Curled down among cushions piled near the hearth with the rough-coated greyhound Gelert stretched out beside him, Arteys was trying to feel the ease he should, here in his father’s Pembroke Castle, but all he had was more unease as he listened to what was being said around and above him by his father and the others—Gryffydd ap Nicholas, Sir Richard Middelton, Yevan ap Jankyn, and ridden in yesterday from England, Sir Roger Chamberlain. As usual, things had bettered when his father had come away into Wales, had come away from London, away from Westminster, away from the king and the men around him. If it were left to Arteys’ choice, they would never go back. Once they were away, his father always remembered how to laugh again, took up his books with pleasure, sometimes even rode out hunting. Life became almost what it was until five years ago. Almost there was forgetting. But not tonight. Arteys rubbed gently at the soft place behind Gelert’s left ear, and deep in contentment, the greyhound sighed, its head sinking more heavily onto Arteys’ thigh.
