Spindle and Dagger - J. Anderson Coats Page 0,61

grin. “He’s been champing at the bit to come home since he set foot there.”

“Take a meal and collect yourself, then be on board whatever next sails with the tide,” Cadwgan says. “Tell Owain to go directly to Powys. My steward at Llyssun will be expecting him.”

I can’t breathe. Owain’s coming home. It’s not enough time. I’m not ready.

“You don’t want him to present himself before you?” Rhys asks.

“I’m to have no contact with my errant son. According to the English king, it’s a condition of his gracious recognition that what’s mine is actually mine.” When Cadwgan’s voice goes mocking like that, it’s eerie how much he sounds like Owain.

Rhys nods slowly. “We hadn’t heard you’d come to terms with the English king. Only that Madog was struggling to hold Powys and Ceredigion in a way that satisfied him.”

“Madog promised peaceful governance. There’s no kind of peace in either of those places. That kind of peace takes a king, and Madog is not a king.” Cadwgan smiles faintly. “Henry of the English has lost patience with him and agreed to restore to me my lands — as if they’re his to grant — if I cough up a bribe and hand over a hostage and swear to cut ties with Owain.”

“You’re not really, are you?” Rhys looks alarmed.

Cadwgan scoffs. “Lad, my son can be a blowhard wantwit, but he’s my son, and if I cut him off, it won’t be because the English king demands it of me. So Owain is not returning from Ireland because I bid him. He’s coming back because his feckless cousin plundered a kingdom that will one day be his, and taking it from Madog means he will have a birthright once more. For no reason should Owain come to Ceredigion or so much as send a runner to me there till this all dies down.” He lifts his brows. “Is that clear?”

“It is, my lord.”

I grip the nearest wall. Owain will be in Powys soon. I thought to have more time. Earn some coin. Steal some food. Anything that would help me get to Nest and the little ones.

“Is Nest still with him?” Cadwgan growls.

“No. She’s back with her husband.”

“That’s something, at least,” he says with a sigh. “Not that it’ll help me smooth things over, but at least my blowhard wantwit son isn’t making it worse.”

Inside the hall, a girl starts screaming, then there’s the crash of things falling to the floor. I slide behind the corner of the stable, and Rhys fumbles for a sword long since taken off him, but Cadwgan muffles a groan. Isabel de Say appears at the door. Her veil is slipping and her scowl is murderous. She stalks outside like a beast on the hunt, muttering, “Where is he, where’s the son of a — there you are! I’ll kill you with my bare hands, you filthy excuse for a man!”

She flies at Cadwgan, but he catches her wrists and holds them to her sides firmly yet without violence. Her mouth is free, though, and she pours abuse on him in three languages that would impress even the lads of Owain’s warband. If Isabel is suffering, I’m not exactly sorry for it, but I’ve called Cadwgan those names in my head enough times that someone shouting them makes me smile.

“Sweeting, you knew it was coming,” Cadwgan says. “I thought it would be easier this way.”

“Easier?” Isabel struggles free and stomps away several paces. “You’re a bigger bastard than I reckoned if you thought as much. All that silver wasn’t enough. You gave my little Henry as a hostage to the king and sent him away all thief-in-the-night so I couldn’t even say farewell. That’s easier than what?”

I stop smiling. At least she didn’t have to listen to wailing getting fainter, but she also didn’t get a chance to tell him she’d be back.

“Our little Henry,” Cadwgan replies patiently. “A hostage was part of the terms. It’s why we can return to Ceredigion now.”

“You have other sons. Why Henry?”

“I’m married to you. The English set a lot of store by such things. They’d not consider one of my other sons as valuable.” Cadwgan raises an eyebrow. “Besides, why do you think I didn’t object to naming him Henry?”

Isabel hisses.

“No harm will come to him. Henry’s got his nurse and that whipping top he loves. He’s going to the royal court of England, for Christ’s sake. He’s in more danger here than there! And if all goes well, he