Spindle and Dagger - J. Anderson Coats Page 0,15
moments that the whole thing is merely a playact.
“I’d strongly recommend shutting your mouth and having a care what you say to me next,” Owain says to Rhys in a steel-edge voice, “while you recall that the speed of your blade matters to more necks than just your own. I will not put a single man of my teulu at risk for the sake of one little pisser’s pride.”
Rhys flinches.
“Besides, I know you’d not want me to think that you object to seeing to Elen’s safety like it’s some kind of chore,” Owain goes on, and Rhys squirms and studies his feet. “So off you go to Llyssun and let your arm heal. And don’t worry. There’ll be plenty of Normans for you to kill.” He grins. “You have my word on that.”
“Which brings us to the question of your penteulu.” Madog claps Owain’s shoulder again and smiles.
Margred’s father holds a fort near Llyssun. Once Madog has been made penteulu, he’s sure to let her come stay with me a while. We’ll stoke a fire till it’s very late. There’ll be cider and giggling, and we’ll play all the fortune-telling games we know.
Owain does not look at his cousin as he pushes Madog’s hand off his shoulder with two fingers. “There’s but one choice. It’ll be Einion ap Tewdwr.”
The lads raise a cheer, muss Einion’s hair, shove him gleefully. Einion struggles for words, then remembers himself and kneels in the mud before Owain while muttering a jumble of gratitude and promises. Owain hauls him up by the forearm and cuffs him on the head, grinning.
“No,” I whisper, because Einion ap Tewdwr has some unpleasant notions about saints and miracles and no sisters of noble birth who play at ball, and now he’s at Owain’s right hand.
“What the hell, Owain ap Cadwgan?” Madog growls.
“I’ll tell you what the hell. While you were over there telling me why you should be penteulu, Einion was over here behaving like one.”
“What has that to do with anything? I’m your first cousin! Our fathers were brothers!” Madog’s hand quivers near his blade-hilt.
Owain makes a show of shrugging, and an uncomfortable silence falls over the yard. The lads have frozen mid-revel, and Einion stands to like a thief caught with four purses. In the doorway of the maidens’ quarters, Margred looks ready to rush over and hug her brother fiercely and glare down anyone who’d say such things to him.
At length Madog asks, “You’re really going to pass me over? Here? In the king’s dooryard? In front of your warband?”
“I am.”
Einion. Einion will be penteulu. Einion ap Tewdwr, who killed them both and seized all the beasts.
“And now that it’s settled, we must be off.” Owain nods at the gate. “Those goods won’t plunder themselves, you know. Rhys, you’ve your orders. Einion, let’s go.”
Madog closes his mouth and squares up. “You’re a bastard whoreson, Owain ap Cadwgan, and by God, I will end you.”
Owain merely smiles and snaps off a taunting little wave, and at Einion’s gesture the lads fall into their columns and march away, heading south. On his way past me, Owain falls out of line, slides his hands under my cloak, and pulls me close for a kiss. He glances one more time at Madog, now fully gripping his blade handle, grins, then glides after the lads.
I watch them till they’re gone. Einion ap Tewdwr, of all men. Einion penteulu now.
It’s not unheard of to name a penteulu who isn’t a kinsman, but doing it when one stands fighting fit before you is meant to land and land hard.
“How’s the wound?” I ask Rhys quietly, and I wait for him to touch the bandages.
“We should go,” Rhys mutters, and nods at the gate in the same motion he shakes hair over his eyes. His face is still red, though whether that’s from Einion’s arm crushing his windpipe or being relegated as my minder I can’t be sure.
On our way out, we pass Madog ap Rhirid muttering very black things to himself in the shadow of the wall. Any other time I wouldn’t give two figs for his foul mood, but if I could change Owain’s mind, I would. I thought to see Margred again at Easter, but now that she’s the sister of a man Owain publicly snubbed instead of the sister of Owain’s penteulu, it might be longer still.
RHYS SPENDS THE FIRST DAY OF THE TRIP CURSING in a low mutter and plowing a pace ahead just to make sure I know