Spindle and Dagger - J. Anderson Coats Page 0,35

David across her lap doing that staring slow blink. At her side, Not Miv piles scraps of wood and bats them over. All of them are grubby, and Nest’s cheeks are hollow, but none of them look harmed in a way fleeing a vengeful army wouldn’t cause.

Einion penteulu looked to them. Pulled them clear.

“Then there was you,” William rattles on, towing me toward his family like a small, determined cart horse, “and you picked him up just like Alice used to. You told stories, too.” With his free hand, William shifts his cloak enough to show my ball dangling from a length of twine tied around his waist. “I hid it from him. The warbander that brought us here. If I kept it safe, I knew you’d come back. And you did!”

None of them burned. I blink away tears and squeeze William’s hand. “Good lad.”

“Now that you’re back, David will be better. We can play ball again. You, me, David, and Mama. Angharad can watch. She’d just chew on the ball if we let her play.”

I’d hug William hard if Nest weren’t here. Instead I clap his back warband-style, then kneel and pet David’s hair. It’s dark like Miv’s was, smooth and silky.

“Hey, duckling,” I say to him cheerfully, like I’d just stepped out to use the privy. “Are you hungry? I wager you’re hungry. Would you like some oatcakes and honey?”

David turns at the sound of my voice and says, “Alice.” He rolls over in his mother’s arms and reaches for me. Nest lets him go, then tries to hide wiping her eyes. David clings to my shoulder, and I sway toward the trestle board with William tagging puppylike at my elbow. The honey isn’t on the table or any of the shelves, so I ask the cook where it is.

“There’s but a whisper left, pet,” he says, “and it’s not for you.”

I draw back, stung. David on my shoulder snuffles. William sighs like he’s heard this before.

“I don’t want it for me.” I hoist David higher. “It’s for them.”

“Not for them, either. Gonna glaze the last of the venison.”

“Honey,” whispers David. “Honey Alice please.”

I settle David on a bench next to William, then square up like a bull. “Use blackcurrant. It makes a better glaze anyway. Or perhaps you’d like to explain to Owain ap Cadwgan, who’s just arrived from a se’ennight in the field, why I can’t have that honey.”

The cook looks uneasy, but he fetches the pot off some hidden shelf. I scrape the insides bare and slather a gooey pile of honey on two thick oatcakes. David presses his shoulder against his brother’s and does not take his eyes from the door. I want to tell them both not to be afraid, but instead I stand over them while they eat every crumb and lick their fingers twice.

I KNOW IT’S GOING TO BE BAD. IT’S SUPPER BEFORE I find out how bad.

Cadwgan ap Bleddyn appears in the hall doorway with Nest on his arm, polite and formal, like she’s his daughter. She’s wearing a proper gown, but it’s too big through the shoulders and she’s rolled the cuffs over her wrists. Her plaits are sagging like pitiful cow pats, like she fixed them herself, and she’s cringing away from Cadwgan the smallest bit as she stares hard at the floor.

Owain is sitting in the king’s chair at the high table, but as soon as his father appears, he shifts to the heir apparent’s place in a slow, offhand way, like he was just keeping the seat warm. Cadwgan takes his rightful position and puts Nest at his left. He runs a slow, disdainful look over Owain, then turns to me and says, “Pour.” Or rather, he says it to the wall behind my head.

I pour wine for men all the time, but precious few will speak to me like that. Not twice, anyway. Owain’s eyes narrow, but before he can do something foolhardy, I pick up the flagon and move toward the table. At least one of us must keep this from going from bad to worse.

“Well, Da,” Owain says lightly into the stiff silence, “you said you wanted a war.”

“Not with my nephew,” Cadwgan growls, “and definitely not with any of my onetime allies. To say nothing for the English king! But no. You had to have your precious vengeance.”

“I brought you leverage”— Owain’s color is rising — “against the very bastard whoreson we all know must fall if what’s ours is to stay