“My mother is Welsh,” said Will, who at ten years old could not be expected to understand how little his mother mattered to this conversation. “There are Welsh and Norman and English at my home in Ruardean and all are treated as equal. They are all alike except in their speech. It’s not like that here.”

Will reminded Gryff of his little brother Owain, never wanting to leave his side in work or in play, imitating Gryff in every gesture. Will didn’t have a brother, and he’d been brought here to foster under Lancaster when he was only a baby. He didn’t have a father, either – not one he’d ever known – and he barely even knew this home he spoke of with such authority.

“It’s not like that here because Lancaster’s wife is more Norman than he is himself, and all the household too.” Gryff stabbed at the dirt with his wooden sword and wished he had a real one. The master at arms said he wasn’t ready for it yet, but Gryff knew it was because he was Welsh. He’d overheard the men saying that he shouldn’t be taught to fight at all. “Lancaster would never marry a Welshwoman, nor let her rule.”

Will shrugged. “They say my father is mad. Better my Welsh mother rules than a madman.”

“It’s your Norman uncle who rules,” Gryff corrected him, angry suddenly. “They don’t give marcher castles over to Welsh people. There’s naught in Wales like these manors, we could never – they could never build anything this grand.”

Will just used the tip of his own wooden sword to dig up a clump of earth, and didn’t look at him. It was obvious he disagreed but didn’t want to argue. “Do you want to go see the destrier?” he asked instead.

It had become a favorite thing to do, visiting the new war horse that had been brought to Lancaster’s stables. Not that Gryff would ever get to ride a destrier in his life. Will would. He’d also probably get a real sword before Gryff did, even though he was younger.

“Nay, I want the kitchen. There will be pears in confit left, and Agnes will have saved some for me.” Agnes was the cook’s daughter and had taken a liking to him.

Will began to follow him as he headed through the tilting yard toward the kitchen. Gryff frowned at him. “You know well you cannot come with me. Kitchens are for servants.”

“You’re not a servant.” He got that mulish look, just like Owain used to before a tantrum. Will wouldn’t start shouting and insisting to come along, though. He was too smart for that.