Spindle and Dagger - J. Anderson Coats Page 0,44

this gown.

It’s better than all right.

Órlaith returns with a basin of fresh water and Nest disappears behind the curtain. Then the girl takes my hand and pulls me toward the hall. Where the other wives will be gathered, and I don’t have a word in Irish.

“I would wait for my cousin,” I tell Órlaith, but she’s having none of it as she leads me cheerfully toward the hall door. Perhaps she doesn’t understand me. She’s clearly excited, just like Margred gets when something new is happening. Digging in my heels like a mule would make me look unfriendly, and we must make a good impression since things got bloody on that Waterford wharf. All of us, especially the newly minted wife of Owain ap Cadwgan.

Near the hearth, two women sit on a bench with spindles paused in their laps. They have Nest’s years and round, well-fed faces. Órlaith says something to them lordly and important, her chest puffed like a warhorse on parade. I catch Owain’s name. The girl bows her head to the dark-haired woman at the end of the bench, then turns to me and says, “My lord’s daughter. This is Aoife.”

I should have insisted on waiting for Nest. She’s a king’s daughter, too. She’d know what to do — sit down with them? Curtsy? Introduce herself? She would say this woman’s name right the first time, Eee-fa, and not stumble over the familiarity of it, calling a highborn lady she just met by her given name.

But Aoife rises and nods politely, then puts her spinning basket on the floor and moves enough to make a place for me to sit. Her companion chatters at me in Irish like I’m a saint who just appeared in a wisp of pink smoke, her spindle forgotten across her knees. Órlaith tries to make sense of their questions in her bits and pieces of Welsh, so I’m fairly sure that Aoife and her friend are wondering where we came from and how long we’ll be staying and whether Einion penteulu has a wife — ha! — and not to mind the cat because he loves not knowing his place and how it would please them greatly if I’d spin with them.

This was Isabel once. She’d have stood before the likes of Gwerful and Annes, smiling bravely, not sure where to sit. Not sure what to say.

Aoife’s friend is called Gormlaith. I must repeat it three times before I get it right: Gor-em-lee. She doesn’t seem to mind, though. I take the spindle she offers and try to answer their questions. I’m fairly sure Órlaith makes things up when she cannot understand my answers. They keep smiling, though. Big and open, as if they’re truly glad I’m here.

Soon, Órlaith bobs her head to Aoife and says to me, “I bring her.” She bounces out the rear door, and it takes me a moment to realize she’s checking on Nest in the bathing shed. I brace for the silence to be strained, but Aoife merely offers her basket of wool and gestures for me to take a handful. Gormlaith nudges me playfully and holds out a skein for me to admire. The cat climbs into her sewing basket, and Aoife rubs his ears. We run our spindles down our legs with the same practiced motion, and I smile at each of them in turn, like a proper wife might.

I don’t see Owain till just before supper, when he trudges into the hall in the company of a cheerful young man who has years enough to be in a warband but clearly sees little of the practice yard. Owain is wearing a clean tunic with his hair damp and curly to his collarbones, but he’s got a stiff, pained look about him, the look he wore at his father’s wedding.

“Aoife says that lad is Niall, her foster brother,” Nest whispers. “Apparently he loves visitors. Something about needing attention.”

Owain hopefully mimics drinking, thumb to mouth and smallest finger jostling, but Niall is too excited to notice. He’s already across the hall and beckoning Owain toward a group of well-dressed young men with nice posture gathered who look like they spend a lot of time indoors. Owain fights a scowl, but at length he sighs and joins Niall’s friends. He’s all charm as he greets them, but he fidgets with the elaborate Irish brooch pin at his shoulder like it’s a millstone. When Niall finally does put a mug in his hands, Owain drinks the lot