Spindle and Dagger - J. Anderson Coats Page 0,45
in four swallows, thrusts the mug back at Niall, and sighs like he’s being made to sit through mass twice.
Aoife pats my knee and says something. Nest murmurs, “She hopes Niall will be a good companion for your, ah, husband while he’s here.”
I can think of no better company for Owain than a lad who appreciates relics and puts a polish rag to his boots now and then. Hopefully Aoife’s foster brother likes hunting and hawking so Owain can spend his exile running down deer instead of helpless crofters and burning nothing but turf in a late-night fire and not thinking on why he’s here in the first place.
At supper we are presented to our host, the king of Munster and high king of Ireland. Muirchertach Ua Briain is lean like a blade and has the look of a stable groom, but there is no question he is master of this hall.
When Owain kneels before him, Muirchertach grins and says in rusty Welsh, “Cadwgan ap Bleddyn!”
Owain flinches so slightly as he rises that I’m likely the only one who sees it. They do look alike, Owain and his father, and it must be both strange and wondrous to see so much of an old friend in his son. Owain presents the gifts, Nest at his elbow dredging up syllables and trying to look pleasant. I’m behind them, between Rhys and Einion penteulu. They’re both clean-scrubbed and standing to, and even Einion is smiling in a way that doesn’t make me want to slap him raw.
“Welcome!” Muirchertach gestures to an empty trestle opposite the high table.
Owain bows his head and says “Uh vwar vwugh” once more like he means it, but he moves past all of us, intent in that blank-eyed warband way. He throws himself down on the bench and seizes a haunch of mutton and a slab of eel pie as if this were Llyssun or Aberaeron. I look to Nest, but her eyes are on the ground and she’s scurrying after Einion penteulu and Rhys as they make a more measured way toward the table.
Sadb is frowning and Muirchertach looks puzzled, like he missed something. We must make a better showing than this. So I furl my skirts like I once saw Isabel do and walk steady and proper toward the empty place at Owain’s right hand. More than one man watches me cross, and I even catch Rhys staring until he shakes hair over his eyes and studies the table grain.
Owain ap Cadwgan glances me up and down, then nods.
I pile some goose and turnips onto my plate, then add a steaming wedge of that pie. A servant pours me a mug of wine. I sit up straight and savor every flaky, salty mouthful. Whatever this is, it’s definitely better than all right.
I daresay it might be what ordinary is supposed to look like.
We’re given a bed. It’s in a chamber across the yard set aside for guests, and it’s stuffed with fresh straw and made up with a pile of furs and woolens. There’s a thick curtain that shuffs on wooden rings when you draw it.
I must tell Owain what Nest said. It must be now, before he learns of it in some uncomfortable, damaging way, but he’s shucking his fine new clothes hither-thither and growling how Niall should shut up about that pet magpie or he’ll roast the damn thing in butter and eat it in the public of the courtyard.
So I unpin my hair, slide my thumb down each plait one by one, and shake them loose and ripply.
I’ve got Owain’s attention.
Before long he’s spent, and we’re lying in tumbled bedclothes and he’s playing with the ends of my hair while making an idle jest about the rumor of his sudden marriage sending Cadwgan to an early grave. I run my thumb over Owain’s knuckles and spin out how useful it’ll be for Muirchertach to believe him married. He’ll seem steady, kingly even, and he doesn’t need to lie, just not correct anyone and let the language bog do its work. By the time I draw the covers tight around my neck, Owain is repeating the notion as if he himself came up with it, down to using words like kingly.
ON MY FIRST DAY OF EXILE, I AWAKEN TO A BASIN OF fresh water by the bed and Órlaith scratching at the curtain and whispering, “I can help with your hair and dress?”
The hem of my gown has been scraped clean of mud and