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“Very much.” The kindly priest guided Eifion toward the narrow footpath that led down the hillside. “And I have missed it.”

They walked only a few steps more before the wind captured their voices and their conversation was lost.

Across from Rhiannon, Nest managed a tremulous smile. “If you’ll excuse Myfanwy and me, Miss Rhiannon, we shall return to the kitchen. There’s not much left to work with, but I believe I can manage to put some broth and bread on the table before the noon hour.”

“That would be most welcome.”

Rhiannon had given no thought to eating since yesterday, but Nest was right. Cadwgan and his men would need something to sustain them before they left Bryn Eithin. She watched as the cook and maid followed after Father Iestin.

“Come, Dai.” At Rhiannon’s side, Heledd tightened her hold on her husband’s arm. “There’s nothing more to be done here, and you must rest.”

For a fleeting moment, Rhiannon thought Dai might object, but then his shoulders slumped. “If I had only—”

“No, Dai.” Heledd’s voice trembled. “There is no place for blame here.”

A vision of the bearded, redheaded Viking holding her mother’s jewelry box in one hand and an axe in the other flashed through Rhiannon’s mind. She shuddered at the memory of his cold, blue eyes. Heledd was right. The blame for this tragedy lay far from here, across the sea.

“Listen to Heledd, Dai,” Rhiannon said. “And do everything in your power to ensure that those who are truly responsible do not claim your life also.”

Dai appeared unconvinced, but Heledd gave her a grateful look. “Will you be well if I go with Dai now?”

Rhiannon nodded. What little sleep she’d managed the night before had been fitful and had brought little relief. She longed for some semblance of peace and had thought to stay on the hill by herself for a spell, but before she could voice the desire, Cadwgan spoke.

“I shall escort Miss Rhiannon to the house.”

A seagull flew overhead, its shadow passing over the grave like an ethereal being. Rhiannon shivered, and Cadwgan extended his arm. Perhaps it was best that she return to the house with the others. She set her hand upon his sleeve. His arm was firm and strong, and she was in desperate need of an anchor.

“You have my thanks, my lord.”

He inclined his head. “It is my honor to be of service.”

“Leif. I would speak with you for a moment.”

At the sound of his father’s voice, Leif turned from gazing sightlessly into the fire in the great room of the jarl’s house and set his sights on the man crossing the room toward him. Leif had inherited his father’s height and broad shoulders, but whereas Jarl Ottar’s hair and beard were flecked with gray, Leif’s blond locks were tinged with red.

“Father,” Leif said, bowing respectfully.

They had greeted one another upon the Vikings’ arrival at the large house and had sat together at the head table during the celebratory feast ordered to welcome the raiders home, but between viewing each man’s haul, examining the gold cross at length, and overseeing the general merrymaking, there had been no opportunity for his father to do more than express his gratitude for Bjorn’s and Leif’s safe return.

Leif had expected nothing else. Indeed, had he kept his wits about him, he would have retired to his chamber when the other men had left the house. Fatigue—of body and mind—had long since slowed his movements and clouded his thinking. As the jarl’s son and styrimadr of the longboat, he’d not wanted to be the first to leave, so he’d tarried by the fire, waiting for the large room to empty of guests. Now that it had, nothing sounded so inviting as his bed, but it seemed he had waited a few moments too long.

“It appears that your recent raids were successful,” his father said.

“Aye.” Leif hardly thought he needed to qualify his answer. The Vikings’ haul had already been displayed.

His father studied him. “I have just come from speaking with Bjorn. He was under the distinct impression that it was you, not Rune, who left the Cymry’s monastery carrying the gold cross.” His thick, graying eyebrows came together in a frown. “Is this true?”

Leif ran his fingers through his hair. He should have guessed that someone would question Rune’s claim to the relic. Every one of the Vikings had taken a turn admiring the item in Leif’s sack.

“I took the cross from the monastery wall,” he said. “Later, I exchanged it for items that Rune acquired.”

His father’s frown deepened. “You are aware that I do not tolerate the commanders of my longboats participating in games of chance.”

Leif stifled a sigh. Weariness and patience were poorly matched companions. “I did not lose it in a game of chance, Father. I chose to make the exchange.”

“Did you not recognize the worth of such a piece?”

How could he explain? Was there anything of silver or gold that outvalued peace of conscience? Even now, after forfeiting the treasure to save the contents of the wooden jewelry box, he was unconvinced that it had been enough.