“You have no power against the Normans or Llewellyn, and you can’t even win a fight.” Gryff stopped himself from saying I hate you I hate you, only because he knew it would make him sound like a baby. He was twelve, and the only thing his father said that was true was that Gryff must be a man and not a sniveling child.

Father only ignored these outbursts. When they arrived at the massive Norman castle where many great lords and soldiers waited, Gryff wanted to run. It wasn’t fair. He barely even spoke their language, and none of them would know Welsh.

“There can be no profit in fear, Gruffydd.” Father looked grim, but not sad to say goodbye. “Nor in pride. Is humility that will serve you well among the Normans. There is much to learn of their ways, and I command you to learn it well. But never forget you are Welsh.” He gripped Gryff’s shoulder hard, and looked earnestly at him. “You are Welsh. They cannot take that from you without you permit it.”

“I am your son,” he said, and pushed his father’s hand away with disgust. “They cannot take me from you without you permit it.”

He walked toward the Normans without looking back.

He never saw his father again.

Chapter Two

1288

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As he walked back to the thieves’ camp and chewed very slowly on the bread, Gryff gradually came to realize that the dog was meant to keep watch on him. By the time they reached the place that Baudry and his men had days ago claimed as their own – the latest in a series of spots deemed “likely” – Gryff had seen enough signs to know it was a dog with a purpose. A dog with a mission. Its task was to pay very close attention to whatever Gryff was doing.

It seemed a little wary of the birds, though, and kept glancing back at them suspiciously while it trotted around the clearing, investigating, always alert.

Gryff found his old, worn falconer’s bag and slung it over his shoulder so that it crossed his chest. Everything he needed was inside. He’d learned to be efficient, always ready to move at a moment’s notice. It was the matter of a moment to put on the glove and coax the goshawk from the branch to his hand, then transfer him into the cage. Gryff worried the cage was too small and fretted about it every time he was forced to use it. But it was only two miles to the priory, the merchant had said. Not long.

The dog came to investigate, darting in to sniff gingerly at the cage and then jumping back from the hawk. It caused Gryff to smile, which first felt natural, and then strange. He had not really smiled for months, and was amazed his face remembered how. But he did not want to think of that.