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them. There…you see? It cannot easily be done, can it? But take Gwynedd alone, take a lone arrow…” He gripped a single shaft in his fists; there was a loud crack as the wood splintered, broke in two.
    Llelo was intrigued, but uncomprehending. “I do not fully understand,” he admitted, with such obvious reluctance that Llewelyn smiled.
    “Just listen, lad; you will. You know, of course, that Welsh law divides a man’s lands up amongst his sons. But how do you divide a kingdom, Llelo? It cannot be done. In the past, our law did but lead to needless bloodshed, set brother against brother. So it was with my own family; my father was slain by his brothers. And Gwynedd was torn asunder by their wars, bled white. I could not let that happen again. I had to keep my realm whole, could not let it be broken into fragments when I died. How else could we hope to stave off English attacks? We’re at peace now with England, but it was a peace I won at sword-point, bought with blood. The moment we seem vulnerable, the English will seek to regain their conquests, and what could be more vulnerable than a land ravaged by civil war?”
    Llelo reached over, picked up one of the arrow halves. “I think I see. You put Gwynedd first, did what you thought was best for Wales.”
    Llewelyn was delighted. “Just so, lad.”
    “But why did you choose Davydd? Why did you not want my papa to have Gwynedd? He was your firstborn. Why Davydd?”
    That was the question Gruffydd had put to him, too. And he’d never been able to answer it to Gruffydd’s satisfaction, never been able to make him understand. Would he have any better luck with the boy?
    “A prince of Gwynedd must be practical, Llelo. He must be able to understand the limits of his power. No Welsh prince could ever hope to equal the might of the English Crown. To survive, to safeguard our sovereignty, we must come to terms with England. That is why every Welsh prince since my grandfather’s time has sworn allegiance to the English king. But Gruffydd was never able to accept that. Over the years, his hatred of the English festered, until it was beyond healing. If ever he had my power, he’d start a war with England, a war he could not win. I do not blame him, Llelo; he cannot be other than as he is. But I could not let him destroy himself, and I could not let him destroy Gwynedd.”
    It was very quiet; Llewelyn knew that Ednyved, too, had been listening. Llelo had bowed his head, and Llewelyn could see only a crown of dark hair; it showed brown glints in the sun, but now looked as black as Llewelyn’s own hair had once been. “Llelo?”
    “Did you never try to make my papa understand? Mayhap if he knew why, if he did not think you loved Davydd more, then he’d…he’d be more content.”
    “Yes, lad,” Llewelyn said. “I tried.” Llelo asked no more questions, and after a moment, Llewelyn leaned over, quenched the candle flame.
    “Llelo?” Ednyved spoke for the first time from the darkness. “I want to tell you something. Your lord grandfather spoke of a peace with England. What he did not tell you was that it was dictated on his terms. You see, lad, Llewelyn did what men thought impossible; he united the other Welsh Princes, got them to hold with him against England. Wales has never been stronger, more secure, and it is your grandfather’s doing. He was too shrewd to lay claim to the title, knowing it would but stir up jealousies and rancors amongst the other Princes, but in truth, lad, Llewelyn is Prince of all Wales, Prince of all our people.”
    Llewelyn was taken aback. Ednyved was not a friend who flattered; his was an affection most often barbed by flippancy and sarcasm. “That is the sort of praise a man rarely gets to hear, Ednyved,” he said wryly. “It is usually reserved for funeral orations!”
    “Well, try not to let it go to your head, my lord. I just thought the lad ought to know.”
    No one spoke after that. Llelo snuggled deeper under the