Spindle and Dagger - J. Anderson Coats Page 0,74
Owain curses aloud and snaps it in half.
“First pull, eh?” Einion penteulu almost smiles. “Bad luck.”
“Sorry,” Owain mutters into my hair, and then he’s up and across the clearing.
When he’s gone, Einion kneels and opens his hand. There are no long sticks. Only short ones. In the time it takes me to work out what it means, he’s scattered the lots and risen.
Both of us watch Owain disappear into the greenwood. Einion ap Tewdwr has no intention of leaving me alone with Owain any longer than he must. He won’t just let me walk out of here, though. If I run, plan or not, he won’t bring me back this time. He’ll tell Owain it was wolves. Or any of the dozens of men who would smile to see him dead.
Chaos will keep Einion penteulu occupied as well.
I’m on my feet. Trying to make him look at me. “You can’t think going after Cadwgan is a good idea.”
Einion snorts. “First you’re telling a king’s son what he wants. Now you’re telling the penteulu of a warband what he thinks.”
“You have to put a stop to it! However you can!”
His reply is to move away toward the tree line with a cocksure swagger, and by Christ I will find Owain right bleeding now and tell him that Saint Elen would have him dismiss Einion penteulu in the most public and humiliating way possible.
But Einion ap Tewdwr is capable and loyal and keeps his head when everything falls to hell. He’s the man who’ll give Owain good counsel long after Saint Elen and I have gone. Einion will look to Owain even if Saint Elen does not. Turning Owain against his penteulu will put him in harm’s way.
Summer twilight seems to last forever, and I’m still too trembly to even try to sleep, but I’m exhausted enough to lie down. The next moment, there’s a rustling of movement at my back and a light drape of cloth over me, and it’s night-black and I’m lying near what’s left of the fire. Someone’s just lain down behind me and I flinch, hard, because I’m not as sure of these lads anymore.
“Shh, it’s only me.” Owain’s whisper tickles my ear as he settles in and slides an arm across my belly. I shift away, but he holds tighter. “What’s wrong?”
“I just . . . I’m tired. Please let me sleep.”
“But I want to be close to you.” He pauses. “All right?”
All right. He held out a hand from the curtained bed, and four-and-ten-year-old me was anything but all right. She was trembling too hard to move. Hands clenched, guts writhing, frozen in the shadows. He let me cry till I was done. Then he poured a mug of wine and handed it to me without a word. I didn’t drink it — too bitter — but having something to hold kept me from falling apart completely. Then he started telling me about his favorite wolfhound that had a litter of pups and one of them was red, just like a dog he had as a boy. I held the mug with both hands and breathed. Then he went on about some kind of game that he and the lads played that involved a ball and brawling and mud. His voice was calm, and he made no move toward me. At some point I said all right, and by morning I was curled under his arm and I was not nearly as afraid.
The spare gown Isabel gave me is under my head. My shoulder digs into the dirt. Owain’s arm over me is heavy but unmoving. I made him believe, but every last thing he’s done has been his own choice. I can’t let him suspect I’m counting the days again, only this time I’m waiting for him to make one more bad decision. The one that’ll let me slip away forever.
Somehow I will have to go back to sleep. Somehow, with Owain lying beside me. With Nest and the little ones so close, it almost feels like I’m there already. So I pray to Saint Elen with a new prayer, one she will have to stop and listen to, one that will not glide past her ears with the rhythm of a thousand litanies.
Thank you for everything you’ve done for me.
Thank you for understanding.
I will steer him away from evil for as long as I’m able. When I’m gone, he’s entirely in your hands to do with as you see fit.
THE LADS MARCH BURNING.