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“The Vikings have come already.” It was useless to prevent her tears from falling. “Two longboats pulled ashore below the house in the fading light of last evening. We had nothing compared with the treasures of the abbey, but they stole a few trinkets and our food.” She swallowed. “They also took the lives of our groom and my father.”

Hywel stared at her. “Iorwerth ap Gwion is dead?”

Cadwgan stepped up beside her. “Aye. And we are newly returned from burying his groom on the hillside beyond the house.”

Hywel’s eyes widened. “Cadwgan. I had not thought to find you here.”

“My men and I arrived soon after the Vikings took to sea. I came at Iorwerth ap Gwion’s invitation,” he said calmly. “Like you, I was too late to be of any assistance to the household.”

There could be little doubt that Hywel knew the nature of Cadwgan’s visit. Their close relationship to opposite sides of the royal family made for an advantageous match for both Rhiannon and Cadwgan.

“I am grieved,” Hywel said. “Sorely grieved. My father will be similarly distressed. Iorwerth ap Gwion was the best of men.”

Rhiannon nodded. No words would come.

Hywel’s expression hardened. “The Vikings shall pay for this, Rhiannon.”

“How? They are long gone.”

Hywel shook his head. “Do not underestimate the king, cousin. There is always something that can be done.”

The ache in Rhiannon’s heart was all-consuming. Did no one understand? It did not matter what manner of retaliation the king undertook; nothing would bring back her father.

She looked beyond the men standing beside her, past the line of mounted warriors and the stable, and let her gaze rest upon the vast stretch of open sea below the house. The distant whitecaps danced as the waves rolled toward the shore in a steady, flowing rhythm. Her father may no longer be at her side, but his influence was as constant as the incoming breakers. And no matter the distressing circumstances, she knew what he would expect her to do.

Lifting her head, she offered Hywel a tremulous smile. “I cannot offer you or your men much by way of refreshment,” she said, “but such as we have, you are welcome to share.”

If the position of the sunbeams filtering through the chinks in the wooden walls was any indication, Leif had been asleep for approximately three hours. It was not long enough. Logically, he knew that. Unfortunately, his body was not currently willing to listen to logic, and his head was behaving even more traitorously. If he was not reliving his disturbing experience outside the longhouse in Gwynedd in his waking thoughts, he was recreating them in his nightmares.

He turned to his right, and the straw beneath him rustled loudly. The ache in his arms had intensified, making it difficult to find a comfortable position. He rolled onto his other side once more before issuing a frustrated groan and pulling himself into a sitting position. Across from him, Bjorn was sleeping soundly. His brother’s even snores made Leif’s current situation all the worse. He rolled his shoulders, attempting to work out the discomfort. It made little difference.

Climbing out of bed, he came to his feet and walked across the small room to the table that held a washbasin and a comb. After splashing his face with water, he ran the comb through his blond hair. His tunic was wrinkled, and his boots bore the wavy white lines left behind by dried salt water. He would certainly need to avoid his father. Quite apart from his bleary eyes, his travel-stained clothing would give away his lack of recuperation.

He exited his chamber and entered the longhouse’s great hall. It was empty. Benches lined the walls, and the fire had dimmed. This evening, the flames would be stoked again and people would gather, but for now, the women were elsewhere in the house, and the men were about their business in town.

What had begun as little more than a Viking outpost in the 800s was now a thriving settlement. Indeed, Dyflin was rapidly becoming an influential commercial hub for traders from a multitude of nations. The Norsemen’s capacity for traveling long distances by sea had been a boon to their economy. The local market boasted stalls selling silver, silks, pottery, and spices from faraway places. In exchange, the Vikings sold honey, wheat, wool, tin, leather, and fish.

No matter the profitable trading that occurred in Dyflin, however, most Vikings had not changed the way they lived. It was unusual for a building in the community to boast more than one room. Leif’s father’s position as jarl afforded him the luxury of some extra chambers. It was a comfort that Leif particularly appreciated after having shared a longboat with nineteen men for so many days.

His mother’s quarters were above the great hall, and it was there that he headed now.

His knock was answered by one of the household slaves.

“Good day, Bodil,” Leif said. “Is my mother within?”

The plainly dressed young woman opened the door wider to allow him access. “She is, Master Leif.”

Leif stepped inside. To Bodil’s right, two low stools sat beside three large baskets of raw wool. The empty stool, Leif assumed, was where she’d been seated before she’d come to the door. It appeared that she had been wool sorting. On the other stool, another slave named Hilda was combing the wool in preparation for spinning. And sitting on a chair a few feet distant was an elegant woman dressed in a light-blue gown with a silver girdle around her slim waist. Her fine facial bone structure was matched by her clear skin, and her golden-brown hair was plaited into two long ropes.

“Good day, Mother,” he said.

Smiling, his mother set down her spinning distaff and rose to her feet. “Leif!” she said. “I heard that you were returned. Welcome home!”

He stepped toward her and lowered his head to kiss her cheeks. “I believe you are shrinking, Mother.”

She laughed. It was a warm sound that helped soothe the ache in his heart. “When was the last time you stood beside your father, son? I believe you may have overtaken him in height.”

Although Leif had been taller than Bjorn for two years, he had never considered the possibility that he would one day overtake his father. Among the people of Dyflin, the jarl was considered a giant of a man—in influence and stature.