Near the bower of gilliflowers, they paused when they heard the voices of ladies. The sound was accompanied by soft laughter, so they grinned at each other and crept closer to hear through the thick screen of pink petals.

“He is even more satisfying than I hoped for. The only disappointment is that he is not unwashed, or even a little pagan. I was promised a true savage!”

It was Isabel’s voice, gossiping with a friend. She went on to wonder if there was time to find an Irishman to seduce, and wondered how long to enjoy her sport with Gryff before taking a new lover. The new lover would be Scottish, because she hoped to sample every kind of man the island offered before leaving.

Gryff thought he hid it well from Hal, the swift stab of pain she caused. He should have walked away then, but the need to pretend it didn’t matter kept him standing there, listening while she laughed and described how satisfyingly unsophisticated he was. She took his descriptions of his home in Wales – spoken to her at her eager insistence – and made them laughable. Nothing but sheep shit and rain, she said, and the manor houses sounded like no more than tiny heaps of slate and stone not even worthy of the name.

“I thought the Normans were provincial! The Welsh truly are worse. But I take what amusements I can in this dung heap at the edge of the world. They will never believe me when I return to Aragon, how this little island thinks itself so important, so grand.”

The worst wasn’t even the look of pity on Hal’s face – it was the slight embarrassment, the uncomfortable manner. Savage, backward, uncouth. Years here, living as one of them, educated as one of them, and nearly all the Normans still thought it about him. They liked him, but they saw him that way, and she had learned this scorn from them.

Hal was different, and so was his father. When they made their silent way back to the mews, Hal’s father awaited them. He asked what ailed Gryff and when he received only a shrug in reply, he peered closely at Gryff’s frown.

“Ah, a fair maid,” he divined. The rumble of his voice was as soothing as always, despite his words. “Who has turned your head this week? Agnes again, or is it still Lady Julia?” There was no hope of hiding these things from Hal’s father, who seemed to know everything.

“I miss my home.” Gryff had not meant to say it at all, much less for it to come out half-choked, like he might weep at any moment. He burned with the shame of being Welsh, and the anger at knowing he should not be ashamed. “I do not belong here.”