The Rathmore sentries approach, hands on weapons, and ask something in a hash of syllables. Owain mutters in Nest’s ear, then guides her forward. She speaks to them, halting, like she’s feeling along in a dark room. One of the sentries disappears, then returns with a woman who has silvery plaits and high freckled cheekbones. She’s dressed in a fur-trimmed cloak and wears a horseshoe made of gold around her neck, and her tone is friendly and confident.
Owain looks at Nest expectantly, and she says, “The lady of this house is bidding us health in her lord’s name, that we should come in and be welcome. She is called Sadb, and she is Muirchertach’s wife.”
Another of my worries, gone in a breath. After Owain’s foot-dragging, I’d braced for a show of force from the Irish or at least a cold shoulder, Cadwgan’s onetime allies or not.
“You must thank her,” Owain replies. Nest says something to him, and he repeats it to Sadb sound for sound: “Uh vwar vwugh.”
Sadb smiles and gestures for us to follow her through the gate and across a muddy courtyard toward a structure that must be the hall. Nest tries to drop back, away from Owain, but he puts her hand on his elbow and turns on her that feral warband smile that gives me the shudders. So I take her other hand as we slog through Rathmore’s yard, and she presses so close that we bump shoulders every other step.
The hall is dim and smoky. There’s a hearth and benches and trestle boards leaning against the wall. A cat hunches over a mouse near the door and two graybeards play flinches near the fire. I know this place is not Llyssun and the steward won’t be speaking a tongue I can follow, much less have any stories of tiny Owain, but I still run my thumb along the door frame out of simple, wishful habit.
Sadb asks something of Owain, but he smiles graciously and motions to Nest. Nest’s face reddens as she stumbles out some syllables to our hostess. Sadb nods, touches Nest’s cheek in a kind and motherly way, then addresses servants who have gathered around her. A girl of about ten summers skips forward, and my first thought is to hug her because she and Margred could be sisters. She’s sun-browned, like me, which makes her wheat-white hair stand out like a halo. Sadb puts a hand on the girl’s head and says something like orla.
“Órlaith,” Nest repeats, and the wheat-haired girl beams and pokes both thumbs into her chest.
Then Sadb says something to Órlaith, and Nest winces so hard I bite my tongue to keep from asking what she heard. Sadb notices Nest’s expression and pauses, but Nest forces a smile and makes a helpless open-handed gesture. Órlaith tugs on my sleeve just like Margred does when she has something to show me. I hesitate, but Sadb shoos me with a patient smile before calling to someone else, so I let the child tow Nest and me away. I can only hope Rathmore’s kitchen is as familiar as everything else so far. Perhaps there’ll be a spare bladder and I can make the three of us a ball.
Behind the hall is a small shed with a curtain tacked across the door, and inside is a basin of clean water on a bench. A wooden dish of soap sits next to the basin, and a scrap of linen hangs from a peg jammed between the wall wattles. Órlaith makes motions like I should wash my face and body.
I blink back tears. I know I’m in a state. I know this is no way to present myself in anyone’s hall, much less a king’s, but I was dragged from my bed one morning and spent more days than I can count fleeing warbands who wanted Owain’s head on a spear before being bundled onto a ship full of filthy cutthroats who pointed and leered when I pissed in a bucket behind my cloak. It’s not like these people have to mock me for it.
Órlaith frowns thoughtfully, then holds up one finger and disappears.
Nest squirms. “Elen? I must beg your pardon. I think I may have told them something that isn’t true. Not on purpose, though. I swear it.”
“What? What did you tell them?”
Órlaith is back, and over her arm is a handful of new wool that tumbles into an elegant gown in a gray-blue that makes me think right away of the sea. She holds it out and in fearlessly bad Welsh says, “A gift from my lady. For the wife of the guest.”
My mouth hangs open. Nest looks away.
“You have to tell them you were wrong,” I whisper to Nest. “That I’m not really Owain’s wife. What if he’s furious?”
“I’m not sure I can! I told you, I understand a lot more than I speak. Besides, how can I, now? It’ll look like I was lying. You think Owain ap Cadwgan will like that better?”
I have no wish to find out, so I make myself smile at the girl. I take the gown like it might burn. Órlaith grins, then hustles me behind the curtain and pulls it closed. Shadows of her bare feet move along the bottom edge. She must be standing watch outside, making sure I’m not disturbed. I strip down and wash every handswidth of my filthy, sweaty body. By the time I’m done, the water is gray and murky, but I’m pink with clean, smelling faintly of soapwort and lavender.
There’s a shift to wear with the gown. It’s made of soft linen with a tiny runner of embroidery around the collar. Órlaith brings me a pair of calfskin shoes made from leather so soft that I can’t feel a single seam, then she sits me on a stool just outside the curtain and brushes my hair while the brittle spring sun puts a shine on it.
Mayhap it will be a good thing if the high king believes Owain is married. Then our host will see a fellow king’s son and his wife and some retainers seeking refuge from the English king’s overblown temper. Not a ragtag passel of troublemakers dodging well-deserved consequences by taking up lodging in his hall.
Too soon, Órlaith plaits my hair and pins it and tugs me gently to my feet. My whole scalp feels tight, and it makes me stand up straight and push my chin out.
“I get water for your cousin. I walk you in after.” She gestures to Nest, leaning against the shed corner, then dumps the basin and heads toward the well.
Nest unwinds the tie from her plait and shakes her hair into stiff, wavy worms. “By the way, we’re cousins now. I hope you don’t mind gaining a relation.” She sighs and adds, “I must ask your pardon. For all this. I’m not mocking you. I swear.”
“I know. It’s all right.” My hair is arranged and braided, and I’ve no need to see it to know it looks proper. I’m wearing undergarments and shoes so beautiful that Owain would have to raid the Holy Land for something finer. There’s not a hint of blood on this gown.
It’s better than all right.
Órlaith returns with a basin of fresh water and Nest disappears behind the curtain. Then the girl takes my hand and pulls me toward the hall. Where the other wives will be gathered, and I don’t have a word in Irish.
“I would wait for my cousin,” I tell Órlaith, but she’s having none of it as she leads me cheerfully toward the hall door. Perhaps she doesn’t understand me. She’s clearly excited, just like Margred gets when something new is happening. Digging in my heels like a mule would make me look unfriendly, and we must make a good impression since things got bloody on that Waterford wharf. All of us, especially the newly minted wife of Owain ap Cadwgan.
Near the hearth, two women sit on a bench with spindles paused in their laps. They have Nest’s years and round, well-fed faces. Órlaith says something to them lordly and important, her chest puffed like a warhorse on parade. I catch Owain’s name. The girl bows her head to the dark-haired woman at the end of the bench, then turns to me and says, “My lord’s daughter. This is Aoife.”