Spindle and Dagger - J. Anderson Coats Page 0,33
again as if this is Madog’s fault alone. Neither of us sleeps.
Then we come across a fort that’s untouched but already half-abandoned. As people stream out, hauling whatever they can carry, the steward meets us in the courtyard and tells Owain that none of Cadwgan’s allies have so much as lifted a finger against Madog’s warband, and Owain’s mouth falls open.
“None of them? They’re our kinsmen! They’ve sworn their swords to us!”
The steward nods sadly. “You should be grateful none are leading a warband against you. Madog ap Rhirid has had no trouble finding men to join him who have an ax to grind.”
“Son of a bastard . . .”
“The English king is making it very worth their while, too,” the steward says. “He’s promised Powys to whoever can take it from your father, be he Welsh or Norman.”
Owain grunts. “Like it’s his to promise.”
“And”— the steward squints at the horizon — “Gerald of Windsor has put a price on your head. The word is Madog ap Rhirid is going around saying it’s as good as spent.”
“How much?”
“Ten silver pennies to the man who brings him your head. Fifty for you still alive.”
Owain mimics frigging off and cackles insolently. I turn my eyes Heavenward even as I want to slap him hard, because that kind of carrot’s going to drive a lot of donkeys.
“God Almighty, I hope he gets close enough to try.” Owain glances around the emptying courtyard. “Any of my warband here?”
The steward shakes his head. “Fighting men are gathering at the fort by the river. Where your lord father is, and where you ought to go right away.”
Owain surveys the sky, frowning. He holds nothing that’s his alone. Powys and everything in it belongs to his father. The province of Ceredigion, too. Most of the time he’s welcome at every fort in the kingdom, but right now, turning up anywhere but where Cadwgan is will have the look of treason. Like he’s joining Madog and the English king.
“Your cousin and his lot are only two valleys down. Stay here and you face him alone.” The steward shoulders a rucksack and pulls a burning stave out of a massive bonfire raging in the center of the yard. “Give me a hand?”
Two valleys down. I crane my neck for curls of black smoke rising between low-slung hills, and sure enough, they’re clawing their way skyward, and this time I know them for what they are. Owain marks them, too. He mutters something vulgar, then nods. He and the steward take up firebrands and run them along the edges of lean-tos and piles of straw. They toss them into stables and into the hall. Other men join them, and soon the whole fort is ablaze.
I move outside the gate and pull up my hood. Nothing will remain for Madog to seize or plunder, but there’ll also not be a hot meal or anything resembling a bed. Owain appears out of the smoke, coughing into his sleeve, followed by the steward and the last few men from the fort. Once outside, they scatter in different directions, bound for the hills to stand over their families as Madog’s warband moves in.
Everything is not in hand. If it were, we’d be at Llyssun. Cozy fire. A half-decent privy. Margred would be there, too, making up stories about her toy mouse. Owain and Einion penteulu would be pleasantly drunk and playing flinches, flicking lit twigs at each other and punching whoever moves. The lads would be feeding the wolfhounds cheese to make them fart, wagering on which dog’s wind will be the loudest. Rhys would be lifting his bucket and touching that scar.
I keep pace with Owain as we head northward. Even when the fort’s burning shell is out of sight, I can still smell smoke.
“FOULED UP. ALL OF IT.”
Owain speaks to his feet caked with mud and bare legs covered with scratches, to the ground sliding beneath him at a pace I struggle to match. It’s just him and me. No one to parade around full of bravado. His voice is quiet now, like we’re in some church nave that begs for a measure of stillness.
“I thought Gerald of Windsor would come himself. Steel flashing. Warhorses snorting. I was bloody well counting on it. But why under Christ the English king has made it his concern . . .”
I almost remind Owain how badly that king wants a Norman lord holding Cadwgan’s realm, but that will only remind him of his father, and