

  Hew nodded, knowing that it might come to that. In all of the skirmishes over the past few years, never once had Cader allied with his brother, so what Howell was about to propose might leave a bitter taste in the mouths of the ap Macsen brothers.

  But it couldn’t be helped.

  Hew was about to reply but something caught his eye. He leaned forward on the gray stone wall, peering at the road that led up to the gatehouse. Down the road, a party approached, coming closer by the second. Finally, Hew pointed.

  “There they are,” he said. “I recognize Morys’ steed.”

  Howell saw it, too. “Go,” he said. “Keep the man with you. I will watch for Cader. Meanwhile, make sure everyone has gathered in the hall. I will join you as soon as Cader arrives.”

  “And if he does not arrive?”

  “We shall know soon enough.”

  Hew fled the wall, heading down to inform the teulu in the bailey that Morys ap Macsen was approaching. The man was royalty and would be received as such. But even as the Welshmen in the bailey scrambled to greet the incoming warlord, Howell took a moment to watch them approach until they were nearly underneath him. When Morys saw Howell, he raised a hand. Howell lifted one in return.

  But he wasn’t really looking at the grizzled old warlord who was so hairy and big that he looked like a beast more than man. He was looking at the enormous warrior that rode to his right, the very man they’d been speaking of. Blayth the Strong. Howell took a moment to look over the man who was well on his way to earning a legendary reputation; he was a big man, no doubt, with scarred arms and legs, and a massive scar that ran from the left side of neck and disappeared beneath his tunic.

  But the most pronounced distinction of Blayth was the left side of his head, which had clearly been damaged in battle at some point. The man had a handsome, symmetrical face and, according to the Welsh women, he was quite alluring in a mysterious, masculine sort of way. His eyes were the color of the sky, his skin fair, and his hair was blond with a hint of red to it. He had a beard, which was neatly trimmed, but he kept the sides of his head shorn, leaving the top longer so that it flopped over his eyes unless he raked it back against his skull. It was that shorn style of hair that made the injury on the left side of his head so much more pronounced; his temple, left cheekbone and nearly the entire left side of his head was badly scarred. His left ear had been mangled and was barely something that even resembled an ear.

  But Blayth didn’t hide the damage. He proudly displayed it, like a badge of honor. Howell watched the man and the rest of Morys’ teulu as they passed beneath the gatehouse, his thoughts lingering on the frightening-looking warrior who had already led many a victorious battle. Truthfully, much of the success of the meeting on this day hinged on Morys and his warrior, and Howell prayed that today of all days, the Welsh would once again find a passion for rebellion. He prayed that the cymry were once again fueled with the love of their country and for their freedom from the Saesneg, because for certain, if they weren’t, then
all would be lost. He prayed that Blayth the Strong could help fuel that which was dying.

  It was time to stir the fires of rebellion yet again.

  CHAPTER TWO

  “Be calm, merch. Your Uncle Morys does not need your anger. The rift is between my brother and me, and you are not part of that.”

  The great gatehouse of Carmarthen Castle spilled forth a group of men and one woman into its innards. They were from the village of Talley, an area that Cader ap Macsen controlled. It was high in the mountains, one valley over from the valley where Morys lived with his gang of troseddol. Criminals, Cader’s wife called them. A large collection of men with questionable backgrounds, all of them living off of Morys and obeying his commands.

  It was a strange, unholy tribe.

  Cader had spoken the quietly-uttered words to the woman riding to his left, a long-legged lass astride an equally long-legged stallion. This was no ordinary woman; she was Cader’s eldest daughter, a young woman who was more capable in battle than any young man Cader knew. She was intelligent, well-spoken, and beautiful. But she was also bold, unruly at times, and could fight like a man. Having no sons, Cader had indulged her. Now, he had a lovely daughter of marriageable age who could best any husband in a fight.

  And no self-respecting man wanted a wife who could beat the spit out of him.

  “By virtue of the fact that I am your daughter, I am, indeed, part of the rift,” the woman said in a voice that flowed like warm honey. “You need not try and distance me, Dadau. I will defend you from Morys’ deceit and venom at all costs.”

  “He is Uncle Morys to you.”

  “Morys.”

  She didn’t consider the man part of the family and, therefore, refused to show him such respect. Cader eyed the woman for a moment before turning his attention to the collection of men near the great hall of Carmarthen. It was a powerful group of important men, and he and his party came to a halt just inside the gatehouse.

  “Asmara,” Cader said, rather sternly, because if he wasn’t stern with her, she would damned well ignore him. “At this gathering, you will not speak. You will not shoot daggers at Morys with your eyes. In fact, you will remain silent as the grave in all matters. Is this in any way unclear?”

  Asmara ferch Cader cast her father a long look as she dismounted an excited but weary stallion that was throwing its head around. As she soothed the animal, she avoided giving her father an answer, but Cader was on to her. He dismounted his own steed and made a point of standing next to his daughter as she crooned to her beastly stallion.

  “Well?” he demanded quietly. “Do we understand one another?”

  Asmara sighed heavily. “Aye.”

  “Look me in the eye.”

  Asmara gave him an exaggerated look. “Aye.”

  Cader fought off a smile at his daughter. Had she been born a man, she would have been a magnificent warrior. As it was, she was still a magnificent warrior, but she was like a young colt – wild, strong, and difficult to tame. The fact that she’d been born a woman didn’t seem to matter to her. Sometimes, Cader had a difficult time reining her in.

  “See that you do,” he said. Then, he pointed off to the stables where the horses were being watered. “Tend to the horses. I will meet you inside the hall.”

  Asmara took both her horse and her father’s horse. Behind her, her father’s teulu were splitting up the duties, some of them gathering the horses while others went to accompany Cader to the great hall.

  Great warlords did not travel without their personal guards, and Cader ap Macsen was a great warlord, a son of royal blood. As Cader slogged off across the muddy bailey, Asmara led the pack of horses heading for the stable area. She hadn’t taken five steps, however, when she heard the thunder of hooves charging through the gatehouse behind them and nearly crashing into the rear of Cader’s party.

  Nervous horses danced and tried to bolt, and Asmara struggled to hold on to her stallion. The horse ended up kicking rancid mud onto her chest and neck, and she groaned with frustration. She was fully prepared to rant at the rider who startled the horses when she happened to see who it was. Her eyes widened.

  “Fairynne!” she gasped. “What are you doing here? Dadau told you not to come!”

  Fairynne ferch Cader, Asmara’s younger sister, appeared quite defiant as she struggled to control a horse that was far too much animal for her. It seemed to be a trait both ferch Cader sisters had.

  “I will not remain behind with the women and children,” she declared. “I do not deserve to be treated with such disrespect, so I came. It is my right!”

  Asmara shook her head at her sister. While Asmara was long-legged and beauteous, Fairynne was shorter, wiry, and believed she could do anything her sister could do. Truth be told, she was a fierce fighter, a little reckless, and she tended to spook easily. Cader had permitted her to fight in one battle, mostly because she had given him no choice, and because of it, she believed herself to be just as good as the seasoned warriors.

  But the truth was that she was a child. At ten years and five, Fairynne was too young and too unruly. She thought she knew everything there was to know and rarely listened. Cader was afraid the girl was going to get herself killed, as was Asmara.

  Like now. Fairynne had been told to remain at Mynydd Gwyn, but her arrogance and foolishness had her following her father’s party all the way to Carmarthen Castle. It was a dangerous journey, especially for a lone woman, and clearly she had tailed them all the way. Frustrated, Asmara marched up on her sister, grabbed the girl’s leg, and yanked her right off the horse.

  The men within eyeshot laughed uproariously as Fairynne ended up on her arse in the mud. When she came up swinging, Asmara pushed her down by the head.

  “Cease,” she snapped quietly. “You are making a fool of yourself in front of everyone. Dadau told you not to come, yet you disobeyed him. Again. Someday, your disobedience will get you killed, Fairynne.”

  With mud covering her backside and a slash of mud on her cheek, Fairynne glared at her older sister. “You cannot tell me what to do.”

  Asmara cocked an eyebrow. “If you want to be a soldier so badly, then you must know that soldiers follow commands. We all follow commands. You will never be a soldier as long as you cannot follow orders, you little fool.”

  Fairynne’s confidence took a hit and, for the first time since her arrival, she appeared uncertain. But only for a brief moment. Then, anger took over and she bolted to her feet, grabbing her horse’s reins and pulling the animal over to the stables.

  At that point, Asmara gave up on her sister. If the girl wanted to make a fool of herself, then that was her business. Asmara had more important things to tend to, like her father. He would be expecting her. Leaving the horses with her father’s men to be tended, she turned for the great hall where the men were gathering. Her long strides took her across the bailey and towards the one-storied, stone building with open oak and iron doors that had seen better days.

  The men were gathering with those they knew, allies and family, and she could feel their stares upon her. In this world of men, she was an anomaly. Some of the men knew her, as they had fought with her in the past as part of Cader’s contingent. Rhyfylwr dywsoges, they whispered. Dragon Princess. As a woman of the House of Dinefwr, she was indeed royal. Asmara returned their stares boldly, noticing the teulu from great houses, men wearing the traditional red tunics that signified their elevated status, and bearing wooden shields that had been painted white or blue, or both.

  In fact, Asmara herself wore a red tunic, one that had been given to her and it was too short for her long body. It rested about mid-thigh, but she had heavy woolen hose and another tunic underneath, a pale linen one, that went past her knees. In any case, she was well-covered. With boots up to her knees, held on with strips of leather, she was also well-protected.

  Every inch the Dragon Princess.

  It was, therefore, her manner to challenge those who stared at her, and her threatening glare began
to turn men away. She was feeling rather powerful until she went to enter the hall and realized that her Uncle Morys was standing just inside the door.

  In fact, had she taken another two steps, she would have run right into him. However, not having spotted her father yet, Asmara didn’t want to walk right into Morys and a potential confrontation, so she quickly rolled away from the door, clinging to the rocky wall and rounding the corner of the hall. It was a blind move, meant to get away from Morys as quickly as possible before he could see her. But before she realized it, she was stumbling over someone who was crouched against the north side of the hall.

  Asmara flipped right over him.

  Now, she was the one sitting on her arse in the mud, looking up at a very big man who had been crouched against the wall. It wasn’t as if he was doing anything; relieving himself or anything else. He was simply crouched there, perhaps even resting from the long journey to Carmarthen. Asmara’s first reaction was one of rage, but the moment she looked into his face, the anger building inside of her was instantly doused. She found herself looking into eyes of the purest blue, with pale lashes and pale, but defined, brows. The man was wearing a sleeveless tunic, and his pale and freckled arms were bulging with beautifully defined muscles.

  She’d never seen a male specimen like him.

  “What… what are you doing, crouching there like a stump?” she managed to demand, sitting up and wiping her muddied hands on the wall. “You could have killed me.”

  The man simply looked at her, a glimmer in his blue eyes. “And you could have looked where you were walking.”

  His voice was deep and quiet, his speech somewhat slow, but she didn’t receive the impression he was a dullard. Simply deliberate in what he said. And, in truth, he was entirely correct in what he’d said, so she cast him a frustrated expression as she picked herself out of the mud, trying to wipe herself clean.