A Wolfe Among Dragons_Sons of de Wolfe Read online

  “Next time, I suppose I shall have to,” she said. “With you around, I will have to watch every corner I turn.”

  He didn’t say anything, but he did watch her as she stood up, his gaze lingering on the long, slender legs in snug hose, the shapely female form beneath the belted tunics, and the face of an angel that was now twisted in disgust as she tried to wipe the mud off her arse. She had dark hair, pulled into a messy braid, and eyes that were a shade of hazel that made them appear golden. None of her alluring attributes escaped his scrutiny; that was clear. He eyed her as if he’d just found something delicious for supper. As she stood up, he suddenly stood up next to her.

  Now, he towered over her by well over a head. Considering how tall Asmara was, the fact that the silent warrior was so much taller was a serious testimony to the man’s size. As he stood next to her, he also turned to face her fully, and Asmara could see that the entire left side of his head was scarred and damaged. He virtually had no ear. As he shaved the sides of his skull and left the top of his blond hair long, the shorn scalp only emphasized the damage. Most men would have grown hair to cover it, but not this man. In truth, his shorn head didn’t distract from what Asmara was realizing was a truly handsome man. In fact, all of that battle damage seemed to make him even more attractive in her eyes.

  But he was also rather intimidating and frightening if she thought about it. He abruptly grabbed her by the wrist and began pulling her away from the hall. Startled, not to mention fearful, she dug her heels in to resist him.

  “Let me go,” she hissed, beating at the hand that held her. “Did you hear me? Release me!”

  He ignored her. He dragged her all the way back across the bailey, past groups of men who were watching but did nothing to help Asmara. They simply turned back to their conversations. Asmara didn’t want to create a huge scene and start screaming, but she was close. The man had a grip of iron. Still, she figured she could fight off anything he tried to do to her so, at some point, she stopped dragging her feet, purely for her pride. It was embarrassing to let people see her being dragged, so she started to pretend she was going along with it. She simply started walking behind him.

  The warrior pulled her into the stable yard where so many horses were being watered and rested. There was a well in the stable yard, which was an unusual feature, and also a very long drinking trough. He took her right over to the trough, picked her up easily, and tossed her in.

  Asmara landed with a big splash. Horses scattered as the water flew, and she howled when she realized what he’d done. The water was freezing. Quick as a flash, she leapt out of the trough, infuriated that she was now soaked to the skin.

  “Why?” she demanded, enraged. “Why did you do that?”

  He still had that glimmer to his eye as he looked at her. He pointed to the lower half of her body. “The mud is gone now.”

  He was right. Asmara realized that the mud was now almost completely washed off and although she was clean again, she was also soaking wet. Enraged, she balled a fist and threw a punch right into the man’s jaw.

  His head snapped back at the force of the blow, and he took a step back as well, but he didn’t stagger. The move simply surprised him. As he put a hand to the spot she’d hit, Asmara shook her fist at him.

  “That is for getting me dirty in the first place, you dolt!” she raged. “And you did not have to try and drown me. I am quite capable of cleaning myself!”

  The man eyed her as he rubbed his chin. “Forgive, demoiselle,” he said. “As you pointed out, I caused you to fall in the mud. It is my responsibility to clean you.”

  Demoiselle. That wasn’t a term Asmara heard frequently. That was a Saesneg term for an unmarried miss, a term of respect. This enormous, scarred warrior with the slow, deep speech had her curiosity; she could admit it.

  He was unlike anything she’d ever seen before.

  “Well,” she said, feeling her outrage fade somewhat at his explanation. “You could have at least told me what you were going to do.”

  All he did was look at her, a slight lift of the very broad shoulders. Then, a smile flickered on his lips, which spurred her outrage. She was about to berate him again when she realized that his smile also spurred her humor in what was truly a ridiculous situation. She’d fallen over him, and gotten dirty, so he threw her in the water. He’d taken responsibility for what he’d seen as a consequence of his actions. As stupid as the situation was, she couldn’t really fault a man who took responsibility for his actions. When she saw a flash of his teeth, surprisingly straight and white, she fought off a grin.

  God, what was happening to her? When she should be beating the man, she was grinning at him.

  Who is the dolt now?

  “I shall make sure I look where I step from now on, with you around,” she finally said. “My name is Asmara, by the way. You may as well know the name of the woman you tried to drown.”

  He simply dipped his head as if pleased to make her acquaintance. “You are a queen, demoiselle.”

  That low, slow speech was intriguing. “Nay,” she said. “Not a queen. I am a warrior, as are you.”

  His gaze lingered on her, the glimmer in his eyes now held a touch of warmth, she thought. “You should be a queen,” he said quietly.

  The way he said it made her heart beat, just a little faster. She opened her mouth to ask him his name, but a shout from the great hall distracted them both. Someone was calling the men into the hall and the big warrior with the scarred head began to move towards the call, quickly, leaving Asmara standing there, dripping all over the ground. She watched him go, thinking that he looked sorely out of place among the Welsh warriors. As if he didn’t belong in the least.

  Her thoughts lingering on the mysterious warrior, she began to follow the herd of men as they headed towards the hall, hoping she could find a place by the hearth to dry herself out. She also hoped she could find a location where she could keep an eye on the strange warrior and, perhaps, even discover his name.

  Why the interest? She had no idea.

  But no ordinary man would have the courage to throw Asmara ferch Cader into a watering trough.

  Somehow, she sensed the pale warrior was no ordinary man.

  CHAPTER THREE

  “My friends, my allies, you honor me with your presence,” Howell said as he stood on the dilapidated feasting table in Carmarthen’s great and rather run-down hall. “We have much to discuss and little time to do it, so please quiet your conversations. Allow me to speak.”

  The hall was packed with men, all of them turning their attention to Howell, with Hew and a few of his teulu standing off to the side. The table couldn’t take the weight of more than one man, it seemed, so it was Howell’s podium. He smiled at the group, holding up his hands.

  “I know that you are men with families and with duties to attend to,” he said, “and I will therefore keep our gathering as short as possible, but this is necessary. I beg your patience as I explain.”

  There was a low hum of men mumbling to one another, shifting around nervously in the hall that was full of smoke from a hearth with a partially-blocked chimney. But it was more than that – they all knew why they had come, men who had suffered over the years from English overlords and English battles. Not one of them was inclined to knuckle under and accept English rule. And now, in this defining moment, perhaps there would be the opportunity yet again for them to show their resistance. All they needed was organization and a strong leader. Over near the edge of the table, a strong voice spoke up.

  “Tell us, Howell,” Morys said loudly. He wanted all of the men to know that he was in full support of whatever Howell had to propose. “You have my attention. What is so important that you would call such a gathering?”

  Howell looked at Morys. “Something of tremendous importance, great lord,” he said. “Your cousin, Rhys ap Maredudd, who is also the great-grandson of last king of Deheubarth much as you are, has confided in me his plans to retake the Ystrad Tywi. He has asked that I coordinate a similar attack to help him secure his legacy.” He returned his attention to the group. “That is why I have summoned you, great men. The time has come for us to reclaim what the Saesneg has so wrongly taken from us. We shall reclaim the south and from there, the rest of Wales. But it must start somewhere – it will start with us.”

  Morys, who had been willing to go along with Howell on anything, wasn’t so pleased to realize that his cousin, Rhys, was at the head of the coming revolt. Because of Rhys, and other great-grandsons of Rhys ap Gruffydd, the lands that men like Morys and Cader controlled were greatly reduced. The grandsons and great-grandsons of the last king took precedence, something that Morys and Cader’s father and grandfather had fought against. Therefore, Morys was greatly displeased to hear that his cousin was behind this latest push.

  Ystrad Tywi was the larger area that used to comprise Deheubarth, an area of great rivers and valleys, both strategic and rich. The English knew this, which is why they’d settled heavily in the area. Loosely translated, it meant the Vale of the Towy River, which was a major river that cut through the land.

  It was key.

  “A bold proposal,” Morys finally said, saying what everyone else was thinking. Then, he shook his head, perhaps in disapproval. “Does Rhys truly think he can take the Ystrad Tywi from the English? They’ve sunk their claws into it and it will not be an easy thing to take it back.”

  Howell wasn’t a fool. He knew that a bold proposal like this would be met with doubt. “We have a plan, Morys,” he said. “I know that you and your cousin are not on the best of terms, but Rhys has a plan that he believes will work so long as you and your men are willing to try.”

  Willing to try. Morys didn’t like the sound of that. Trying wasn’t succeeding as
far as he was concerned. It was a foolish effort. In fact, he didn’t like the sound of any of this because the truth was that he thought that he would be leading this revolt, or at least helping to lead it. Instead, he was being asked to try something. That didn’t sit well with him.

  “Did he ask you to relay this plan to me?” he finally asked.

  “He did,” Howell said. But he looked at the room once more. “He asked me to relay it to all of you. We are cymry, after all. This is our land. We have suffered the Norman invasion for over two hundred years and, still, they come. Still, they live on our lands and claim them as their own. Many men have fought to reclaim it, and many men have failed. But I believe that this time, it will be different. If we fight hard enough, if we show them how unwilling we are to have them in our country, then surely they will grow tired of losing men. Or are you so willing to return to your villages and let the English dictate terms to us in our own country?”

  That was something that every Welshman abhorred, and Howell knew it. He was hitting their pride now. As the collection of men continued to mutter to each other, discussing the possibilities, Howell turned to Cader to see how he was reacting to the situation.

  It was typical Cader behavior; he remained calm, impassive. He was standing on the opposite side of the table, his focus on his brother from a distance away. Cader was the reasonable brother, but this was where some strategy came in. Howell knew that if he addressed Cader directly, Morys would be offended since he was the older brother. Moreover, if Cader agreed to listen, then Morys couldn’t let the man be more reasonable than he was, so he would agree to listen, too.

  Howell was counting on that sibling rivalry.

  “Will you at least listen, my lord?” he asked Cader. “Surely you wish to reclaim what belongs to us.”

  Cader’s gaze moved from Morys to Howell. After a moment, he nodded. “I will listen.”

  As Howell knew, Morys would not be outdone. “As will I,” he said loudly. “Tell us the plan, Howell. What does my cousin wish from us?”

  That was what Howell needed – the two ap Macsen brothers willing to listen. That would spur the rest of the group to listen, too. When Howell spoke, it was to all of them.

  “Rhys and his men plan to move on Pembroke Castle.” A great hiss of disbelief went up and Howell held up his hands, begging for silence. “Listen, if you please. William de Valence, Lord of Pembroke Castle, has left Pembroke. Our spies tell us that the man has been sent to France and that he took nearly half of his army with him. This means that Pembroke is weakened and it is Rhys’ intention that we take advantage of that. While Rhys and his men move to encircle Pembroke, he asks that we move on Llandarog, Idole, and Gwendraith castles. If we can claim these, then we can block off the main roads leading from Pembroke to Cardiff and beyond. We can then starve out the garrison and claim Pembroke.”

  It was a shocking plan, but one that was opportunistic and, in truth, feasible. Morys listened to it with flaring nostrils, not at all happy that his cousin had relegated him to laying siege to smaller castles, but he also saw the brilliance of the plan as a whole.

  “It is true that my cousin has an intriguing plan,” he said loudly so all would hear him, “but there are other castles near Pembroke that we would have to consider as well, some of them English garrisons. Carew and Narberth castles are English. Then there is the bishop’s castle of Llawhaden. If we cut off the roads, there are still plenty of English who will try and break our blockade.”

  Howell nodded patiently. “That is why I have sent word to the northern warlords,” he said. “Morys, we cannot reclaim our country if we fight in splintered groups, and that is what has happened. With the south of Wales subdued, King Edward has gone to the north. He has mostly subdued the north as well. But if we can work together and take back our country piece by piece, then we may have a chance of taking it back as a whole. Are you opposed to trying?”

  Morys shook his head. “I am not,” he said. “Who comes from the north to support us?”

  Howell glanced at the group because he wanted to see their expressions as he spoke the names of some of Wales’ most powerful warlords.

  “The sons of Dafydd ap Gruffydd fight to the north,” he said. “There are several. There is also Bhrodi de Shera, the King of Anglesey. I plan to send word to Bhrodi myself and I am sure he will support us.”

  That drew a strong reaction from the crown. “De Shera is in league with the English,” one man shouted. “His father was English and he married a Saesneg!”

  Howell shook his head. “He married her for peace,” he said. “That does not mean he sides with the English. He is a Welshman at heart, and a great one. Do any of you doubt de Shera’s loyalty to Wales?”

  The men backed down after that, for no one doubted Bhrodi de Shera’s loyalties. He was a great warlord who had proven his worth time and time again. But he was a man with a Norman name and Welsh blood, making him something more than a Welsh warlord. He had the trust of the Edward, oddly enough, and that made the Welsh somewhat wary of him. A man could only have loyalty to one country, so they believed. But still, no one was ready to denounce the man who held the title of Earl of Coventry as well as being the hereditary King of Anglesey. Better still, his wife was from the great House of de Wolfe, a family of knights who commanded thousands of Saesneg warriors.

  Bhrodi de Shera was a man to be feared, above all.

  “He is loyal,” Morys said after a moment. “I would not speak ill of the man, for he has proven himself many times over. But we have something more powerful than even de Shera here in the south, something that will turn the tides for us once and for all.”

  Howell was curious. “What is it?”

  Morys turned to look at the pale warrior standing behind him. His eyes fixed on the man, proudly, as a father would show pride in a son. He walked towards the warrior, pointing to him.

  Now, it was Morys’ time to show his worth in all of this.

  He was a man with a secret.

  “Blayth,” he said, drawing out the name to ensure everyone heard him. “We have Blayth, the man whose very name means wolf. He knows what the Saesneg are thinking, and if anyone can lead this fight, it will be our battle wolf. I would put my trust in no one else; not even de Shera.”

  Men began grumbling again, some of them agreeing, some of them not. Given that Blayth had earned an almost legendary reputation in a few short years, men weren’t ready yet to contradict Morys, but they were uncertain.

  Morys knew this, but he had something else in mind, something that would put these men right into the palm of his hand. It was something he’d been working on the day he realized that badly wounded warrior he’d found near Llandeilo was going to live. He’d known even then that the man was something special, and he knew what no one else knew about him – that he was, indeed, a Saesneg. But Blayth had no recollection of who he was, or where he’d come from. In fact, his very name stemmed from nearly the only word he’d been able to say as he recovered from his injury those years ago – wolf.

  That word had become his Welsh name, Blayth, and from that name sprang a warrior of legend, something that Morys had perpetuated. He’d created the stories, and spread many of the rumors, but the one thing he hadn’t needed to exaggerate was Blayth’s prowess in battle. The man was unbeatable. His men, and the Welsh in general, were badly in need of a hero since the death of the lasts Welsh prince.

  Morys intended to give them one.

  “I give you the man who will lead us to freedom,” Morys finally boomed. “Some of you have fought with him and know the truth of my words, but some of you do not know. You have heard rumor how he came into my service, but I will tell you the truth once and for all. I have been protecting the man’s identity because it has been entrusted to me. I swore an oath never to reveal his true family lineage, but since my cousin has decided to once again throw the south into turmoil with his plans for Pembroke, I find that I must reveal the true identity of Blayth, the greatest warrior Wales will ever know. He, and only he, can lead us to victory. And do you know why?”