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Leif considered his remark. What was his great love? He’d been drawn to the sea for as long as he could remember. Its power, beauty, and moods never ceased to enthrall him. He had looked forward to being of an age that he could participate in Viking raids because it had enabled him to connect with the water and travel to far-off places. Somehow, he had all but ignored the true reason for those ocean voyages.

Only a few nights ago, the stark reality of how his changing outlook might impact his future had hit him with the force of a hammer. He was a Viking, the son of Jarl Ottar, honor bound to represent and fight for his people. But how could he, in good conscience, attack Christian churches and monasteries now that he understood what the symbols and relics the Norsemen stole meant to those who lived and worked there?

And what of the ten sacred commandments Father Robert had recited almost every time they’d met? It was no wonder that Rhiannon had looked upon him with such abhorrence those weeks ago. In less than an hour, the Norsemen had violated more of those mandates than he cared to count. He pushed past the uncomfortable memory.

“I have always loved the sea,” Leif admitted. “But as of late, I have wondered if there might be something more—something else—for me.”

Knud’s eyes widened. “Something more than participating in the raids?”

“Aye.” He could only imagine his father’s reaction should he choose to do something other than lead one of the longboats along the coast or across the Irish Sea. The discussion would not be pleasant.

He shifted farther down the boat, moving the bowl with him. The brooch in his purse bumped against his thigh. “Perhaps I too should try my hand at silversmithing,” he said.

Knud’s astonished expression quickly turned to a warm grin. “I daresay I could put in a good word for you with Old Sten. Mind you, you’d best prepare yourself for some criticism of your initial efforts. Old Sten is no respecter of persons. His praise is given for workmanship, not lineage.”

Leif’s grin matched Knud’s. “A man whose respect is worth earning, then,” he said as a new and welcome eagerness filled him. A fresh focus sounded like just what he needed.

Rhiannon lay a small bunch of buttercups atop her mother’s grave before setting a second one upon her father’s. Taking a step back, she swallowed against the ache in her throat. It had been five weeks since she’d arrived at Ynys Môn and had been welcomed into the royal household. Four weeks since her father’s funeral at Sant Cwyfan’s church and subsequent burial beside her mother. And the pain of loss had yet to lessen.

“You see.” Rhiannon’s cousin Gwenllian stepped up beside her and slipped her arm through Rhiannon’s. “The buttercups’ petals are reflecting the sunshine. It’s as though the sun itself is smiling upon your parents’ graves.”

Rhiannon managed a weak smile. “It is good to see the sunshine after so many days of rain.”

Gwenllian had been marvelous, treating her as a beloved sister and alternately offering support and distractions ever since Rhiannon arrived. But with both of Gwenllian’s parents alive still, it was almost impossible for her to comprehend the emptiness Rhiannon was feeling. Cadwgan had understood. She’d seen the pain mirrored in his eyes when he’d spoken of his father. But Cadwgan had not traveled with the small caravan that had journeyed from Bryn Eithin to transport her father’s body to its final resting place, and despite his reassurances that he would visit the llys before much time had passed, Rhiannon had not seen him since he and his men had quit Bryn Eithin a few hours before she’d left it herself.

Gwenllian tightened her grip on Rhiannon’s arm and guided her away from the graves. “I might have gone mad if I’d been stuck inside much longer. Even the guards were complaining of the wet, and they never complain about anything at all.”

“Nothing at all?” Rhiannon’s smile widened. Gwenllian’s bent for exaggeration was often the very best distraction.

“Well, I have heard one or two make mention of the lack of extra bread at the evening meal these last few days. But in truth, how is the dough meant to rise when the air is cold and wet from morning till night?”

“How indeed?”

“And at least there was plenty of fish with last evening’s meal.” Gwenllian paused. “Although, now that I think on it, there was a table of soldiers expressing their dislike of the pungent smell when the servants brought in the platters of cod and plaice.”

“Ah, so it would seem there have been a few additional grumbles in the llys beyond those directed at the weather.”

Gwenllian had the grace to laugh. “Mayhap one or two.” She tugged Rhiannon away from the secluded cemetery and toward the spot where the narrow grassy headland gave way to sandy slopes. “But not today. I hereby declare that this day shall be free of all grievances. A perfect day, actually. And as I am daughter to Owain Gwynedd, my word should be taken as a command.”

“But of course,” Rhiannon said. “I am quite sure the wind and the waves will recognize such undeniable authority immediately.”

“I would certainly hope so.” Gwenllian’s eyes sparkled. “Shall we put them to the test?”

Rhiannon had never been one to deny the call of the sea—particularly when facing sadness and inner turmoil. “I should like that. But what is to be the punishment if the waves splash our gowns or the wind tugs our hair free of its ribbons?”

Gwenllian appeared to ponder the matter. “If neither element behaves as it should, we shall not visit the beach again for a week.”

“To be clear,” Rhiannon said. “Are we to punish ourselves or the sea?”

The breeze teased the loose tendrils of her hair and her cousin smiled ruefully. “No matter my royal upbringing, it seems that issuing well-thought-out punishments is beyond me. I had best hope that Anarawd has no need of such skills in his future wife.”

Rhiannon smiled comfortingly. Although Gwenllian’s hand had been offered to Anarawd ap Gruffydd, prince of Deheubarth, as a means of forming an alliance and strengthening the Kingdom of Gwynedd, she had the good fortune of being promised to a man whom she had met more than once and for whom she had already started to develop warm feelings. “Anarawd is blessed to be promised to so lovely a bride,” she said. “You shall be an asset to both him and his kingdom.”

The humor left Gwenllian’s eyes, and her expression softened. “I thank you for your kind words, Rhiannon, but be assured that when the time is right for your betrothal and marriage, the gentleman who claims you will be the luckiest of men.”

A vision of Cadwgan’s brooding face flooded Rhiannon’s mind. Would he wait for her, or would he seek another who was willing to be his bride straightway? Her heart did not answer. Neither did it beat any faster. But mayhap, with time, she would come to feel something akin to the happiness she saw in Gwenllian’s eyes when she spoke of her marriage to Anarawd.

Chapter 10