Spindle and Dagger - J. Anderson Coats Page 0,56

enough. The bulk of him, the creak of leather armor and the faint whiff of sweat on sweat. It was enough to break me, and I followed him back without a word, hobbling hard because I would not take his arm.

Einion had not made the brutes let me up for my own sake while Owain lay bleeding, but a fighting man should have realized how saving someone’s life binds you together in a way that goes deeper than blood.

Mayhap he did not think. Mayhap he only acted.

The sky is almost pink when we arrive at the Waterford wharves. The graybeard brings Nest and me to a ship, and the three of us board and move to the rear. All that’s left is to wait for the tide.

Around us, the sailors prepare for the voyage. Slowly it occurs to me that this is really happening. We are getting clear. Soon I’ll see the little ones again. They will be safe and whole. There’ll be games of border raids. Whole afternoons to play at ball. Cozy evenings perfect for my mother’s stories. William and David and Not Miv were never supposed to love me, but they do.

This is how you make a place. This and no other way.

We’ve just cast off when there’s a clamor on the wharves and the sailors stop their sail hauling and oar wrangling to shout at the gangers who are flagging them down. After a scuffle with ropes and a scrape and a thud, another passenger climbs aboard, appearing over the side of the ship hand over hand.

Oh, Jesus wept. It’s Rhys.

I pull my hood sharp across my face and watch him sidelong as he scans the deck. He’s come to bring us back. Einion penteulu wasn’t as drunk as Nest thought. Owain must know everything, including the fact that his rucksack has been emptied of valuables and there can be but one culprit.

Nest nudges me and mutters in a gruff boyish voice, “Eyes down.”

The ship takes on that drop-sway feeling that only comes from being on water with nothing below but a few planks of wood and the breath of the saints. The wharf creeps past in slow, maddening handswidths.

Hurry. For God’s sake.

A sailor approaches Rhys and gestures to the back of the ship. Rhys shakes his head and steps around the sailor toward some piled cargo. The sailor shoves him toward the rear, and Rhys staggers, then falls into a fighting crouch and garbles something in bad Norse-Irish about a king’s son and missing girls.

The oars plash beneath us.

Faster. Please.

Two more sailors appear. I will Rhys to stand down. To rethink what he means to do. He’s here at Owain’s bidding, but that doesn’t mean I want to watch this crew beat the stuffing out of him, even if it takes long enough for wind and tide and oars to put some water between the ship and the wharf.

The captain approaches and speaks to Rhys in broken Welsh. “Passengers to the stern.”

“Two girls,” Rhys says impatiently. “Are they on board? If they are, you’ll have to turn around. It’s life and death.”

The captain laughs and gestures to Nest and me and the graybeard. Nest squeezes my hand. Her face is stone. The graybeard frowns at the commotion but makes no move.

Rhys squares up. His hair is close-cropped like Einion penteulu’s now, and without it to hide behind, he is nowhere near the boy who worried over Normans or thought to protest minding me. “Turn around. At the word of a king’s son.”

“The tide obeys no man’s son.” The captain folds thick brown arms. He’s broad like a barrel and missing half an ear. “It’s running now, and I’m for Wales. Passengers to the stern. Or overboard. Take your choice.”

Rhys groans low at the wharf growing smaller against Waterford. He glances at the small rowboat overturned near the mast, then at the sailors keeping a wary eye on it and him. At length he curses and sways toward us, stepping around cargo and falling over ropes.

The graybeard drops a hand to his knife-hilt, but Nest says to Rhys in a calm, cheerful voice, “You’re too late, lad. We’ve slipped loose of the tether by fair means. Go take a seat before this man hurts you badly.” Rhys’s face gets redder by the moment, and Nest goes on, still light and friendly. “Do please have a care how you speak to us. This man may not understand what we’re saying, but he’ll gut you like a fish