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H e had thought it might be the falconers who would resist his authority most strongly, but it was the bards with whom he clashed immediately and most frequently. It was not their counsel he objected to, nor even their politics. It was their poetry.

“Better to lament my brothers were sacrificed so young than to praise the battles they fought,” he had said – mildly, he thought, which was no easy thing when he was so disgusted.

When he had first arrived, the chief bard seemed intent on performing poem after poem about the noble defense of Aderinyth, how its fallen prince had fought most valiantly against foreign rule.

Gryff said they must stop singing of senseless death as a glorious thing, and was told that he had no right to dictate how the bards composed their record of history.

His rule was temporary, after all, while their work lived on for generations.

“There will be no praise for Edward the Norman king, save this one verse where he does recognize your authority,” the chief bard had declared one day. “That he returned you to us is his only worthy deed, my lord prince.”

After the first month, Gryff had given up on trying to stop them from calling him prince. So long as the title was not given to his sons, the king did not care. Edward almost seemed to prefer it, so that he could boast of how princes knelt before him.

“Nor do I wish your poems to praise Edward,” Gryff had said to the old bard, his patience worn thin after weeks of this same argument. “I ask only that you not stand in my hall and sing how righteous was my father’s cause, and how good that so many died for it.”

The bard gave his answer like it was another performance in the hall, when it was only a handful of advisors in the solar.

He spread his arms wide. “Your father gave his sons and his life, all for the people of Aderinyth, and I will praise each drop of blood he shed. What does Prince Gruffydd know of sacrifice?”

Sacrifice. The word had echoed in Gryff’s head while he swallowed down the anger, and pushed aside the memory of her face.

Finally, he said that the bard’s services were no longer required in his court, and dismissed him.

He turned to Rhys, who was much younger but fully trained, and appointed him the new chief bard of the household.

It broke with tradition, but he refused to bow to the old ways in all things.

He had chosen well. The young bard Rhys was eager to prove himself, but not so eager that he spoke only flattery.

The poems he sang about the old princes praised their wisdom and generosity more than their valor in battle, and spoke more of the alliances made than the discord and strife that had torn Wales apart.

He proved a pleasant companion all through the summer.

“Will my lord tell me of that time before he returned to his home and his people?” Rhys asked, not for the first time.

It was his duty to learn everything he could of Gryff’s life and be witness to his reign, so that he could commit it to song.

This was the old way a bond was formed between bard and lord, hours spent together advising and reminiscing, ensuring there was no corner of his mind that was a mystery to the poet.

But Gryff had avoided telling him anything beyond the moment when the thieves were slain.

He was dimly amazed, almost amused at how easy it was to speak of the things that still disturbed his sleep sometimes.

He told the bard of the fire at the abbey, the villainy of Baudry’s men, and even Brother Clement’s death.

But then he merely said an armed party had saved him by chance.

When prompted for more, he answered that he had soon learned the king would allow him to rule in Aderinyth, and so he had come.

The bard Rhys was no fool for all that he was young, but was careful in how he pressed for more. Now it was the night before Gryff’s betrothed would arrive. They drank too deeply, and when Rhys asked again, the words slipped out.

“There was a girl with golden hair.” The light of interest in Rhys’ eyes was so keen it sobered him a little.

Gryff rubbed a hand across his face, thinking of how she had told him not to hide from memory.

He would fail her in that, too. “When I am old and gray, ask me again,” he mumbled, and then took himself to his cold bed, where he tried to forget her mouth, her sighs, the beat of her heart.

He spent the morning observing the progress with the youngest goshawks.

The falconers had not liked being told there would be no more strict secrecy about the nests.

They had spent these past five years resisting in their own way, pretending to the Normans there were fewer birds come to nest and giving less than the promised number to the king.

Most had bristled at Gryff’s command to give an honest account of the nestlings to the king’s men, but they obeyed him to a man.

They respected him because he had been trained by Philip Walch, and they obeyed him because he was their prince.

It was Philip’s son, himself a falconer, who had told him that after his father’s death the falconers had agreed among themselves to obey no one but Prince Gruffydd.

This was his comfort, to know that no more of them would die needlessly.

Aderinyth’s one resource would no longer be held hostage to spite a king, and could be used to make a better life for his people.

All of it was only possible because he had returned to them.

Now he watched two young gyrfalcons spread their feathers under the midmorning sun and wished he could keep one for himself.

But one must go to Edward, and the other sold to bring in sorely needed coin.

If his wedding happened soon enough, perhaps Hal would come and be able to see these two before they were traded away. He could bring Tiffin.

Even that thought was painful. Hal. Tiffin. Nan in a dark yard throwing knives into a post. All the memories he should not hide from but could not look at, even the happy ones. Especially the happy ones.

Word came that Will’s party was traversing the final hills, and Gryff went to the wall-walk atop the keep to watch their arrival.

The castle that Edward had commanded built was barely started, but there was this one tower and it was enough to house the guests.

Even better, it was set in a perfect place to overlook the hills and valleys of Aderinyth. It was a glorious view.

This was the only thing about returning home that held no disillusionment or aggravation.

When he had come to the manor that he had called home as a boy, it had felt very different from what he remembered.

The hall he had thought so enormous in his youth was, in reality, smaller than Lancaster’s stables.

His mother’s solar was as dark and cramped as the hut in Wragby that he had thought so poor.

But the hills, the sharp peaks and the glimmer of mountain lakes, the river winding along the valley floor, the hawks wheeling against the sky – that was even bigger than he had remembered, and he took any excuse to come up here and look at it spread out before him.

When he saw the party making their slow way through the valley, he understood why they were more than a week later than anticipated.

It was an absurd amount of baggage for one lady and her few attendants.

In the end, he had not met her at court because she had spent the week in prayer at some shrine or another.

They had yet to agree on a date to be wed, but now she was come to see this place that would be her home, and be married here.

“On my honor, Gryff, I would have warned you had I known.”

It was the first thing Will said to him, under his breath, after they had greeted one another in the forecourt.

He did not look weary as so many travelers did after the arduous journey through the hills, but his face betrayed an exasperation that Gryff had never seen before, so practiced was Will at hiding anything as petty as annoyance.

The cause of his irritation was Gryff’s intended, Lady Margaret, who seemed so devoted to prayer that she had little thought for any earthly concerns.

This included the inconvenience she caused by insisting on traveling with so much baggage, and stopping several times every day for rest and prayer.

Even in her greeting to Gryff, her first question was to ask where the chapel was so that she might give thanks for their safe journey.

He was happy to point her to it, and ignored her obvious disapproval that he did not join her. Instead he had some beer brought for Will and showed him the gyrfalcons, and the progress on the castle.

The servants were a mix of Welsh and English, and all were eager to see to the comfort of the guests.

The feast was impressive and the entertainment in the hall was even better, to Gryff’s mind, than what a Norman keep could offer.

Hospitality and poetry were both held sacred here, and sincerely shared with every visitor. He had almost forgotten that.

“I vow it is more beautiful here than ever you could describe,” said Will that evening.

They sat together in the chamber set aside for him, with its window that looked out onto the northern ridge, drinking and talking into the night.

“Will we go hawking tomorrow? Nor can I stay long, so much has your betrothed delayed me, but there will be time to fly a falcon or two.”

“Aye, we will.”