An armed escort. That’s even better than I hoped for. “My lady! That’s so kind of you! I can be ready to leave right away.”
“What, now?” Isabel makes a dismissive gesture and untangles her leader yarn. “Before you-know-who learns that you’re here under my protection and there’s nothing he can do about it? No, I want him to stew in that a while. Also, don’t call me my lady when he’s around. It’ll irk him sorely to hear you call me Isabel.”
“But Owain will be back soon!” Too panicky. I force my voice calm. “I doubt he’ll go straight to Powys like he was told. He’ll come get me first.”
Isabel smiles, coy and playful. “Don’t you worry. We’ll be sure you’re gone before he lands. Besides, I’m not afraid of Owain. My wolfhound is more clever.”
It’s only been a day. I’d planned to pass a short while here anyway. A little longer won’t hurt, but knowing Nest and the children are waiting makes it hard to nod along.
Beside me, Isabel hums a little tune as she spins. She doesn’t know Owain like I do. She has no idea what Saint Elen means to him, how deep down it goes, and what he’ll do to get her protection back.
THE NEXT DAY IS FAIR, AND ISABEL WANTS TO GO FOR a walk along a deer path. She chatters about Henry and how much she misses him, but I can’t keep from looking over my shoulder every other pace, listening for hooves at the approach.
“Cadwgan must have heard by now,” I say, letting the idea hang between us, but Isabel scoffs and takes my hand and swings it.
“You worry too much. Come, just enjoy the day.”
In one breath she misses her baby. In the next she’s telling me to enjoy the day. Perhaps later she’ll complain about bland stew, like worse things don’t happen to the daughters of fallen kings and slain drovers alike.
The linens are finally dry, and Isabel has the servants make up the bed, so at least we have the prospect of a decent night’s sleep. But I lie awake staring at the curtains and wondering whether Rhys has made it to the coast, whether he’s already sailed with the tide, whether he’s even made it out of Powys without being slain by someone’s warband.
The days linger and crawl. My yarn is a mess. I tap my foot. I go to the privy every other moment, walking slow past the gate and straining my ears for footfalls.
Isabel frowns at me over her neat skeins. “That’s very tiresome, you know. All your fidgeting.”
“Then send me to Dyfed,” I say, and it’s all I can do to ask and not plead.
“It’s hurtful, too. Like you can’t wait to leave.”
I flutter a smile. “Please forgive me. You’ve been most kind.”
“I’ll let you go soon, I promise. I’d have you-know-who truly squirm. Besides, we’re having a nice time together, aren’t we? We’re all but kin, you know.” Isabel smiles like she can’t wait to say that in front of Cadwgan.
There was a time when I thought being close to Isabel would solve everything. If this kind of self-serving excuse for company and showy, false companionship is what proper wives can expect, Margred doesn’t need toys. She needs holy orders.
The house of Bleddyn might never be ordinary. Mayhap it can’t be. What Margred needs is somewhere she’ll always be welcome. Someone to throw the door open and hug her hard, even when everyone else looks through her and past her. She’s always done that much for me. Soon enough I can return that favor.
Tomorrow. First light. I am leaving Worthen even if it’s with nothing but the clothes on my back. This time, I will get myself clear.
AT BREAKFAST, I EAT EVERYTHING IN SIGHT. NEST will lay out a feast in my honor when I reach Dyfed, but I must get there first. Across the table, Isabel tucks into porridge and natters on about Henry and doesn’t notice me sneaking oatcakes into my lap and wrapping them in a stolen washrag. After breakfast, Isabel will corner the steward to discuss the day. It’ll take her a while to find him, though, since he’s usually passed out drunk in some odd place like the hayloft. After the business with the linens and the wine, I can hardly blame him for spending his days not quite sober and well out of her way.
That’s when I’ll go.
I’ll slip my breakfast scavengings into my apron and tell the gateman I’m meeting Isabel for a ramble in the greenwood. He’ll let me pass. I’ll wander down the deer path, and when I’m out of sight, I’ll run till I can’t and then walk till it’s dark. I know to go south and west. I’m rested, and I have small things to eat and a spare gown I can sell or trade.
I can do this.
Isabel rises from the table. “Well, I’m off to find that layabout steward. Would you join me?”
“Try the storeroom. I think I saw him head that way.” Calmly. Smile. “I’m going to sit outside a while. I want to embroider that gown you gave me. I’ll bring out a bench.”
“Good idea. I’ll meet you there lat —” Isabel abruptly falls silent. Her face goes granite.
There in the doorway is Cadwgan ap Bleddyn, leaning on the frame.
I freeze like a sighted hare, but Isabel makes a graceful, ice-cold curtsy as she says, “My lord.” Then she pulls me up from the bench, and I come staggering. Cadwgan’s hangman gaze passes over me slow and heavy.
“May I?” he asks, gesturing to the threshold he has yet to step over.
Isabel narrows her eyes before finally nodding. Cadwgan crosses the hall toward her, but when she moves a pace away in a polite yet deliberate sidestep, he stops at the head of the table.
I should have left days ago. He’ll wait till she’s not looking. Then there’ll be a “mischance.”
Cadwgan clears his throat. He’s not looking at me, though. Only Isabel. “Please tell me you know sending Henry as a hostage was the last thing I wanted to do.”
Isabel folds her arms.
“Well, I hope at least you’ve had a chance to calm yourself. We’re heading to Ceredigion on the morrow, so have your belongings together.”
“There are things I must attend to first,” she tells him coolly. “You could have given me some sort of warning. But I forgot who I stand before. You don’t believe in giving warning, do you?”
Cadwgan sighs. “Sweeting, you are going to have to let this go.”
Rhys appears in the doorway and shuffles. Cadwgan makes the hold gesture, two raised fingers, and he nods.
No. Rhys can’t be back already. Something’s not right.
Isabel turns to me. “You wanted to leave. You shall leave. I’ll have my best swordsman take you wherever you want to go. Are you ready?”
“Oh saints, I most certainly —”
“No,” Cadwgan cuts in. “This girl is not going anywhere.”
Isabel looks ready to blacken his eye. “She’ll go wherever she wants, and you won’t stop her.”
“She can go to hell for all I care,” Cadwgan replies through his teeth, “but the one place she is not going is back to my son.”
I swivel to face him. “I’m not going to Owain, my lord.”
Cadwgan looks at me square for the first time since he walked in. “You — what?”