Spindle and Dagger - J. Anderson Coats Page 0,65

still smells like milk. He can say Mama now. He has such tiny little feet, and you should see the way he rushes over squealing when he sees me . . .”

Her voice gets quiet and sweet and loses those sharp Norman angles and her hair gets darker and she becomes Rhael. Rhael who once snuggled next to me on our pallet in the steading, where we’d whisper about whether lambs could be taught to count and whose hair was shinier and if there’d be ginger cake for May Eve again this year.

“Owain saw an opportunity.” I won’t think how Nest limped into the courtyard that first day barefoot and in her nightgown. “The rest of it? Madog ap Rhirid invading Powys because he was lured by Gerald’s bounty? All those kinsmen who backed him? That was a gut-punch.”

Rhael snickers and she becomes Isabel again, and I down another fierce swallow of wine because mayhap it’ll bring my sister back, even for a moment.

“My fool husband got those men to help Madog,” Isabel says over the rim of her mug. “It’s not like that came cheap, either.”

I choke on my wine. “It’s true? Cadwgan ap Bleddyn paid his own kinsmen to support Madog’s invasion? But Madog holds Powys now while Cadwgan is holed up on your lands!”

“Yes. But no. Madog held Powys and Ceredigion because he was permitted to. You-know-who let it happen and convinced his kinsmen to keep Madog from making too big a mess of it. Now Madog is a breath from losing both. He promised His Grace the king that there would be peace and law. Instead every vale is crawling with warbands.” Isabel giggles and pokes me with her toe. “Can’t imagine who might be behind such disorder. Can you?”

I take another long, steadying drink. “So Cadwgan allows Owain to return from Ireland. Now that he’s made sure Powys is reeling and helpless, and Owain spoiling to reclaim it after stewing for months in exile. That bastard doesn’t even have to get his hands dirty.”

“My husband may be a fool and a bastard,” Isabel says, tipping her mug, “but he knows well that retaking Powys from the likes of Madog ap Rhirid will be easier by tenscore than it would from Gerald of Windsor or Gilbert fitz Richard de Clare. Madog holding Powys and Ceredigion — and His Grace the king giving his blessing — meant no Norman lord could simply invade.”

I finish my wine in one bitter swallow. Rhys was right, and Owain was right to believe it. Cadwgan has been pulling strings this whole time to make all the puppets dance, and he comes out of it getting everything he wants. His kingdom and province back. His Norman enemies denied a foothold anywhere in his lands. The English king foiled and befuddled.

His son broken to bridle, brought to heel.

“Cadwgan ap Bleddyn had better live forever,” I say quietly, “for none of his schemes will survive him.”

“Can I ask you something?” says Rhael.

I’m lying on my back, my hair loose from its pins and streaming every which way. My half-full mug dangles from my fingers over the edge of the bed. I’ve lost count how many I’ve had. “All right.”

“What are you doing here?”

I roll my head so I’m lying on my ear. Rhael sprawls beside me. She looks nothing like herself, but I’m beyond caring. “I’m here ’cause you invited me.”

“No. No. I mean, what are you doing here when Owain isn’t here? Don’t you do that . . . saint thing . . . for him?”

I’m about to say something I know I shouldn’t, but I have to say it because Rhael always knows when I lie. Even as the words are happening, I wish I could have them back, but I am full of honeybees, warm and dizzy and liquid inside. “I’m here when he isn’t because I won’t be seeing him again.”

Rhael frowns, and Isabel starts to shade through till I close my eyes to keep my sister here.

“But . . . he’s coming back from Ireland, isn’t he?”

“I won’t be here. I’ll be in Dyfed.”

“Why?” She’s definitely Isabel now, whether my eyes are open or not.

I hoist myself up and empty my mug. “Nest’s little ones love me. I will be their nurse. Not their pet.”

“What about Owain? Won’t he want his saint back? Won’t he need her back?”

“What about him?” I roll the purple dregs across the pewter mug bottom. My whole belly is sour and churny. “What do