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Gwenllian took another step back, attempting to pull Rhiannon with her. “But it is not our business. . . . Whatever it is, it is for my father and brother to . . .”

Rhiannon refused to listen. Brushing aside her cousin’s arm, she walked directly into the great hall.

The tables were set for the prenuptial feast, the fire burned brightly, and candles flickered at every table. If there had been servants in the large room before, they were gone now. Only two occupants remained: Owain Gwynedd, dressed in the finery befitting his station, and his son, Hywel, still dressed in his gray wool travel cloak. Whereas Hywel stood with his back to Rhiannon, the king’s face was clearly visible. And it was contorted with anger.

“You come to tell me that this fiendish act was committed by my own brother?”

Hywel ran his fingers through his hair. “All signs indicate that Cadwaladr’s men were behind the murder.”

Murder. Rhiannon’s heart lurched. It was no secret that relations between various branches of the royal family were often strained. Those in positions of power were constantly on guard against hidden allegiances and vendettas designed to oust them from leadership. Those who wished to usurp them were rarely without allies or a clandestine plan. It was a dangerous game that, in the past, had too often ended in bloodshed. But Owain Gwynedd was a strong ruler, and if there had been whispers of treason since he’d taken the throne, he had quashed them before they’d become a reality.

“My own brother?” A hint of disbelief tinged Owain’s anger. “You are sure, Hywel?”

“One of the grooms was called upon to assist two men with their horses in the early hours of the morning. He reports that the men were wearing Cadwaladr’s colors and rode away in haste. Soon afterward, the murder was discovered.”

“He saw them clearly in the dark of night?”

“The moon was full, their red-and-yellow tunics unmistakable.” Hywel hesitated. “Even had his men escape unseen, the dagger used to pierce Anarawd’s heart is known to belong to Cadwaladr.”

The king’s curse was eclipsed by Gwenllian’s cry. Rhiannon swung around. Her cousin had followed her into the room and stood, one hand on a table for support, the other covering her mouth.

“Gwenllian.” The king’s gaze shot to his daughter and then, just as swiftly, to Rhiannon. “Rhiannon. What are you doing here?”

“The banquet.” Rhiannon swallowed. Gwenllian had been right. It would have been better to stay away, to learn of this tragedy another way. “We heard Hywel and his men arrive, and we came . . . we came to see . . .” Her words trailed off.

Owain Gwynedd was no longer looking at her. His attention was on Gwenllian. “Anarawd’s murder shall be avenged, Gwenllian,” he said. “I shall make this right.”

“I was to be married,” she sobbed. “On the morrow. I was to marry Anarawd. If he is truly dead, you cannot make that right.”

Owain Gwynedd’s jaw twitched. He fisted his hands and turned to Hywel. “Where is Cadwaladr now? Was a search made for him in Deheubarth?”

“My men and I joined the hunt as soon as the alarm was raised. All indications are that he and his men escaped by boat to Ireland.”

The king’s eyes narrowed. “So, my brother effectively sealed his guilt by fleeing.”

“Aye,” Hywel said. “And no doubt plans to join forces with the Irish high king.”

Owain Gwynedd shook his head, his expression grim. “Cadwaladr will not be petitioning the Irish for assistance. He has gone to Dyflin, to the Norsemen.”

The Norsemen. For the last two years, Rhiannon had done all in her power to block out memories of the Vikings’ attack on Bryn Eithin. Now, the awfulness of that fateful evening washed over her, remembrance of the cruel eyes of the man who had killed her father leaving her trembling. Another pair of eyes—bluer and filled with something that had resembled remorse—filled her mind. As she’d done so many times in the past, she pushed the vision away. The tall Viking had seemed more humane only because he’d spoken to her in Gaelic.

Taking a few stumbling steps back, Rhiannon reached for her cousin. Gwenllian fell into her arms, her sobs almost masking her father’s curt commands.

“Acquire fresh mounts.” Owain issued the order with icy calm. “I wish you and your men to reach Ceredigion by morning. All of Cadwaladr’s retainers are to be evicted from his home. By order of the king, you are to seize his land and goods and then raze his castle. Cadwaladr has hereby forfeited all rights to property in Ceredigion and Gwynedd.”

Hywel bowed. “It shall be done, Father.”

“Go,” the king said, his expression unreadable. “And let it be known abroad that justice for Anarawd’s murder will be swift and sure.”

Chapter 11

The cry of excited voices reached Leif over the ringing of the hammer against the piece of silver on the anvil before him. He paused, hammer raised, and turned toward the open doors of Old Sten’s workshop. Enough early-morning light was filtering in to allow Leif and Knud to work on the jewelry they were designing to sell at the upcoming market in Veisafjordr, but for most Dyflin residents, the day was too young to be out of bed.

“Is Bjorn’s longboat expected back today?” Knud asked.

It was the most likely cause of the unexpected noise coming from the bay, but the Viking raiders had left only two days before.

Leif set down his tools with a frown. “If Bjorn is returning so soon, I would wager the news is not good. When I spoke with him last, he was aiming for the coast of Brittany.”