I take another long, steadying drink. “So Cadwgan allows Owain to return from Ireland. Now that he’s made sure Powys is reeling and helpless, and Owain spoiling to reclaim it after stewing for months in exile. That bastard doesn’t even have to get his hands dirty.”
“My husband may be a fool and a bastard,” Isabel says, tipping her mug, “but he knows well that retaking Powys from the likes of Madog ap Rhirid will be easier by tenscore than it would from Gerald of Windsor or Gilbert fitz Richard de Clare. Madog holding Powys and Ceredigion — and His Grace the king giving his blessing — meant no Norman lord could simply invade.”
I finish my wine in one bitter swallow. Rhys was right, and Owain was right to believe it. Cadwgan has been pulling strings this whole time to make all the puppets dance, and he comes out of it getting everything he wants. His kingdom and province back. His Norman enemies denied a foothold anywhere in his lands. The English king foiled and befuddled.
His son broken to bridle, brought to heel.
“Cadwgan ap Bleddyn had better live forever,” I say quietly, “for none of his schemes will survive him.”
“Can I ask you something?” says Rhael.
I’m lying on my back, my hair loose from its pins and streaming every which way. My half-full mug dangles from my fingers over the edge of the bed. I’ve lost count how many I’ve had. “All right.”
“What are you doing here?”
I roll my head so I’m lying on my ear. Rhael sprawls beside me. She looks nothing like herself, but I’m beyond caring. “I’m here ’cause you invited me.”
“No. No. I mean, what are you doing here when Owain isn’t here? Don’t you do that . . . saint thing . . . for him?”
I’m about to say something I know I shouldn’t, but I have to say it because Rhael always knows when I lie. Even as the words are happening, I wish I could have them back, but I am full of honeybees, warm and dizzy and liquid inside. “I’m here when he isn’t because I won’t be seeing him again.”
Rhael frowns, and Isabel starts to shade through till I close my eyes to keep my sister here.
“But . . . he’s coming back from Ireland, isn’t he?”
“I won’t be here. I’ll be in Dyfed.”
“Why?” She’s definitely Isabel now, whether my eyes are open or not.
I hoist myself up and empty my mug. “Nest’s little ones love me. I will be their nurse. Not their pet.”
“What about Owain? Won’t he want his saint back? Won’t he need her back?”
“What about him?” I roll the purple dregs across the pewter mug bottom. My whole belly is sour and churny. “What do you care, anyway? Didn’t you just say that he did all this on purpose so the Normans would take baby Henry and roast him on a spit when Cadwgan puts one foot out of line? And I do mean when. Not if.”
Isabel hardens. All of her. Shoulders. Jaw. Eyes. She holds out an insistent hand for my empty mug. “More wine. Whatever we can’t drink, we’ll give to the pigs.”
I’m dead. That’s what this is.
Only the dead don’t need to piss.
I’m sprawled crosswise over a bed, fully dressed. My mouth is sawdust, and I’ll heave my guts if I move anything, and yet I’ll be worse than dead if I piss a bed belonging to the king of Powys. So I slide off one side. Crunch onto my knees. Reach around, forehead pressed to the side of the pallet, until I find a bowl. For a brief moment I’m glad for the bedcurtains, but I’ve pissed behind my cloak on the decks of merchant ships while a dozen Norse-Irish sailors muttered at my turned back like I was a mystery play. Worthen might as well be a chapel.
Isabel is retching on the floor, hanging her head over the other side of the bed. When she’s done, she curls up on the bare pallet like a dead insect and grinds the heels of her hands into her eyes. I leave the bowlful of piss on the floor and crawl back onto the bed beside her. Because my head. Is throbbing. Like an anvil. And I. Am dying.
If I’m dead, it won’t matter if I sleep.
It’s later when I peel my eyes open to a wool-scratchy tongue and a tiny piercing pain deep behind my forehead. The sun’s in a different place, slanting through the open front door. There’s a flagon of small ale by the bed, and I’m so thirsty I down every drop without taking a breath. Beside me, Isabel winces as she stretches. She doesn’t look nearly as wrung out as I feel. Mayhap this is not the first time she’s had so much wine at once.
“It was foolish of me to make them wash the linens.” Isabel grins at me, sly and mischievous. “That was possibly the worst night’s sleep I’ve ever had. I blame you-know-who. The bastard.”
I’m struggling for words, and the swimmy fog in my head doesn’t help. Servants are setting up the trestle table for breakfast, and Isabel rolls off the bed and pulls me toward them. There’s bread that’s been toasted, and porridge, and lots more small ale.
“How were we not friends before?” Isabel asks cheerfully between bites of porridge. “I should have known you-know-who was wrong about you. He’s wrong about most everything else.”
I smile and gesture at my full mouth as a reason I can’t reply, but there’s no malice to her. It’s like she’s forgotten Aberaeron ever happened. Like we’ve always been arm-link sisters, sharing wine and secrets in the dark. This means I can do one better than rob the house. My new friend is going to develop an overwhelming urge to send me to Dyfed and the little ones with a full rucksack and a guide. On Cadwgan’s coin.
After breakfast, Isabel gives me two of her old gowns. She chatters about color and cut, then calls for a basin of water and pushes me toward the bedcurtains. I’ve got one eye on the door, though. For all Isabel’s bold talk, if Cadwgan shows up here, they’re not going to keep him out.
Behind the bedcurtains, I fumble with the basin and spill water on myself. I’m still a little blurry from the wine. The hall feels muffled in here, like it’s under a blanket of snow. The shuffle of servants sweeping and tidying, the creak of the well windlass, the clatter of wood and crockery. I half expect to push apart the heavy woolen folds and greet Gormlaith and Aoife, to have servants nodding to me because I’m Owain’s wife.
It’s not always enough to know ordinary if you see it. Sometimes you must touch it to believe it’s possible, and Owain’s wife had that chance in Ireland. But this is Worthen, and I’m scheming a way to pull the wool over Isabel’s eyes. I’m looking over both shoulders for Cadwgan. All the shoes and undershifts in the kingdoms of Wales can’t make me something the house of Bleddyn will look at and not through.
Once I hoped Isabel could carve me out a place in this family. She can’t, though. She never could and neither can I, because in truth, there is no place for me here.
Ordinary is waiting for me in Dyfed.
I find Isabel spinning in the dooryard on one of the hall benches. I join her in the birdsong and sunlight, and I snap off a long stem of grass. Somewhere to the south, William and David are playing ball. Not Miv may be taking her first steps, and I have not yet come back.
“I wonder how long till Owain returns,” I muse.
“I hope he never returns. I hope his ship sinks and he dies in terror.” Isabel peers at me sidelong. “It can now, yes? Since you’re not with him?”
I want badly to turn my eyes Heavenward and beg Saint Elen that it not be from Isabel’s lips to God’s ears. Instead I toy with the stem and say, “If I’m in Dyfed looking after Nest’s children, I’ll never be near Owain again. Gerald of Windsor will make very certain of that. It’s a long way from here, though. I’m not sure I know the way. Once Owain’s back, he’ll never let me out of his sight again.”
Isabel jumbles her spinning in her lap. “What if I send one of my swordsmen with you? Give you food for the journey? I can do that. You-know-who can’t stop me.”
An armed escort. That’s even better than I hoped for. “My lady! That’s so kind of you! I can be ready to leave right away.”
“What, now?” Isabel makes a dismissive gesture and untangles her leader ya
rn. “Before you-know-who learns that you’re here under my protection and there’s nothing he can do about it? No, I want him to stew in that a while. Also, don’t call me my lady when he’s around. It’ll irk him sorely to hear you call me Isabel.”
“But Owain will be back soon!” Too panicky. I force my voice calm. “I doubt he’ll go straight to Powys like he was told. He’ll come get me first.”
Isabel smiles, coy and playful. “Don’t you worry. We’ll be sure you’re gone before he lands. Besides, I’m not afraid of Owain. My wolfhound is more clever.”
It’s only been a day. I’d planned to pass a short while here anyway. A little longer won’t hurt, but knowing Nest and the children are waiting makes it hard to nod along.
Beside me, Isabel hums a little tune as she spins. She doesn’t know Owain like I do. She has no idea what Saint Elen means to him, how deep down it goes, and what he’ll do to get her protection back.
THE NEXT DAY IS FAIR, AND ISABEL WANTS TO GO FOR a walk along a deer path. She chatters about Henry and how much she misses him, but I can’t keep from looking over my shoulder every other pace, listening for hooves at the approach.
“Cadwgan must have heard by now,” I say, letting the idea hang between us, but Isabel scoffs and takes my hand and swings it.
“You worry too much. Come, just enjoy the day.”
In one breath she misses her baby. In the next she’s telling me to enjoy the day. Perhaps later she’ll complain about bland stew, like worse things don’t happen to the daughters of fallen kings and slain drovers alike.
The linens are finally dry, and Isabel has the servants make up the bed, so at least we have the prospect of a decent night’s sleep. But I lie awake staring at the curtains and wondering whether Rhys has made it to the coast, whether he’s already sailed with the tide, whether he’s even made it out of Powys without being slain by someone’s warband.
The days linger and crawl. My yarn is a mess. I tap my foot. I go to the privy every other moment, walking slow past the gate and straining my ears for footfalls.
Isabel frowns at me over her neat skeins. “That’s very tiresome, you know. All your fidgeting.”
“Then send me to Dyfed,” I say, and it’s all I can do to ask and not plead.
“It’s hurtful, too. Like you can’t wait to leave.”
I flutter a smile. “Please forgive me. You’ve been most kind.”
“I’ll let you go soon, I promise. I’d have you-know-who truly squirm. Besides, we’re having a nice time together, aren’t we? We’re all but kin, you know.” Isabel smiles like she can’t wait to say that in front of Cadwgan.
There was a time when I thought being close to Isabel would solve everything. If this kind of self-serving excuse for company and showy, false companionship is what proper wives can expect, Margred doesn’t need toys. She needs holy orders.
The house of Bleddyn might never be ordinary. Mayhap it can’t be. What Margred needs is somewhere she’ll always be welcome. Someone to throw the door open and hug her hard, even when everyone else looks through her and past her. She’s always done that much for me. Soon enough I can return that favor.
Tomorrow. First light. I am leaving Worthen even if it’s with nothing but the clothes on my back. This time, I will get myself clear.
AT BREAKFAST, I EAT EVERYTHING IN SIGHT. NEST will lay out a feast in my honor when I reach Dyfed, but I must get there first. Across the table, Isabel tucks into porridge and natters on about Henry and doesn’t notice me sneaking oatcakes into my lap and wrapping them in a stolen washrag. After breakfast, Isabel will corner the steward to discuss the day. It’ll take her a while to find him, though, since he’s usually passed out drunk in some odd place like the hayloft. After the business with the linens and the wine, I can hardly blame him for spending his days not quite sober and well out of her way.
That’s when I’ll go.
I’ll slip my breakfast scavengings into my apron and tell the gateman I’m meeting Isabel for a ramble in the greenwood. He’ll let me pass. I’ll wander down the deer path, and when I’m out of sight, I’ll run till I can’t and then walk till it’s dark. I know to go south and west. I’m rested, and I have small things to eat and a spare gown I can sell or trade.
I can do this.
Isabel rises from the table. “Well, I’m off to find that layabout steward. Would you join me?”
“Try the storeroom. I think I saw him head that way.” Calmly. Smile. “I’m going to sit outside a while. I want to embroider that gown you gave me. I’ll bring out a bench.”
“Good idea. I’ll meet you there lat —” Isabel abruptly falls silent. Her face goes granite.
There in the doorway is Cadwgan ap Bleddyn, leaning on the frame.
I freeze like a sighted hare, but Isabel makes a graceful, ice-cold curtsy as she says, “My lord.” Then she pulls me up from the bench, and I come staggering. Cadwgan’s hangman gaze passes over me slow and heavy.
“May I?” he asks, gesturing to the threshold he has yet to step over.
Isabel narrows her eyes before finally nodding. Cadwgan crosses the hall toward her, but when she moves a pace away in a polite yet deliberate sidestep, he stops at the head of the table.
I should have left days ago. He’ll wait till she’s not looking. Then there’ll be a “mischance.”
Cadwgan clears his throat. He’s not looking at me, though. Only Isabel. “Please tell me you know sending Henry as a hostage was the last thing I wanted to do.”
Isabel folds her arms.
“Well, I hope at least you’ve had a chance to calm yourself. We’re heading to Ceredigion on the morrow, so have your belongings together.”
“There are things I must attend to first,” she tells him coolly. “You could have given me some sort of warning. But I forgot who I stand before. You don’t believe in giving warning, do you?”
Cadwgan sighs. “Sweeting, you are going to have to let this go.”
Rhys appears in the doorway and shuffles. Cadwgan makes the hold gesture, two raised fingers, and he nods.
No. Rhys can’t be back already. Something’s not right.
Isabel turns to me. “You wanted to leave. You shall leave. I’ll have my best swordsman take you wherever you want to go. Are you ready?”
“Oh saints, I most certainly —”
“No,” Cadwgan cuts in. “This girl is not going anywhere.”
Isabel looks ready to blacken his eye. “She’ll go wherever she wants, and you won’t stop her.”
“She can go to hell for all I care,” Cadwgan replies through his teeth, “but the one place she is not going is back to my son.”
I swivel to face him. “I’m not going to Owain, my lord.”
Cadwgan looks at me square for the first time since he walked in. “You — what?”
“I’m not going back to Owain.” I repeat it clear and sure, even as Rhys behind him looks half raging and half bellysick.
“Where are you going, then?”
“She’s going to Dyfed,” Isabel puts in before I can spin out a convincing lie. “To be nurse to Gerald of Windsor’s children.”
Cadwgan was clearly expecting a different answer, for he draws back with a wide-eyed frown that takes him several long moments to master.
I press it, my only advantage. “We’re of one mind, my lord. You’ll never see me again.”
“I’ll take her.” Rhys steps forward. “I’ll see her safe to where she needs to be.”
Cadwgan squints, first at me and then at Rhys. “Do you swear it? You may follow a warband led by my son, but this is your king you speak to.”
“I swear it.”
“My lord, don’t send me with him.” I grip my skirts with both hands. “He won’t bring me to Nest. We’ll go straight to Owain.”
“I take a man at his word,” Cadwgan replies. “Besides, Owain’s still in Ireland. Even my son wouldn’t be so great a fool as to defy me.”
I gape at Rhys. “But you were
going to fetch him!”
“He will,” Cadwgan says, “now that I know where you are, and where you’re going.”
Rhys looks away, and I cough a quiet, bitter laugh at how deeply mistaken I was, thinking I could hide anything from Cadwgan ap Bleddyn.
“Don’t blame this lad,” Cadwgan goes on. “If it makes you feel any better, he tried hard to keep your whereabouts to himself. Hear me now, though. You have my leave to go to Nest. I owe her that much after what Owain did to her, and may you both know peace. But if I ever see you again, I will kill you myself, come what may. Saint Elen might protect my son. I can’t expect to know the will of God Almighty, and Heaven knows it would explain a lot. You’re the one whispering in his ear, though, and you sure as blazes aren’t doing it for his benefit. So it ends now. It ends for good. Am I clear?”
If there was ever a time for Isabel to fly into a hellcat rage, to demand she have her way and shove me out the door behind a swordsman of her choosing, it’s now.
But she’s gone. Isabel de Say has left me here to burn.
I lift my chin. I look Cadwgan in the eye. “Very clear.”
“Right then.” Cadwgan hooks Rhys across the shoulders and pulls him several paces from me, mutters in his ear, then claps his back in a way I’ve seen Owain do a thousand times. It means that Rhys is dismissed and the matter is closed.
I’m trembling. Still clutching the spare gown Isabel gave me that I was going to pretend to embroider. I will walk out of Worthen alive, even after facing down a man who has waited years for a chance like this.
Cadwgan steps away toward the hearth, where Isabel is sulking. He doesn’t wait for me to thank him. He doesn’t care whether I’m grateful. He just wants me gone. Owain would have run me through where I stand.
All at once I wonder how Owain will ever be a king.
I’m carrying a wineskin filled with small ale, and bundled beneath my arm is meat and cheese wrapped in my spare gown. It’s been quiet too long, so I clear my throat and say, “So. Ah. How much further to Dyfed, do you reckon?”
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