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Turning her back on the distant mountain range, Rhiannon scoured the beach below for any sign of life. Soon after her arrival at Ynys Môn, she’d discovered that strict restrictions governed the lives of royal household members. Rules while living within the llys and rules when away from it. Conforming to those expectations had felt as though she were having her wings clipped, but gratitude for her inclusion in the family had prompted obedience. Except in one instance.

For as long as she could remember, being beside the sea had brought her solace and peace. Walking the sandy beach was a time to think, a time to pray. She could only do those things on a deep personal level if she was alone. And so, even though it was against Owain Gwynedd’s explicit instructions, she occasionally slipped out of the llys in the early hours of the morning to spend time with her own thoughts on the shore.

Today, the only movement in the crescent-shaped bay came from a pair of cormorants fighting over something on the distant rocks. Ignoring the birds’ raucous cries, Rhiannon followed a narrow path through the scrub grass to the beach. She carried her shoes in one hand and raised her gown’s hem with the other as she ran across the cold, wet sand to the water’s edge. White foam fringed the waves, quickly coating her toes and leaving them so cold she could barely feel them. She sighed. Oh, that one’s heart could be so easily numbed.

Last night, upon the news of Anarawd’s death, Gwenllian had declared her heart forever broken. Rhiannon understood. She’d felt the same when her father had been killed. And yet, time had a magic all its own. It did not erase pain, but it made it bearable. It could not replace a loved one, but it could bring others into one’s life to help fill a void. Two years ago, Gwenllian had been one of those people for Rhiannon. And Rhiannon desperately wished to return her cousin’s act of kindness.

She searched the horizon. To the west, the sea stretched out as far as the eye could see, with no land to mar the prospect. And yet, those who knew—those who’d sailed beyond Gwynedd’s shores—claimed that Ireland was not so far distant. How long would Cadwaladr have to travel to reach its coast? And would he be welcomed there?

A shiver ran down her spine as Owain Gwynedd’s words rang through her mind. He has gone to Dyflin, to the Norsemen. Were all Norsemen as depraved as the ones who had ravaged her home? Once again, memories of the tall Viking’s troubled eyes returned, and for the first time, she allowed herself to consider the possibility that his intentions had not been as evil as those of his comrade. Indeed, was Cadwaladr, a man ruthless enough to have his niece’s groom killed on the very week of their wedding, any better than a Viking?

Surely the answer was no. All too often, it seemed that life was a mass of tangled riddles, and if she could only solve the most important one and hold fast to the truth it revealed, all would be well. But somehow, in the chaos of life, it was easy to lose sight of those simple answers and, thereby, lose sight of the truth.

What was the truth surrounding Anarawd’s death? Cadwaladr had to have a strong motive for plotting so despicable an act. He was not in line to benefit in rank or lands from the prince of Deheubarth’s passing. Owain Gwynedd had obviously viewed his daughter’s marriage as a means to cement an alliance between the two kingdoms. Would Cadwaladr have considered his brother’s increased influence a threat to his own position? She shook her head slightly. She did not know enough of the machinations of powerful men to have the answers.

Turning to her right, she started toward the narrow peninsula at the far end of the bay. Her heels sank into the sand as she walked, and a piece of seaweed floated up the beach and back out to sea. She paused to watch it go. And then, closing her eyes, she allowed the gentle shushing of the waves to soothe her troubled mind. Amidst the current anger and unrest in the kingdom, three constants remained as fixed as they always had been: the presence of God, the reliability of the sea, and the promise of time. No matter what lay ahead, Rhiannon would find her way. And so would Gwenllian.

Chapter 12

Leif’s father sat upon a large, intricately carved wooden chair in the great hall. In Bjorn’s absence, Leif stood at his right. Halfdan, his father’s closest adviser, stood at his left. A few yards away, Cadwaladr ap Gruffydd faced them. The five men who had accompanied the nobleman across the Irish Sea flanked him, but their presence was nothing compared to the Norse guardsmen lining the room.

“You came to Dyflin uninvited, Cadwaladr ap Gruffydd.” Leif’s father spoke sternly. “What brings you here?”

The nobleman met his glare without flinching, but he made no response.

Leif’s father grunted in frustration. “Leif, it appears that we are in need of your fluency in the Gaelic tongue. I would have you translate.”

“As you wish, Father.” Leif’s confidence in speaking Gaelic had improved immeasurably, thanks to his regular interaction with Father Robert and his attendance at the Christian church meetings. He eyed Cadwaladr and translated his father’s words.

No matter that Leif’s pronunciation differed from his own, the nobleman appeared to understand. “I am come to ask for assistance from the Viking chief,” he said.

The words were sufficiently similar that Leif grasped his meaning and repeated them in Norse.

His father raised his eyebrows. “The Cymry are not known for requesting assistance of anyone. Ask him why he is doing so now.”

Leif complied, and for the first time, he saw a hint of uncertainty—fear, even—in their royal visitor’s eyes.

“Anarawd ap Gruffydd, prince of Deheubarth, is dead, and I have been unjustly accused of being his murderer. Until my name has been cleared of wrongdoing, it is not safe for me to remain in Deheubarth, Ceredigion, or Gwynedd.”

“Why did you not go to your brother, the king, with this grievance?” Leif’s father asked after Leif had translated Cadwaladr’s explanation.

“Anarawd was to be his son-in-law,” Cadwaladr said. “He was killed on the week of his wedding to Owain’s daughter, Gwenllian. My brother’s fury over the loss of a prosperous alliance, along with his daughter’s crushing disappointment, will undoubtedly taint his view of the facts.” He paused. “Those who sought to implicate me in the murder employed every effort to leave a trail of false clues behind.”

“Why should we believe you?” Leif’s father’s voice rang with skepticism. “What is to stop you from spinning a tale such as this only to commit a similar crime in Dyflin?”

“I know better than to cross a Viking,” Cadwaladr said.

Leif’s father eyed him warningly. “False flattery will avail you nothing here.”

Cadwaladr inclined his head. “I stand by what I said, Jarl Ottar. I have come because I believe the Vikings offer me the best hope of redemption. Your men can enter Gwynedd before Owain amasses his warriors.”

Leif’s father’s eyes narrowed. “You would have me send my men against your own brother?”

“I would have you send your men against the villain who tricked Anarawd’s household into believing that it was I who wished their master dead.”

“And who might that be?”

Cadwaladr frowned. “As of this moment, I can only guess.”