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much in the last few years and had reluctantly given up the
stewardship—though not his service—in favor of his son. While the
other men stood as I approached, Dafydd did not. I had a momentary
urge to wipe the smirk off his face with my fist in his teeth but
restrained myself. Perhaps he couldn’t help what he was. I only
hoped he had a thought as to whom he might want to become.
    Ignoring him, I said to Goronwy and Geraint,
“Please join me in my office as soon as possible. Dafydd brings
unwelcome news.”
    The two men immediately fell into step
beside me. Geraint spoke in my ear as we left the hall. “Dare I say
‘as always?’”
    “It appears that Dafydd has the unfortunate
responsibility of being the bearer of bad tidings, nothing more.
This is Clare’s action, not my brother’s. I can’t imagine otherwise
at this point.”
    “I can imagine it.” That was Goronwy,
muttering under his breath. As he’d been my friend from boyhood, I
let it pass.
    “Your brother has already been involved in
two revolts against you, my lord,” Tudur said, “though he was the
mastermind of neither. Do we allow him another opportunity?”
    “No, we do not, friend,” I said. “But he is
my brother.” I led them back the way I’d come, up the stairs to my
office, next door to where Marged and Anna still lay. I allowed
myself a moment’s warmth at the thought and at Marged’s unexpected
spirit, and then turned to my counselors.
    I had ignored their muttering, but didn’t
need to hear their words to know what was in their minds. While
Goronwy and Tudur were of an age with me, both forty now, Dafydd
was ten years younger—a different generation entirely. He’d not
been involved in any of the Welsh wars under the command of our
Uncle Dafydd. He’d only been two years old in 1240 when my
grandfather, Llywelyn Fawr, died and Uncle Dafydd took the
throne.
    Nothing pleased an English king more than
bickering Welsh royalty. Englishmen of the Marche —the disputed border territory between Wales and
England —and of the English royal court had aided and abetted
my brother Dafydd in both of his revolts against me as a matter of
course, acts I could neither forgive nor forget, no matter how
often the perpetrators spoke of trust and noble brotherhood.
    My grandfather had been a strong man, ruling
all Wales like few Princes ever had. But the stability had crumbled
with his death to the point that my Uncle Dafydd had imprisoned my
father and brother here at Criccieth to contain their rebellions.
My mother, Senana, had gone to Shrewsbury to beg King Henry of
England to intervene on their behalf with Uncle Dafydd. Henry had
agreed to their release, but betrayed their agreement. He turned
around and threw my entire family in the Tower of London.
    Except for me.
     
    “ You cannot go back, Llywelyn!”
    Goronwy grabbed my arm and pulled me around
to face him. He’d come to meet me as I’d left the village for the
causeway to the castle and now pulled me off the road and into the
trees.
    “ Why ever not?” I said. “What’s
happened?”
    “ Word came this morning. King Henry has
finally agreed to intercede on your father’s behalf. Your family
leaves for England within the hour.”
    I stared at him, my anger growing—not at
him, but at the circumstances that had brought my family to this
point. I’d never been to England and had no intention of finding
refuge there. To my mind, it meant trading one captivity for
another, even if my mother swore that wasn’t going to be the
case.
    “ Your mother believes King Henry will be
true to his word,” Goronwy said, “but I . . .” He trailed
off.
    “ I don’t believe it either,
Goronwy.”
    I gazed up at the castle, just visible
through the branches of the trees that surrounded us. Men ran back
in forth in front of the gatehouse—my uncle’s men for the most
part, since he’d forced my father to send his away. Uncle Dafydd
was the Prince of Wales, and my father might be a