“What?”
“He claimed to be my brother. So of course, I challenged him on it, and he took me back to his hovel. It was a noisome, one room thatch, and a woman sat tending the fire. She was old and tired, but at one time, maybe when her son was born, she was a beautiful lass, full of fire. You could still see that in her eyes. She knew immediately who I was and what her son had done, and she shrieked at him, patting my eye and calling me ‘Lord’ and ‘Sir’.
“The youth was unmoved, and said, ‘This is my mother. We have the same father.’ Then I suddenly saw all the hypocrisy of my life, where the ties of marriage or the luck of birth claimed whether a man was worthy or mean. I left their hut and immediately confronted my father.”
Rhiannon pulled out a stalk of grass, twisted it around her fing
