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that hurt; his cold disapproval; the knowledge that I, as his only son, was ever a disappointment. My mother had comforted me once, explaining that fathers and sons never understood each other—but I knew she was wrong; knew it even then; knew it even before she died with the son for whom my father longed, the one he hoped would grow into the man I could never be.
     
    * * * * *
     
    Darkness fell, late as always this far north. Prince Dafydd and I sat beside each other, arms crossed, waiting for the time when the castle was at its quietest. Neither of us slept.
    “Falkes doesn’t know you are the Prince,” I repeated, more to reassure myself than him.
    “It’s a nice thought,” Dafydd said.
    “Still,” I said, “he must have noticed something about you, my lord. Something that struck him as not quite right, or we wouldn’t be here now.”
    “He didn’t think my mother was quite right either,” Dafydd said. “Although as a woman she’d have been of little interest. He probably forgot about her the moment she was out of his sight. That is, until he encountered me.”
    “You are too well dressed,” I said. “Your horse is too fine, your sword to well-made to be a simple merchant from Chester.”
    “My original intent was to pass myself off as a younger son of a knight,” he said. “I miscalculated in thinking that Falkes would view me more favorably as Marged’s son, although now I’m glad I mentioned her. It will cast doubt on the notion that I was associated with the death of Edward.”
    “Imagine if he knew you were Prince Llywelyn’s son too,” Ieuan said.
     Dafydd grunted, “I’d be dead by now.”
    I returned to my reverie. Best to not get back on the topic of fathers and sons. I leaned my head against the rough planks at my back and closed my eyes. I entertained myself by wondering what my sister Lili was up to, what kind of trouble she’d gotten into recently. I smiled, but then stilled. The door to our prison creaked open.
    “My lord!” I nudged Dafydd, but he was already getting to his feet.
    A small person stood silhouetted in the doorway. Thomas.
    He spoke, his voice high and excited.
    “What’s he done?” I whispered as we joined him at the door.
    Thomas had our horses saddled and our swords strapped to the saddlebags. I didn’t want to think about what this might cost him if he were caught—if we were caught. My father would have killed me.
    He led us to the unguarded postern gate a few yards away and pulled it open. We slipped through the door and Thomas knelt to wedge a stone between the door and the frame to keep the door from closing completely. In single file, we walked our horses along the castle wall, keeping to its shadow. After a dozen yards, Thomas stopped. He and Dafydd conferred briefly. Dafydd nodded. We mounted while Thomas turned back to the castle. As he passed me, he patted Llywd’s neck. Then a light flashed in the darkness of the wall. Thomas had slipped back through the postern gate.
    Dafydd was no more than a shadow in front of me. A few men shouted on the other side of the wall, frustrating me again by my lack of English. I understood simple sentences and words, having sat with Aaron a time or two, but not enough to help Prince Dafydd. I wanted to know what Thomas had said but held my impatience in check. Now was not the time.
    CarlisleCastle perched in the northwestern corner of the city, surrounded by water on three sides: the river Caldew to the south and west and the Eden to the north. We’d escaped by a western gate, which was all to the good as far as I was concerned. West was where I wanted to be, but in order to reach the sea, we had to follow the wall around to the north and cross the Eden River where it looped around the city, before heading west through Scotland to the sea.
    “Thomas pointed me to a bridge to the north of the castle,” Dafydd said. “When we come around the wall, we shouldn’t have to ride far before we see