Spindle and Dagger - J. Anderson Coats Page 0,81

of this fade, Owain may come to understand.

“Which way to Caeriw?” I ask, and when Rhys gestures, I fall into step behind him, but he drops back so we walk at elbows.

It’s been quiet for a while when Rhys says, “I liked knowing you were around. Something about having a girl nearby . . . it’s nice. I’m going to miss you.”

There’s a sweetness in it, an innocence, that makes me think right away of Margred. How she was all the time making promises that she had no idea would cost her someday.

“He’s coming, isn’t he?” I ask quietly. “You may not be here to kill me, but you’ll have led Owain straight here.”

Rhys scoffs. “Do you really think I can’t travel light enough to cover my trail?”

“Owain can’t let me reach Nest. That would mean Gerald of Windsor gets the better of him. It means Gerald wins this little pissing contest of theirs, and Owain ap Cadwgan will cut my throat himself before he’ll let that happen.”

“He’s not coming. Owain doesn’t even know I’m here.”

“You — left the warband?” I swivel to face him. “You just walked away?”

“For this? Yes.” There’s no stumble in his voice. No worry or doubt. “Einion sent me to mind the perimeter, but I heard everything. He kept saying you deserved to die, but Owain would regret it if his blade did the work. Owain was having none of it, though. He kept swearing he’d . . .” Rhys clears his throat uncomfortably. “I’ll go back once you’re safely arrived.”

“Owain will be furious,” I reply faintly. “Einion penteulu, too.”

Rhys nods. He starts to speak, then shrugs.

It’s midafternoon when we step out of the greenwood and onto a well-kept dirt road that winds toward a timber castle tucked into the bend of a river. There’s a cheerful busyness about this place — children at play, geese in clusters, carts rumbling — and the height of that wall is reassuring. I step onto the path, but I haven’t gone far when I realize Rhys isn’t beside me.

He’s back at the tree line. One hand up to shade his eyes, watching. Now I know for sure this is Caeriw. There’s no way a man of Owain’s teulu would willingly go near anything belonging to Gerald of Windsor. I retrace my steps toward Rhys and toss my cudgel as I go.

He backs away. “I won’t take a penny, so don’t —”

I throw my arms around Rhys and hug him fierce and sure and long, like I should have hugged Rhael instead of aiming that fire iron at the clatter in the dooryard. Then I clap him on the back warband-style and head boldly toward what I hope is a welcome.

THEY’RE BUTCHERS. THEY’RE THE SCUM OF ENGLAND who’ve come here, to the kingdoms of Wales, because they take joy in killing, and here they can be as brutal as they want.

Now I’m walking toward a handful of them, big Normans in coats of mail with their two-handed broadswords, who stand outside the soaring wooden gate between me and Nest and the little ones.

They could be the same men who killed Llywelyn penteulu all those months ago in the greenwood of Powys.

They’ll turn me away. They’ll see some tattery Welsh girl who asks to speak with the lady of the house — the wife of the castellan, the daughter of a king — and they’ll laugh in my face. But I’m not leaving till I speak to Nest. If need be, I will scream her name outside this gate till she comes out and hugs me.

Or bids me gone.

There are four gatemen, and I approach the one who looks the sort of man who’d sneak sweets to his grandchildren. One who might forgive my haphazard French. “Ah. Good day to you. I am come to see Nest. She is here?”

The gatemen trade looks. I go cold all over. A beardless one is shoved toward the castle, and he goes at a run, dodging carts and water troughs. The grandda grins big enough to split his face and gestures for me to come inside. Into this Norman castle that could very well be held by that blackguard Gilbert fitz Richard de Clare for all that I understand what the gatemen are saying.

But Rhys brought me here. He scouted it. I follow the barrel-shaped grandda inside.

Nest stands in the doorway of what must be the hall, the young gateman at her side pointing toward me. She’s holding the baby on her hip,