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“It will be a prized addition to the riches of Dyflin,” Leif said. “It matters little who first presented it to the jarl.”

Perplexity shone in his father’s blue eyes. “That may be, but I would have preferred that it had been you.” He hesitated. “May I ask what you gained from so costly an exchange? I pray that it was significantly more than the small box of simple ornaments you displayed earlier.”

Leif did not flinch. Nor did his eyes stray to the wooden jewelry box sitting against the wall less than three paces distant. “My gain has yet to be determined,” he said. “But I believe I acted rightly.”

“Very well.” His father’s skepticism remained, but there was a softening in his expression. “There will be time enough to talk of such things in the days ahead. I would rather see the bleary look gone from your eyes first.”

Leif managed a weak grin. “It shows, does it?”

“Go to bed, Leif,” his father said with a flick of his hand. He started across the room toward his own chambers. “You are likely the only man who crossed the sea by night who is still upright.”

Chapter 7

Rhiannon and Cadwgan had almost reached the courtyard when they heard Eifion’s shout.

“Men on horseback!” The boy left Father Iestin standing at the door of the stables and raced back to meet Rhiannon. “They’re comin’ along the coast road, and they wear Owain Gwynedd’s colors.”

Owain Gwynedd. Rhiannon’s heart warmed with a faint glimmer of hope. As a child, she had accompanied her mother to the king’s residence on Ynys Môn every summer. For her mother, it had been an opportunity to catch up on the happenings at court and to spend time with her sister, Gwladys; for Rhiannon, it had been eight weeks filled with marvelous adventures with her royal cousins. Although Prince Hywel outgrew their childish games several years before Rhiannon and his sister Gwenllian had, Rhiannon’s memories of treasure hunts in the llys and playing together on the sandy beaches remained some of her happiest.

“Were you expecting a visit from the king?” Cadwgan asked. “Surely it is not possible that he has heard of yesterday’s tragic events so quickly.”

“It may simply be a few of his men stopping on their way back to Ynys Môn. It is no secret that the king’s men are welcome at Bryn Eithin.”

Cadwgan nodded thoughtfully as he eyed the small portion of road visible from where they stood. “I had not heard that he was gone from the llys.”

“Nor I,” Rhiannon said. “I am as surprised as you are by these new arrivals.”

She did not claim to know Owain Gwynedd well—he’d had very little interaction with her during her summer visits—but he was her uncle by marriage, and if he or any of his retinue had come, she would be glad.

Lifting her hand from Cadwgan’s arm, she hurried after Eifion.

“Miss Rhiannon.” Nest called to her as she passed the kitchen, and by the look on her face, she’d heard Eifion’s announcement. “Is it truly the king coming?” She waved one hand at the nearby open door, her expression a blend of fear and dismay. “I have nothing to offer him or his men.”

“Bread and broth will have to suffice,” Rhiannon said. “I daresay the men will be grateful for any form of repast.”

“But the king—”

“Will be fully understanding when I explain what we have endured,” Rhiannon said, attempting to curb her irritation. They had just come from burying Meurig. Her father—a member of the king’s own uchelwr—lay dead upon his bed. Did Nest truly believe that the monarch would have more concern for the food placed before him than he had for the murders the Vikings had so recently committed?

The rattle of many hooves hitting the pebble-strewn road was audible now, and Rhiannon turned away from Nest to greet the first riders as they entered the courtyard. A white horse carried a pennant bearer. The familiar green flag adorned with three gold eagles fluttered in the breeze ahead of two rows of heavily armed warriors.

Behind the pennant bearer, and flanked by two warriors wearing leather armor and helmets and bearing swords and round shields, came a man dressed in a long blue tunic, his fur-lined cloak clasped at his shoulder with a large silver brooch. His brown hair fell to his shoulder, and as he turned to survey the courtyard, his hazel-eyed gaze instantly landed upon Rhiannon. “Well met, cousin,” he called, a smile lighting his features.

“Hywel!” Rhiannon ran the short distance between them, the familiarity of his greeting causing a lump to form in her throat. To have her cousin come—one who had known her father and would recognize her paralyzing loss—was better than a visit from the king himself.

By the time Rhiannon reached him, Hywel had dismounted.

“I am so glad you are come,” she said.

“Aye. But I wish it were under better circumstances,” he said. “Is your father about?”

“He . . . he is gone.”

“I am come to warn him. We received word at the llys that Llanrhys Abbey has been raided by Vikings.” Hywel scowled. “By the time we reached it, the vile marauders had also sacked the monastery at Penarth Fawr and the church at Harlech. There’s been no sighting of them for two days. They surely know that the Cymry would route them out if they stayed longer. But with them traveling by longboat, and Bryn Eithin so close to the sea, I wished to advise your father to be on his guard. Indeed, it might be best for the household to quit the area until we are sure the Vikings are gone from our shores.”

Rhiannon bit her lower lip to stop it from shaking. “Oh, that you had come a day earlier.”

“Earlier?” Hywel’s attention was suddenly riveted upon Rhiannon’s face. “Why?”