Spindle and Dagger - J. Anderson Coats Page 0,53

you’re not with me.”

I nod. I let her slip away toward the maidens’ quarters believing it to be true.

IT’S LATE. THE SLEEPING CHAMBER IS STILL AND dark. I’m alone in bed. If I peek through the curtain, I can see the faint glow beneath the door that leads to the yard. Owain and the lads are still at their fire, where they’ve been all evening and long into the night. It’ll be Saint John’s Day soon, and that means Cormac has escapades from last year to top. Gormlaith has let exactly what those might be sink into the language bog, and Aoife went white to the ears when I even mentioned the Feast of the Baptist.

There’s a faint burst of laughter. I throw the covers back, pull on the bedrobe Aoife gave me, and slide my feet into my shoes. They feel cold and gritty without hose as I tiptoe to the door and look out. Near the palisade wall, Cormac and Owain are holding court, lit orange by firelight, passing wineskins and smaller vessels of the strong stuff that makes them particularly ugly.

Sadb pulled me aside before supper to tell me Órlaith wouldn’t be plaiting my hair or bringing water or even setting foot in the sleeping chamber anymore. The child is frightened, Sadb said. She comes from a decent family. A king’s son should know to keep better company.

It could be months before Cadwgan sends for Owain. Muirchertach Ua Briain may be an ally and a friend, but he’s not a saint or a fool.

The lads are comparing spoils as I edge near. Cormac has a girl’s undershift smudged with grass stains. Owain has a long hank of blue-black hair bound with a leather strip. Einion penteulu has what I hope is a pig’s ear. Rhys notices me first. He nudges Owain with the hinged lid of a jewelry box he’s holding, and when Owain spots me he grins in a slow, lazy way. He’s the kind of drunk that only comes from settling into a flagon in midafternoon.

“Sweeting, it’s cold. Go inside.”

“I will, but . . . when are you coming to bed?”

Cormac says something about fillies and riding, and the Irish lads all snicker. For once I’m glad I understand little of what’s said to me, especially when it’s said quickly. Owain smirks at them and makes a helpless, apologetic gesture, then rises and pulls me a pace away.

“What is it?” he asks in a low voice, clear and steady, and all at once I wonder if I was wrong about him being drunk.

“I — I just wondered where you were.”

“Well, now you know. So go back inside.” He glances at the lads, who watch us, slumped and giggle-drunk, like we’re a bear-baiting. Or a hanging.

“I just . . .”

“She just wants to know where you are,” Einion penteulu simpers. “At all times. Like a wife might.”

Owain laughs aloud. I try to swallow the choke in my throat, but I cannot. I can’t even look at him.

Einion shakes his head, slow and disgusted. “I told you this would happen if you didn’t kill that marriage lie outright. Next thing you know, she’ll whisper in your ear that the likes of us are making you grieve our host like your father warned you against. She’ll pull you onto her lap like a good little dog and wind up the leash.”

“It was a misspeaking, not a lie.” Owain lifts his brows. “Right, sweeting?”

I swipe at tears. That misspeaking is the one thing that might make Owain behave himself here. That could repair what’s already been damaged. I stare at my feet and say nothing.

Einion penteulu makes a lordly told you so gesture into the silence.

“Jesus wept.” Owain presses his hands to his forehead. “So that’s what this is. You and everyone else in this whole place would have me dance like a trained bear. The high king, because I’m to be my father’s son. His wife, because apparently any sort of amusement in her household is ruinous. And you, because of one misplaced word from months ago. By Christ, I seem to remember being promised trickery that could only help me.”

I straighten. “It is —”

“It is not!” Owain cuts in. “It’s humiliating, being here. Sitting at another man’s table. Eating his meat. Sleeping in a bed that’s not mine, beneath a roof that’ll never be mine. Nothing helps with that. I hope you’re getting something out of your little ploy, sweeting, for I’m sure as hell not.”

“It might