Spindle and Dagger - J. Anderson Coats Page 0,63
birdsong and wind-rustle and fresh dewy undergrowth. I’m not fooled, though. Terms or not, chances are good there are still warbands on the prowl who’d love to put their hands on anything worth something to Owain ap Cadwgan.
I’ll ask at steadings till I fumble my way to Dyfed. From there, finding Nest should be as simple as pleading an audience at the first thing with a high, sturdy wall. I’ll beg what I can and steal what I have to. By the time Owain’s in Wales once more, I’ll be in a place he’ll want to think twice and thrice about raiding to get me back.
Besides, he’ll have a kingdom to retake.
I close my eyes and think to pray to Saint Elen, but instead I’m whispering my promise aloud to the birds and sunshine, to the little ones wherever they are.
I’ll come back. I’ll always come back.
ORDINARY LADIES WOULD SIT THEMSELVES ON THE hearth bench when they got home, or ask for a mug of ale, or change into clean clothes, or hug a favorite servant or pet a joyful dog.
Isabel orders the linens stripped off the bed and burned.
She stands before the gathered servants with her boots still muddy from the journey, two steps past Worthen’s threshold and stabbing her finger at them like a firebrand. The servants trade wide-eyed looks. As two of them edge toward the bed, Isabel demands that every last thing Cadwgan might have touched be scrubbed with lye, from the armrests of the big chair at the high table down to the supper spoons. She hollers at the steward when he refuses to burn the linens, and she’s only barely swayed by the argument that it’s the only set in the house.
Worthen is Isabel’s, part of her dower share. Owain explained the Norman custom to me once while telling me he didn’t want his hellcat stepmother’s patch of border dirt anyway. When Cadwgan dies, Worthen will not pass with the rest of his lands to his sons. It will always belong to Isabel. It was her father’s, and now it’s hers and only hers.
“Very well. Fine. But scrub those linens with lye like the rest.” Isabel drags a wrist over her eyes. “I don’t care if they won’t be dry by sundown! I’d rather sleep on the floor! And I want to know if he dares set foot in the courtyard.”
The steward looks pained, but mumbles, “Yes, m’lady,” and departs.
“I’ll burn something of his,” Isabel mutters. “Come.”
She drags me across the hall to a curtained alcove. Servants are carrying away the linens and piling the bedclothes on a rack for airing. Isabel marches to a coffer and swears when she can’t pry the lock. She kicks it and staggers back clutching her toe, cursing like a dockside ganger. Then she slumps on her heels, wiping her eyes, trembling.
That first year, I was never far from vengeance. I thought of the knife nearly every day. I could do it. It wasn’t like I’d never killed a man.
“What else does he love?” I ask. “That’s not locked up?”
Isabel shields her face with her elbow. “Don’t look at me.”
“I’m not.” Seeing Isabel weeping and thwarted should make me smile, but she’s alone here in this place that’s only hers. “I’m asking what Cadwgan loves that you can get to. So you can ruin that instead.”
She snorts. “His warband. His dogs. His sword.”
In Ireland I spent months playacting as Owain’s wife. I wore undergarments and shoes and spun with the daughter of the house and sat at Owain’s right hand and delighted in how ordinary it felt. Before me is Isabel de Say, the wife of Cadwgan ap Bleddyn, who is king of Powys and lord of Ceredigion. Her place secure, for all the good it does her. She is not just any wife, and even her child isn’t safe. There are locked chests in this house that should be hers alone.
It would be no different for any proper wife of Owain ap Cadwgan.
“His wine.” Isabel’s head bobs up. “There was a cask of claret left over from when His Grace King Henry was here. The good wine that costs a fortune. You-know-who says he’s saving it for the next time he has to eat crow before an enemy. It’s hidden in the kitchen.”
I nod. It’ll gush like a bleeding wound and make purple mud in the courtyard.
“We’re going to roll that barrel into the hall.” Isabel sits up straighter and grins. It’s the same smile she aimed