Spindle and Dagger - J. Anderson Coats Page 0,12
toes and sighing mightily in my direction for winding them up before they have to sit for lessons. I assure the cousins I won’t do anything fun without them, then promise to come by the maidens’ quarters before supper.
Now I’m lurking in a dim corner of the hall, idly toying with my spindle while Owain and the lads are gathering at the door. They’re going hunting, and they’re daring one another not to wear undergarments, laughing and shoving like drunken halfwits.
The wives and sisters and mothers from the feast have drawn the hall benches near the hearth, and now they’re chattering over their spinning and sewing in the gentle orange light. Isabel sits among them, giggling because of a knot in her yarn.
Rhael and I always talked about how it would be. We’d marry brothers two summers apart, just like us, and we’d have steadings across the vale and be in and out of each other’s kitchens all the time.
Owain slaps Einion ap Tewdwr upside the head, and the lads cackle and mock him. I tease out a length of leader yarn, there in the corner by myself with my secondhand spindle.
Rhael and I each wanted two children, a son and a daughter, and they’d play together all day while we cooked and hauled and spun and laughed. Our husbands would come home from the high pastures, and we’d sing ballads and tell stories while the sun sank over the hills.
A shadow slants across my legs. Owain stands over me, cloak aswirl at his shoulders. “You all right, sweeting?”
I nod and show him the twist of thread around the spindle shaft.
“Aw, you don’t want to sit on the floor all alone.” He gestures cheerfully over his shoulder at the wives clustered near the hearth. “You were looking forward to meeting my stepmother, weren’t you?”
I touch my arm where Cadwgan seized me, where Isabel slid her cool fingers beneath his grip and pulled him clear. “My lord . . .”
“What?” Owain’s smile drops abruptly. “Do you not want to pass the time with her?”
No. I don’t. Not now.
Of course I can’t say that, so I go limp and let Owain happily steer me across the hall like a sheepdog at the whistle. He pulls me to a halt at one end of their fortress of benches, nods graciously to Isabel, and drawls, “Mama. A pleasure, as always.”
Isabel swats him playfully. “You wretch. Your mama clearly didn’t take a switch to you enough.”
“Hmm. No wonder you and my father get along so well.” Owain nudges me forward and makes a show of kissing my cheek. “You remember Elen. She needs some company to spin with.”
We may not be outsiders together, Isabel and I, but I can make a better showing. Especially here, among the wives. If she’s decided we’ll not be friends, at the very least I must keep her from becoming an enemy.
But while I flail for something to say — anything — that doesn’t sound foolish or false, Isabel’s impish smile goes bland and cold. “She can’t sit here. You know what your father would say.”
Oh saints. We would have been natural allies, but the only voice in her ear for two years has been Cadwgan’s. Little wonder Isabel and I have never met properly.
“Whatever my father tries to tell you about Elen is unkind, unwarranted, and profoundly untrue,” Owain says, “especially for a man who thinks as highly of the saints as he does. Besides, we both know he’s not happy if he’s sparing the rod.”
Isabel smirks and rolls her eyes good-naturedly.
“You, on the other hand, know how to hold out a proper welcome to your hearth.” Owain bows his head again, and Isabel shrugs, coy and demure, but she can’t quite hide her triumphant smile. “What’ll people think if they see Elen sitting in the dust all alone? She is a guest in your hall, after all. She is my guest in your hall.”
Isabel looks pained, but she sighs and points to an empty place at the end of the bench. I make no move. The wives busy themselves sewing or spinning, but they’re watching us sidelong. Owain’s attention is mostly over his shoulder near the door, where the lads are jostling and passing a flask and snickering. Only when he nudges me again do I perch on the very edge of the bench. It bites a sharp line into my backside. Once I’m seated, Owain grins, kisses me again, then leaves without a backward glance. He rejoins