Spindle and Dagger - J. Anderson Coats Page 0,14

I slog to the chapel, where Llywelyn penteulu’s body still lies before the high altar.

I don’t have a fire iron. I do have a meat knife.

I draw it warband-style, my thumb pressed to the tang like Owain taught me, but the moment I come within an arm’s length of the body, I freeze.

Even now.

“Goddamn you,” I mutter, and I swallow hard and grip the knife till it burns.

That first year, echoes of it happened right before my eyes, day after day, whenever Llywelyn penteulu entered the room, whenever I so much as heard his voice. I kept to the shadows and thought about knives and imagined this moment a thousand different ways.

It’s been three summers now. Owain believes the playact like it’s the paternoster and has not taken a proper wife. I can move from hearth to kitchen to spindlecraft, smile from my place at Owain’s right hand, and sleep through the night.

I slack my grip, roll the knife-hilt in my hand, twice, thrice. Then I slam the blade into its sheath at my hip and turn away. I wouldn’t be seeing echoes at all had Owain ap Cadwgan not led Llywelyn penteulu and the others to my steading. Had Owain not kicked in my door and let the wolves in behind him.

EPIPHANY FINALLY COMES, AND THE DAY AFTER, WE gather at barely-light in the yard. I’m bound for the hunting lodge at Llyssun. Owain and his warband are headed south toward Dyfed.

This part is always hard. I still get a bellyful of worms whenever Owain leaves on a raid, and I won’t think of the body in the chapel that’ll go unburied till the ground thaws. As the priest gives them a blessing, the lads stomp and shift against the cold, their breath all in ghostly puffs. Among them is Rhys. He should be near a fire with his wound bound up in damp cloth and a mug of stew in his good hand, but instead he stands with the others, bleary-eyed and pale. Not feverish, though. That’s something, even if the bandages are a little grubby and he has politely but insistently refused to let me look at the wound no matter how I ask.

I did catch him in the chapel whispering thanks to Saint Elen. I overheard the word miracle. I went around smiling for days.

Margred comes onto the stoop of the maidens’ quarters, sleep-tousled and wrapped in a nubby cloak that’s too big for her. She holds up the toy mouse and waves its little paw.

I’ll make her a dog next. It’ll be Easter before we know it.

Owain steps out of the hall and into the knot of noblemen at the doorstep. His cousin Madog punches him cheerfully on the shoulder, and Owain nods. Madog leans over to whisper something in Owain’s ear, but Owain steps a pace away.

Nearby there’s a thrash and a scuffle and a throaty yelp. Einion ap Tewdwr has Rhys in a headlock, and Rhys is struggling like a madman to keep Einion’s blade from his throat.

“Hey!” I blurt, and Owain turns just as Einion looses Rhys, who stumbles, clutching his arm, glaring.

“Sorry, lad,” Einion says to Rhys as Owain storms up, Madog trailing him like a curious puppy. “You’re not ready. Another fortnight for certain. Mayhap longer.”

Owain squints at Rhys. “Let’s see it.”

“It’s fine, my lord,” Rhys mutters. “He just took me by surprise, is all.”

“Oh, aye,” Owain drawls, “and Normans are known for giving fair warning before they seize you and run you through. Show me your arm.”

Rhys scowls but peels back the bandage enough to reveal some of the wound. It’s a dull red now, not bright blood-shiny, and the scab is no longer tender, but it’s nowhere near healed. When Owain shakes his head, Rhys insists, “I’m sound! I’ll not be so slow when there’s Normans to kill.”

“Perhaps,” Owain replies mildly, “but it won’t matter, for you’ll be taking Elen to Llyssun.”

Rhys gapes, first at Owain and then at me. The poor boy looks convinced he’ll be my minder for the rest of his natural life while the grown-ups go out a-plundering. I’m delighted, though. It’s several days’ walk to Llyssun. I will ask Rhys how fares the arm. I’ll recommend a salve. I’ll remind him how close to death he came, how wound-sickness takes many healthy men to their graves but not him. He will mutter something and shake hair over his eyes, but he’ll touch his bandaged wound like I’m blessed.

And I will forget for entire