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It was his brother Aiden who was supposed to go as hostage, not Gryff. Even their mother had said so. She’d left off her prayers for a whole afternoon to argue with Father about it. Their oldest brother Rhodri had already been sent to live with a great Norman lord years ago.
But Rhodri was a bastard born of another woman, so Mother had been happy to see him sent away. For the Welsh, a bastard son had the same value as a child born in wedlock, with all the same rights and claims as any other child. His father loved Rhodri, but he said, “We must follow Norman ways in this matter – all the Welsh must, if we are to survive.” The Norman way was to give everything to the eldest trueborn son. Bastards did not matter at all under their law.
So Rhodri was sent to foster in England, a gesture to show that there was no ill will, that good and sensible Welshmen trusted the Normans and should be trusted in turn. Years later when there was a battle against the English king – the latest in a series of battles that stretched back generations – his father sided with the Welsh prince Llewellyn. They lost, because the Welsh always lost, and all the Welshmen of consequence who had risen up against English rule were made to give over hostages. It was normal. It happened all the time. It was how peace was kept.
If father had been more important, the English would not have let him send Gryff as hostage. They would have demanded Aiden, his first trueborn son.
“You’re not important at all,” Gryff said to him at some point in the journey that took him from his home. He’d made a point of saying very little since the scene days before when he’d shouted and wept and begged to stay. The humiliation of it was still with him. He was too old to act so childishly, but it had seemed impossible to control himself.
It was just as hard when he’d kissed his mother goodbye, but at least he’d only cried quietly. Later, on the journey, he wept for the loss of his trueborn brothers, too. He stopped being envious that the two of them could stay at home, and began to realize what it would mean not to see them every day. Maybe never again. He missed them already. How alone he would be, among the Normans.
For his father, he had naught but hatred. Never once did father say he regretted any of it, and still he stood by Prince Llewellyn no matter what price his family must pay for it. He never even said he was sorry that they hadn’t fought well enough to win their stupid battle.
“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.
