Spindle and Dagger Page 9

WE ARRIVE AT THE RIVER FORT IN THE LATE AFTERnoon. Many of the lads have regrouped here, milling restlessly in the muddy yard or sharpening weapons or playing flinches. Rhys is near the gate, and he’s the first to extend a shy wrist to Owain, who clasps it and mocks a blow to Rhys’s neck. Both of them grin. As Owain moves toward his warband, Rhys nods to me, solemn, before shaking his hair over his eyes and following his lord. Owain soon disappears among the lads, slapping backs and mussing hair. He does not seem to notice his father standing on the wall walk with his hands behind his back, regarding the countryside beyond.

  There’s no way Cadwgan didn’t see us arrive. No way this isn’t going to be bad. I brace for the storming down, the raging, the strong possibility of knuckles flying, but Cadwgan ap Bleddyn does not move.

  A small hooded head appears in the kitchen doorway, then William comes squealing across the mud and throws himself against me and holds on hard. “Elen! Elen, you’re all right!”

  For the longest moment I just hold the boy around his knobby shoulders with his golden hair flossy against my cheek. I left him to burn but he did not burn, and now I never want to let him go.

  William squirms out of my hug and takes my hand. “Come see David. He won’t eat. Mama’s having fits over it.”

  “He’s not hurt, is he?”

  William considers. “I don’t think so. He just lies where you put him. Sometimes he’ll whisper Alice. That’s why I think you can fix him. He was better when you were around.”

  “Better?” Clinging to my shoulder and sucking his thumb and worrying his little rag does not sound like better.

  “Much,” William replies without hesitation. “I thought my brother would never talk again after . . . you know. When they took us away. One of them shouted at David to shut up because he was crying. So he shut up.”

  Nest is in the hearth corner, David across her lap doing that staring slow blink. At her side, Not Miv piles scraps of wood and bats them over. All of them are grubby, and Nest’s cheeks are hollow, but none of them look harmed in a way fleeing a vengeful army wouldn’t cause.

  Einion penteulu looked to them. Pulled them clear.

  “Then there was you,” William rattles on, towing me toward his family like a small, determined cart horse, “and you picked him up just like Alice used to. You told stories, too.” With his free hand, William shifts his cloak enough to show my ball dangling from a length of twine tied around his waist. “I hid it from him. The warbander that brought us here. If I kept it safe, I knew you’d come back. And you did!”

  None of them burned. I blink away tears and squeeze William’s hand. “Good lad.”

  “Now that you’re back, David will be better. We can play ball again. You, me, David, and Mama. Angharad can watch. She’d just chew on the ball if we let her play.”

  I’d hug William hard if Nest weren’t here. Instead I clap his back warband-style, then kneel and pet David’s hair. It’s dark like Miv’s was, smooth and silky.

  “Hey, duckling,” I say to him cheerfully, like I’d just stepped out to use the privy. “Are you hungry? I wager you’re hungry. Would you like some oatcakes and honey?”

  David turns at the sound of my voice and says, “Alice.” He rolls over in his mother’s arms and reaches for me. Nest lets him go, then tries to hide wiping her eyes. David clings to my shoulder, and I sway toward the trestle board with William tagging puppylike at my elbow. The honey isn’t on the table or any of the shelves, so I ask the cook where it is.

  “There’s but a whisper left, pet,” he says, “and it’s not for you.”

  I draw back, stung. David on my shoulder snuffles. William sighs like he’s heard this before.

  “I don’t want it for me.” I hoist David higher. “It’s for them.”

  “Not for them, either. Gonna glaze the last of the venison.”

  “Honey,” whispers David. “Honey Alice please.”

  I settle David on a bench next to William, then square up like a bull. “Use blackcurrant. It makes a better glaze anyway. Or perhaps you’d like to explain to Owain ap Cadwgan, who’s just arrived from a se’ennight in the field, why I can’t have that honey.”

  The cook looks uneasy, but he fetches the pot off some hidden shelf. I scrape the insides bare and slather a gooey pile of honey on two thick oatcakes. David presses his shoulder against his brother’s and does not take his eyes from the door. I want to tell them both not to be afraid, but instead I stand over them while they eat every crumb and lick their fingers twice.

  I KNOW IT’S GOING TO BE BAD. IT’S SUPPER BEFORE I find out how bad.

  Cadwgan ap Bleddyn appears in the hall doorway with Nest on his arm, polite and formal, like she’s his daughter. She’s wearing a proper gown, but it’s too big through the shoulders and she’s rolled the cuffs over her wrists. Her plaits are sagging like pitiful cow pats, like she fixed them herself, and she’s cringing away from Cadwgan the smallest bit as she stares hard at the floor.

  Owain is sitting in the king’s chair at the high table, but as soon as his father appears, he shifts to the heir apparent’s place in a slow, offhand way, like he was just keeping the seat warm. Cadwgan takes his rightful position and puts Nest at his left. He runs a slow, disdainful look over Owain, then turns to me and says, “Pour.” Or rather, he says it to the wall behind my head.

  I pour wine for men all the time, but precious few will speak to me like that. Not twice, anyway. Owain’s eyes narrow, but before he can do something foolhardy, I pick up the flagon and move toward the table. At least one of us must keep this from going from bad to worse.

  “Well, Da,” Owain says lightly into the stiff silence, “you said you wanted a war.”

  “Not with my nephew,” Cadwgan growls, “and definitely not with any of my onetime allies. To say nothing for the English king! But no. You had to have your precious vengeance.”

  “I brought you leverage”— Owain’s color is rising — “against the very bastard whoreson we all know must fall if what’s ours is to stay ours.”

  Cadwgan’s face goes hard. “Leverage? Merciful Christ, you brought me a liability! Now Gerald gets to go to his good friend, the English king, and play the wronged party all rumpled and sorrowful. No one is looking too hard anymore at who he sends his warband against and whose birthright he’s got his eye on. That’s your doing, son. Now men see only your one act, not all of his.”

  “Da —”

  “Now you’ve come to me,” Cadwgan goes on, slow, drawling, “to pull your bacon out of the fire. Me, who’s been crossing steel with Normans since before you were born. Who expanded his kingdom and held it against the English king’s efforts to put Norman lords in every district when you were still playing with toy swords.”

  Owain looks ready to throw knuckles or sob, and either would be disastrous. Nest is fighting a smile.

  “I’ll go to the English king’s representatives on your behalf,” Cadwgan tells Owain, “and see what terms I can manage for this dog’s breakfast. Nest and the children will go back to Gerald and you will take ship immediately for Waterford.”

  My hand jerks. Hard. Take ship for what?

  “I am not fleeing to Ireland like a frightened child,” Owain snaps.

  Cadwgan collars Owain across the shoulders rough but fond, like he might a warbander. “Lad, this is the way it’s done. There’s no shame in it. Hell, I did it myself once upon a time.”

  “Take your hand off me, Da,” Owain says, low and ominous.

  I can’t tell Owain that Saint Elen said to shut his big foolish mouth and take his medicine. That if this is Cadwgan ap Bleddyn’s price, Owain is getting a bargain by half.

  Cadwgan leaves his arm around Owain’s shoulder for a very long moment so the hall can see him do it, then he pulls away and turns to Nest. “I’ll have men I trust personally escort you and your children homeward, my lady. You’ll leave at first light on the morrow. I . . . realize it’s probably meaningless, but I’d have you know this was never meant to happe
n.”

  Nest snorts quietly, then at length looks Cadwgan in the eye and says, “Thank you.”

  “And you.” Cadwgan aims his meat knife at Owain. “You will sail to Ireland in the first ship that’ll take you. You will find the king of Munster — no, he’s the high king now — and with my compliments you will give him that dagger with the ruby in the hilt and that silver bird-head cloak pin. Muirchertach Ua Briain is an ally and a friend, and you will not cause him a single moment of grief. You will also not put one foot anywhere in Wales until I bid you. Clear?”

  Owain nods. He’s glaring pure murder at his folded hands.

  Ireland. A whole sea between us and the many warbands converging on Owain ap Cadwgan. No one to claim the price on his head. A nice long exile for people to forget Nest was ever dragged barefoot from her bed and kept in hearth corners covered in soot, her children snuffling and cold around her.

  Most people, at least. Gerald of Windsor will never forget, much like Owain will not forget what was done to Llywelyn penteulu. Neither will let it lie until one of them is dead. Mayhap not even then.

  Cadwgan will see Nest and the little ones safely back to Gerald of Windsor, though. He’ll do it in a way that looks generous. Magnanimous, even.

  The little ones will be safe. William with his long silly stories and jokes that don’t make sense, his endlessly bouncing my ball on one knee just like Margred when she has to wait for anything. David and his square of rag, how much he loves my mother’s old stories. Not Miv, her sweet milk smell, her wispy Miv-dark hair, how she perches on my arm without holding on like it’s unthinkable I might let her fall.

  They will be home with their mother and father and all the beasts in the byre. They will be a family again, just like the clatter in their dooryard never was.

  Cadwgan curtly bids me gone partway through the meal and gives Owain a look that begs him to backtalk, but Owain wisely grits a smile and nods me toward the door. I head straight to the kitchen. If I’m to say farewell properly, it has to be now. There’s to be no comfort, and on the morrow something is sure to keep me from orderly cloak-tying and tucking packets of travel bread into wool-wrapped hands and giving kisses on round red cheeks.

  I have a pretty good idea that something will involve warm breath on my neck and a lazy hand drifting up my belly.

  I find the children under one of the trestles. They’re playing a game William calls border raids. He’s holding Not Miv around the middle so she can’t crawl away or eat rubbish off the floor.

  “She’s my horse,” William explains.

  “My horse,” David says, holding up his ratty cloth.

  I join them under the table and ask who they’re raiding, how many spoils they’ve carried away, what they’ve burned. William spins out a story about a ford and an ambush and five thousand Norman knights. David slides against me and grips my hand, damp and sticky.

  They’ll be out of danger. Untangled from the war Owain tried to “enhance” and free from his attempt at vengeance that they never should have been part of in the first place. They’ll be out of danger, and I’ll never see them again on this earth.

  William holds his giggling sister’s smock like reins, tugging her left and right, while David sucks his thumb and waves his rag like a banner. The older boy talks faster, and now there are a hundred thousand knights and the ford runs red with blood and they have so much plunder that he needs David to bear some of it on his horse, so David slides away from me toward his brother, squealing, “I carry it! Me, I carry!”

  Feet clomp past. Einion penteulu. There aren’t many reasons he’d come into the kitchen, and none of them are good. Cadwgan has released Nest and the little ones, and it must be that Owain will not let such a thing stand.

  Einion penteulu must be here to kill them.

  I put a finger to my lips and William pauses mid-sword-stab, head cocked. “It’s the enemy,” I breathe into his ear. “We must be quiet so we’ll not give away our position.”

  William nods, grinning, and puts his own finger to his lips at David. David looks between me and his brother, eyes huge. I give him my miracle-girl smile. Absolutely nothing is amiss, this is all a game, and the enemy will never find us. David does not scramble back against me. He’s wary, but he stays near William and holds tight to his rag.

  Einion penteulu stomps toward the rear of the kitchen, asks the cook something, swears, and heads outside once more. I wait till the echo of footfalls is gone some moments, then let out a long breath and turn to the little ones. They must keep out of sight till I can put a stop to this.

  “You stay here and guard this border,” I whisper. “William, you’re the king. David, you’re penteulu. Don’t let the enemy past, and don’t let them take your livestock.” I pet Not Miv’s soft hair. “Stay together, and don’t leave your position.”

  “Not go,” David says, and he grapples the end of my cloak into the same fist as his cloth scrap.

  I shush him and glance at the door. Einion penteulu will be back when he can’t find them anywhere else. “I’ll be a scout. I’ll go find where the enemy is hiding. I’ll make sure he thinks we’re somewhere else.”

  “Not go,” David repeats, doubling my cloak-end in his grip.

  “Stand to, field captain,” William says cheerfully to him. “She’ll be back. She came to find us after we had to leave with that warbander all in a rush. Right, scout?”

  David draws a sobby breath and wrings my cloak-end. If I pull away and leave, he’ll cry. If he cries, Einion penteulu will be back in a heartbeat, blade in hand. So I nod. Instead of saying farewell, like I came here to do. Then, because his eyes are so big and swimming, I tell him, “Duckling, I’ll always come back.”

  “Told you,” William says to David as he gentles my cloak out of his brother’s fist. “You’ve your orders, scout. My field captain and I will ambush the next warband that happens past.”

  “A good ambush needs quiet,” I remind them. “Hold your border here and stay together.”

  I slide out from under the table. David makes a tiny puppy sound even as William whispers something in his ear and firmly closes his brother’s fingers around the red cloth square like it’s a fire iron.

  I’ll find Owain. I’ll convince him. I’ll beg. I’ll promise him anything. He said no comfort, but that’s a world away from murder in cold blood.

  I’ll go to Cadwgan if need be.

  The yard is mostly empty, growing dark and freezing besides, and I’m halfway across when Rhys falls into step beside me, hooded and dressed for weather. He gestures to a handful of horses standing saddled near the well. Owain appears at the stable door with a groom. They speak briefly, and Owain passes him something round and silver while glancing over his shoulder at the hall.

  “Hurry,” mutters Rhys, and he nudges me forward with the arm I healed.

  I do as I’m told. Madog and his warband must be closer than anyone thought for us to take horse right now when we should be looking toward supper and bed. Cadwgan will be scrambling too, to set Nest up with an escort home. It’ll go hard for him if he’s not the one to give her and the little ones back to Gerald.

  The little ones I just lied to. I’ll not be coming back. Not ever. I could have said farewell. Given them each one last hug.

  Owain grins when he sees me and plants a kiss on my forehead. He holds out my rucksack, and I shoulder it as Einion penteulu appears like a ghost, holding the elbow of a cloaked figure I can tell at a glance is Nest just by the way she carries herself.

  Surely Cadwgan is not fool enough to bid Owain return Nest and the little ones to Gerald. Even were that so, the children are still in the kitchen and not ready to travel. The rest of the lads are nowhere in sight, and Owain would ride in full force on such an errand. The horses are Cadwgan’s, though. I’d know that bridle tooling anywhere.

  “Right then.” Owain steadies the stirrup of a bay mare and smiles at Nest, cold and dangerous. “Up you go.”

  “Where are my children?
” she asks.

  Einion cuts his eyes to Owain and makes the warband field gesture for deception behind Nest’s back. Nest looks from me to Owain, then she buries an elbow in Einion penteulu’s ribs and tries to break away, but Einion has two handfuls of her cloak and she’s pulled up hard, choking, gasping. Owain seizes her wrist and waist, pinning her against him while Rhys draws steel and blocks the view from the hall with his turned back.

  “Listen closely,” Owain growls in her ear, “and don’t you dare make a sound. Your brats will be fine. My father will see them returned to your whoreson coward husband, but you are coming with us to Ireland, and I swear before God Almighty and all the saints that I am prepared to make your captivity up to this point seem like paradise should you decide to make trouble.”

  I cannot look at Nest. I should have known. I should have at least suspected.

  Nest’s indrawn breaths are loud and shaky. At length she nods. A small motion. Small and helpless.

  “Now get on that horse,” Owain says, “and be quick about it.”

  Nest hoists herself into the saddle all in shudders like a puppet on strings. She takes the reins, and they slide limp like ribbons through her fingers. She doesn’t even flinch when Einion penteulu pulls her hood sharp across her face.

  “We’re leaving here easy and slow,” Owain goes on, pulling his own horse about. “No notice. No alarm. No trouble.”

  We do. We ride one after another through the yard, out the gate, and into the frigid twilight, and no one pays us any mind. We ride later than we should, till Owain is smacked in the face by low branches once too often and bids us halt and scratch out a camp. While Owain and Einion penteulu whisper-argue about security and visibility and Rhys stands by resigned, waiting to get the worst watch, I guide Nest into a stand of brush and push a field wineskin into her hands. She holds it but doesn’t drink.

  “It’s not how you meant it to happen,” I tell her, “but the little ones are away from Owain. Cadwgan has every reason to return them to their father now, and he’ll move Heaven and earth to do it.”