Spindle and Dagger - J. Anderson Coats Page 0,62
could be back by next summer. That’s hardly any time at all.”
“Ugh, I cannot even stand to look at you!”
“Sweeting, be reas —”
But she’s gone, turned on her heel and stomping toward the stable while wrenching her veil over her ears. I crouch farther around the corner as Isabel moves through the doorway, muttering a low stream of bad words in French. At the hall door, Cadwgan hands Rhys a purse, aims him toward the kitchen, then disappears inside.
The moment Cadwgan is gone, Isabel storms out of the stable, towing a horse by the bridle. She bellows a name, and a burly warbander rises wearily from an upturned bucket. Still cursing, Isabel flings the reins at the warbander and tries to haul herself onto the horse’s back without the mounting block.
“We’re leaving?” the warbander asks. “What about your things, my lady?”
“I have everything I need at Worthen,” Isabel snaps. “Hurry up. Let’s see how that filthy wretch likes someone leaving without the benefit of a farewell.”
I haven’t had a decent meal since Ireland. My last mouthful of travel bread was yesterday night, and my feet haven’t blister-keened this much since fleeing ahead of Madog ap Rhirid’s warband all those months ago. Now that Rhys has passage money, we’ll be on our way to the coast this very day. I’ll be standing before Owain, who I robbed and left saintless, before a fortnight is out.
Isabel is growling away from Cadwgan instead of feasting in the hall at his right hand. If Nest could bring herself to trust me, I must take a chance on Isabel de Say. I step into the yard and call, “My lady, wait!”
A flicker of disgust passes over her face, but it’s fleeting, like she doesn’t even have the will to hate me. “What? What do you want?”
Isabel looks hagridden, cheeks flushed and plaits tatty beneath her hood. She is nowhere near the girl with the jewel-blue eyes and cold hands who dislodged Cadwgan’s grip from my arm at Aberaeron.
“I heard,” I reply quietly. “About Henry. I’m sorry. It was a right bastard thing for Cadwgan to do. You must be wrecked.”
“What do you know of it?”
I cough a bitter laugh. “If you’re looking for a way to get back at him, I’ve got one.”
In an instant she’s attentive, like a dog when you show it meat.
“You’re going to your hunting lodge, are you not? Worthen? Let me come with you as your guest. Once Cadwgan learns of it, he’ll be wroth as ten baited bears, but there’ll be nothing he can do. Not when you’re at Worthen.”
Isabel squints at me. I hold my breath. Sway on my feet.
Then she smiles, hard and catlike. “Yes. He wants you nowhere near me. He’d hate it. So by all means yes. You are most welcome.”
Worthen this time of year will be filling up with new onions and leeks from the garden and big round cheeses and likely some mutton. Isabel can’t watch my every move. I’ll pass a day there. Perhaps two. When she no longer finds it amusing to have me around, I will be rested and healthy. I’ll raid her larder and head straight for Dyfed where Nest and the little ones are waiting.
“May I say farewell?” I gesture at Rhys standing in the shadow of the hall door, poking through a shine of silver in his palm.
Isabel nods absently as she fusses with a bulky parcel that a servant is strapping behind her saddle. As I near, Rhys is miserably dragging a finger through the coins.
“It’s not enough for us both,” he murmurs.
Betimes Rhys is a warbander, lean and fierce and capable. Other times he’s a wide-eyed boy of four and ten. “Cadwgan means for you to go alone. I’m to go to Worthen with Isabel. I’ll be safer there. Away from all those sailors.”
Rhys shudders. He glances at Isabel and her burly warbander. He bites his lip.
“Saint Elen looks to Owain,” I go on softly. “Why else would Isabel of all people invite me into her home?”
“Very well.” Rhys closes a fist around the silver and tight-wraps it into the purse. “Please be careful. Owain can’t lose you.”
I nod. Rhys hovers a hand to clap me on the back warband-style, but ducks his head and follows the steward who’s been standing by. The steward speaks of ale and bread as he leads Rhys inside.
Isabel is waiting by the gate, glancing impatiently at the hall door every other moment. We’re soon into a greenwood full of