Owain cuts his eyes my way. Stands straighter.
The Norman asks something. Owain responds, and the fighting man coughs a harsh laugh and stabs his weapon at the castle works. As we’re marched downhill at spearpoint, Owain makes a field gesture to the lads, one I don’t recognize, then says loudly in Welsh, “I told you, we’re pilgrims! We mean to pray at the shrine at Saint David’s, and we just lost our way.”
The fighting man growls something that must mean shut up. We’re marched through the gate, and right away Owain is pulled out of line, relieved of his sword, and shoved toward a tent with a Norman banner. The rest of us are herded toward the empty stable, and both guards tell the lads to leave their weapons at the door. Inside, Einion penteulu nods the lads into a huddle, then they pull up their hoods and rub dirt on their faces like travelers.
“We’re up for trespassing.” Einion speaks quietly in Welsh, one eye on the door. “If we’re careful, they’ll believe it. Even Normans respect a pilgrimage. So look holy.”
A Norman warbander appears at the tent flap. He points at me, says something, then holds the fold of canvas open.
“You’re to be questioned,” Rhys says to me in Welsh, and then he says something in French that makes the warbander’s face soften. The Norman’s next gesture is kinder, and I follow him out of the stable now that I know what I’m moving toward.
Gerald of Windsor. Who sent the warband that rid me of Llywelyn penteulu. Who left me stranded on that lonely pier. Who’s about to get me clear of Owain ap Cadwgan and back with Nest and the little ones where I belong.
If I’m to be questioned, I’ll convince him that Owain and the lads truly are pilgrims. Gerald is no fool. He’s done well for himself in the kingdoms of Wales, and he won’t risk the wrath of all his neighbors — to say nothing of the Church — by letting vengeance so consume him that he’d punish blameless pilgrims who mistakenly blundered through his dooryard. He’ll see them on their way and send me to Nest.
I can see to it that all of us come out of this well.
A man in a coat of mail sits on a bench in the middle of the tent. He’s got a trim, reddish beard, and he doesn’t stand up when I enter. Sure enough, there’s no sign of Nest. Nothing of a woman here. I knew it would be so, but a friendly face would make this easier.
I put myself before Gerald and curtsy like I would to Cadwgan, but I’m so used to having patter at the ready that I don’t quite know what to say. “My lord. I’m sorry to have to approach you like this. But I’m —”
“I know who you are.” Gerald’s Welsh is fluent, but the Norman tilt in the words makes me cringe. “You’re the girl who Owain ap Cadwgan believes brings him a saint’s protection.”
My mouth falls open. Nest must have told him of me, but he’s never so much as seen my face. “H-how did you know?”
Gerald sits up straighter. “So that is Owain ap Cadwgan who’s trussed up in my gatehouse, playing at bettering his soul.”
This doesn’t feel right. If he knew who he’d captured, Gerald of Windsor would already be torturing Owain in full view of every last man in this place and forcing us to watch. Unless this is part of the torture. Nest never said her husband had a stomach for cruelty, but where she’s concerned, perhaps he’s finding one.
“No.” My skin is prickling. My arm hair. Cold all down my back. “I mean, yes, I’m the girl you’re speaking of, but Owain and I parted company. Those pilgrims you caught pitied a woman traveling alone and promised to bring me to you. That’s why they were near your castle works. They’re good men. But I must tell you —”
“Hmm.” Gerald squints. “I’ll just keep you here, then, shall I? I’ll turn Sir Pilgrim and the rest of his very well-armed fellow penitents loose. Then we’ll wait.”
Gerald will release Owain and the lads, and in less than a pissing while Owain will come for me with the same hellbent rage he once expected of this man. Not just because of Saint Elen, either. I may as well be barefoot and in my nightgown.
Or wearing a collar, like a good little pet.
I will get myself clear. With my own hands. “Do one better. Send me to your wife. Nest promised I’d be nurse to your children.”
“You’re not going anywhere.” He says it simple and final, no edge of threat or menace, but he’s peering at me as if trying to solve a riddle.
“Owain ap Cadwgan won’t come for me,” I insist. “You can’t lure him here by keeping me.”
“I think I can,” Gerald replies mildly. “He won’t do without his precious saint. Making him safe from all harm. As long as you’re near.”
Nest has every reason to want Owain ap Cadwgan dead. I don’t begrudge her that. She would have told Gerald everything she knew, everything she observed. The playact’s not a secret — that’s how it does its work — but now Saint Elen is a weapon in Gerald’s hands.
I’m a weapon. And there’s but one way to blunt it.
“Don’t bother. It’s all lies.” I square up and blink back tears I can’t account for. “Saint Elen does not protect Owain. She never has. I made it all up for my own ends. He finally found out. Turned his back on me. Abandoned me. He wants nothing more to do with me or Saint Elen ever again now that he knows everything he believed about her is a lie.”
“Everything?” Gerald raises one rusty brow.
“He can’t stand knowing he’s just a man. No better or worse than any other.” My belly is churning. This ends here. Gerald will have no reason to keep me from Nest. “Owain will not come here, so you may as well —”
“Hsst.” Gerald gestures to a Norman fighting man standing at the tent flap, who drags Owain in by his bound wrists. “Say it again for Sir Pilgrim.”
I can’t breathe. I’m trying to speak. And the patter is gone completely.
Gerald of Windsor is smiling.
Owain’s mouth hangs open, making words that don’t come out. Hunched over like a boot to the guts. Like a knife to the back.
“My, my,” Gerald drawls, “Sir Pilgrim looks remarkably upturned for the sake of a man he swears back to front he is not. You, dear girl, look as wretched as Judas. I wonder why that is.”
Nest would fold her arms. She’d say Owain has this coming. But she did not have to drag me into it. She could have told Gerald to take his vengeance swift and clean in a raid.
But if it’s not cruel and ugly, it won’t be vengeance.
“So let me see if I have this clear.” Gerald jabs a mocking thumb at Owain. “You’re a simple pilgrim who is definitely not Owain ap Cadwgan, and I definitely cannot lure that double-dealing son of a whore to this place by keeping this girl, because somehow she just spun a tale out of nowhere that he was fool enough to believe for bleeding years. So I definitely should let the girl go at once and should definitely not hang every man of you from the walls.”
Owain’s face is going warband blank. Like it’s foregone that the others will watch him die, and he is deciding now how that will look.
“Th-that’s right, my lord.” I can still make this right. I must save them. “They’re pilgrims. Let them go. Please. You will face Owain ap Cadwgan before you know it, and you will do well to be ready for him.”