I move outside the gate and pull up my hood. Nothing will remain for Madog to seize or plunder, but there’ll also not be a hot meal or anything resembling a bed. Owain appears out of the smoke, coughing into his sleeve, followed by the steward and the last few men from the fort. Once outside, they scatter in different directions, bound for the hills to stand over their families as Madog’s warband moves in.
Everything is not in hand. If it were, we’d be at Llyssun. Cozy fire. A half-decent privy. Margred would be there, too, making up stories about her toy mouse. Owain and Einion penteulu would be pleasantly drunk and playing flinches, flicking lit twigs at each other and punching whoever moves. The lads would be feeding the wolfhounds cheese to make them fart, wagering on which dog’s wind will be the loudest. Rhys would be lifting his bucket and touching that scar.
I keep pace with Owain as we head northward. Even when the fort’s burning shell is out of sight, I can still smell smoke.
“FOULED UP. ALL OF IT.”
Owain speaks to his feet caked with mud and bare legs covered with scratches, to the ground sliding beneath him at a pace I struggle to match. It’s just him and me. No one to parade around full of bravado. His voice is quiet now, like we’re in some church nave that begs for a measure of stillness.
“I thought Gerald of Windsor would come himself. Steel flashing. Warhorses snorting. I was bloody well counting on it. But why under Christ the English king has made it his concern . . .”
I almost remind Owain how badly that king wants a Norman lord holding Cadwgan’s realm, but that will only remind him of his father, and I’ve no wish to interrupt what might be the closest thing to an apology Owain ap Cadwgan is likely to make.
“Nest is important to him?” I offer instead, and I slant it like a question so Owain will not bristle overmuch.
He does, a little, but then he sighs. “Mayhap. It must be years since the English king even saw her, though. It’s been an age since their son was sent out to fosterage and she was wed to Gerald of Windsor. It makes no sense! Gerald’s difficulties should have barely made the king look up from his breakfast.”
To Owain ap Cadwgan, this has only ever had to do with Gerald of Windsor. To Henry, king of the English, it also has to do with Nest. And Cadwgan’s kingdom.
Cadwgan’s fealty as well.
“I just . . .” Owain looks away. “I had it all worked out. It was going to be better than any war my father planned. It was going to gut Dyfed of its strongest defender and lay it bare to invasion. We could have seized whole districts. Mayhap the entire province! That, sweeting, should have been my final vengeance on Gerald of bloody Windsor. After having to imagine what sport I was making of his wife and what harm I might visit on his children, that he would live long enough to know that his ill-gotten lands were now occupied by the house of Bleddyn, before I wiped God’s green earth clean of him.”
I nod. I slip my hand in his.
“Times like this,” Owain says quietly, “I wish I had a saint’s counsel as well as her protection.”
Times like this I’m glad he doesn’t. Times like this I thank every saint that my playact has no such promise. It’s hard enough to keep from saying aloud what both of us are thinking.
“Now . . . God rot it, I’ll have to go to him. The smug bastard.” Owain twists up his face and mimics his father: “I’ve been killing Normans longer than you’ve been alive. Shut up and go plunder something.”
I can’t help but smirk, but there’s truth to it. Those long-ago victories against the Normans happened across Wales when I was still in my cradle, and all of them at the hand of Cadwgan ap Bleddyn. If anyone can help Owain bring Gerald of Windsor and the English king to a standstill — by charm, by parley, by the sword — it’s Cadwgan.
And he’ll be in a position to dictate a price.
WE ARRIVE AT THE RIVER FORT IN THE LATE AFTERnoon. Many of the lads have regrouped here, milling restlessly in the muddy yard or sharpening weapons or playing flinches. Rhys is near the gate, and he’s the first to extend a shy wrist to Owain, who clasps it and mocks a blow to Rhys’s neck. Both of them grin. As Owain moves toward his warband, Rhys nods to me, solemn, before shaking his hair over his eyes and following his lord. Owain soon disappears among the lads, slapping backs and mussing hair. He does not seem to notice his father standing on the wall walk with his hands behind his back, regarding the countryside beyond.
There’s no way Cadwgan didn’t see us arrive. No way this isn’t going to be bad. I brace for the storming down, the raging, the strong possibility of knuckles flying, but Cadwgan ap Bleddyn does not move.
A small hooded head appears in the kitchen doorway, then William comes squealing across the mud and throws himself against me and holds on hard. “Elen! Elen, you’re all right!”
For the longest moment I just hold the boy around his knobby shoulders with his golden hair flossy against my cheek. I left him to burn but he did not burn, and now I never want to let him go.
William squirms out of my hug and takes my hand. “Come see David. He won’t eat. Mama’s having fits over it.”
“He’s not hurt, is he?”
William considers. “I don’t think so. He just lies where you put him. Sometimes he’ll whisper Alice. That’s why I think you can fix him. He was better when you were around.”
“Better?” Clinging to my shoulder and sucking his thumb and worrying his little rag does not sound like better.
“Much,” William replies without hesitation. “I thought my brother would never talk again after . . . you know. When they took us away. One of them shouted at David to shut up because he was crying. So he shut up.”
Nest is in the hearth corner, David across her lap doing that staring slow blink. At her side, Not Miv piles scraps of wood and bats them over. All of them are grubby, and Nest’s cheeks are hollow, but none of them look harmed in a way fleeing a vengeful army wouldn’t cause.
Einion penteulu looked to them. Pulled them clear.
“Then there was you,” William rattles on, towing me toward his family like a small, determined cart horse, “and you picked him up just like Alice used to. You told stories, too.” With his free hand, William shifts his cloak enough to show my ball dangling from a length of twine tied around his waist. “I hid it from him. The warbander that brought us here. If I kept it safe, I knew you’d come back. And you did!”
None of them burned. I blink away tears and squeeze William’s hand. “Good lad.”
“Now that you’re back, David will be better. We can play ball again. You, me, David, and Mama. Angharad can watch. She’d just chew on the ball if we let her play.”
I’d hug William hard if Nest weren’t here. Instead I clap his back warband-style, then kneel and pet David’s hair. It’s dark like Miv’s was, smooth and silky.
“Hey, duckling,” I say to him cheerfully, like I’d just stepped out to use the privy. “Are you hungry? I wager you’re hungry. Would you like some oatcakes and honey?”
David turns at the sound of my voice and says, “Alice.” He rolls over in his mother’s arms and reaches for me. Nest lets him go, then tries to hide wiping her eyes. David clings to my shoulder, and I sway toward the trestle board with William tagging puppylike at my elbow. The honey isn’t on the table or any of the shelves, so I ask the cook where it is.