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Rune’s arrogance grated, and Leif had no desire to feed it, but if he did not act now, he would lose his chance. “Very well.” He kept his pace steady, not willing to show how difficult this was for him. “Give them to Knud.”

At his left, Knud’s footsteps faltered, but Leif’s gaze remained on Rune. Like steam rising from a boiling pot, indignation hissed from the man’s lips.

But before either man could say a word, Leif spoke again. “I have yet to give Knud and Frida a wedding gift. Give Knud the goblets; I will take the wooden box and the jewelry within.” He shifted the sack in his hand. “In exchange, you shall have the gold cross.”

Rune’s eyes widened. No matter his earlier bluster, he knew full well that the gold cross was of significantly more worth than the goblets and jewelry box.

“You would have me claim the gold cross?” Rune asked. Already, his eyes shone with avarice. “Even as we stand before your father?”

Leif set his jaw. He was a fool. The young woman at the longhouse would be none the wiser if Rune flaunted her precious jewelry in front of the women in the ale house. But it would not do to back down now. As much as he wished to be the one to present such a magnificent treasure as the cross to his father, the pleasure such an act would produce would never fully assuage his own discomfort over Rune’s careless disregard for the heartbreak of another. “Yes.”

“Leif.” Knud’s voice was troubled. “As much as I appreciate the gift, are you sure this is wise?”

Wise? No. It was undoubtedly the very opposite. But right? That was something else entirely.

“It will be well, Knud,” Leif said. “You may give the goblets to Frida with my blessing.”

Knud shook his head. “It is too much.”

Leif smiled. Knud’s attitude was a refreshing change from Rune’s. “I believe I heard you lay claim to those very cups at least twice during our voyage.”

“Yes, but—”

Rune thrust his sack at Knud. “Are you addlepated? Take it.”

Knud offered Leif one more hesitant look before accepting the sack. “You have my thanks, Leif.”

Ignoring Knud—and the fact that he had offered him no gratitude—Rune extended the wooden box to Leif. “I will take the cross.”

Leif slid the sack off his shoulder. “I am sure my father will be well pleased,” he said, handing the weighted bag to Rune.

“Of that, I have no doubt.” Rune’s smug smile had returned. “I wish you well with the ladies, Leif. I daresay one or two of them may show some interest in your prize.”

Leif ignored him. For better or for worse, the deed was done, and he would not allow himself to regret it.

Chapter 6

One of Cadwgan’s men tossed the final shovelful of dirt onto the dark-brown mound before moving to stand behind the handful of people who had gathered to pay their last respects. Father Iestin chanted one final prayer over the newly filled grave, and Rhiannon swallowed the lump in her throat. Meurig had not survived the night. The priest had arrived in time to offer the groom his last rites, and knowing that he had no close family, Rhiannon had suggested that he be buried on the hill behind the house, in the land he had loved.

At a signal from the priest, Rhiannon stepped forward and set a sprig of rosemary that Myfanwy had gathered this morning atop Meurig’s grave. Resuming her former position between Cadwgan and Heledd, she waited whilst the other servants added more stems of rosemary to the mound.

Cadwgan stood silent and somber. Still wearing his dark travel cloak, his gaze remained fixed on the grave at his feet. Heledd’s arm was wrapped around Dai’s. His injured arm hung limply at his other side. His complexion had yet to regain its full color, and his eyes held the pain he was experiencing, but he had insisted upon attending the short graveside service for his friend.

Rhiannon wrapped her arms around herself, her gray wool cloak doing little to ward off the morning chill. As difficult as this ceremony was, she acknowledged that the one yet to come would be significantly harder. The priest had offered multiple prayers over her father’s body last night. The blessings were not as efficacious to her father’s soul as the administration of last rites would have been, but with the promise of at least one mass and a formal burial ahead, Rhiannon had faith that her father would pass through to the other side in peace.

Father Iestin must have guessed the direction of her thoughts. He approached her, the palms of his hands pressed together, a sad smile on his lips. “God bless you, child.”

Rhiannon lowered her head to accept the blessing. “I thank you, Father.”

She heard the rustle of his robe as he moved across the grass, and she raised her head in time to see him greet Eifion, who was standing gazing upon Meurig’s burial spot with reddened eyes.

“What say you, young Eifion?” Father Iestin said. “With the many visitors at the house, there must be a great deal of work to be done at the stable. Shall we go there together?”

“Yes, Father.” Eifion sniffled and ran his sleeve beneath his nose. “I . . . I daresay the horses will be wantin’ fresh water by now.”

“Well, if you were to give me a pail, I believe I could be of some assistance.” He placed his hand on the boy’s shoulder. “In my youth, I spent a great deal of time in the stables.”

Eifion’s surprised expression was quickly masked behind another swipe of his sleeve. “Did . . . did you like it?”