Bran only looked at him hopefully, restraining himself from leaping on the pie as Gryff picked it up and broke off a bit of the crust. The smell made his mouth water painfully. He put the bit in his mouth and blinked back the rush of tears. So pitiful had he become that he was unmanned by a pork pie.

He broke off another piece and held it out to Bran. The dog came forward slowly, never taking its hopeful eyes off Gryff as it took the most careful, gentle bite he’d ever seen from man or beast. Laughter escaped him, jagged and rusty, stabbing the quiet. He kept laughing as the dog nibbled almost daintily from his hand until the portion was gone. Then Bran retreated to a spot several feet away and sat, watching solemnly while Gryff ate the rest.

Just as he finished it, two brothers came. One examined Sir Gerald’s wounds while the other merely handed a bowl of bread soaked in broth to Gryff, and left. More food. It did not look to be a very wealthy priory, but they were generous.

“By God’s grace there is no fever, and you will mend in good time,” the brother was saying to Sir Gerald. “But to journey ahead to Lincoln or back to Morency would be foolhardy.”

Morency. Lincoln. Gryff gripped the bowl, assailed by memories that he could not seem to sort fast enough. They were somewhere on the road between Morency and Lincoln. He should avoid Morency; he might have a friend in Lincoln.

“I am told you are Welsh.” Sir Gerald had managed to sit upright and now held his own bowl of sop. The monk was exiting, leaving them alone.

“I was,” Gryff answered, taking as much of the Welsh out of his voice as he could. He had not realized how much of it had crept back in. “I have not dwelt there since I was a boy. I called Monmouth my home these many years.”

It wasn’t true, but it was close enough. Monmouth was near to Lancaster’s keep, and he had visited enough times to know it well. It was something he must remember, now, another little lie to commit to memory: he came from Monmouth.

In the next minute, he wished he had chosen anywhere else.

“Monmouth is near to Ruardean, whence comes the lady of Morency. Do you know that place? Her brother rules Ruardean now. Lord William, I think his name is.”

William, whom he had taught to fly a hawk. Will, who had been so amazed when his beloved sister had married Morency. Little Will was a Marcher lord now. His father must have finally died.

“In those days, it was not a William who ruled,” was his only reply.

“Five years then, at the least, that you have lived away from there.”