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Leif’s father grunted. “You wish me to send Vikings to invade Gwynedd on nothing more than a vague notion that someone wishes you ill?”

“Someone has accused me of a murder that I did not commit,” Cadwaladr said, his voice rising. “That is considerably more significant than wishing me ill.”

“But no more connected to Norse affairs.” His father leaned back in his chair and waved a hand at the Cymry assembled before him. “Escort them back to their boat. They are to be gone from Dyflin within the hour.”

Leif did not bother to translate his father’s instructions. It seemed that Cadwaladr had recognized the dismissal for what it was. He stepped forward before the guards were close enough to prevent him.

“I will pay you handsomely,” he said.

Leif attempted to take the nobleman’s measure. What was his motivation? Was he plotting the overthrow of Owain Gwynedd and wished to use the Vikings to help him accomplish the treachery? Or was he truly so desperate to clear his name that he would stoop to bribing the leader of a nation with whom the Cymry had a fractious relationship?

“Has he resorted to begging?” Leif’s father asked.

“No. He is offering to pay you for your services.”

Leif’s father studied Cadwaladr silently. “How much?”

Leif translated again.

Cadwaladr did not hesitate. “One thousand head of cattle.”

Leif’s father eyed him thoughtfully, his previous look of dismissal replaced by one of speculation. “A generous offer—unless your coming here is simply a trap, the claim of a murder and promise of a bounty nothing more than a lie.”

“To attempt so risky a deception would be pure folly.”

“I agree. But I have yet to determine your level of foolhardiness.”

“Send someone to my brother’s court,” Cadwaladr said. “Have him discover what is being said about my involvement in Anarawd’s death.”

Leif’s father glowered. He was not one to accept orders from another. “I shall think on it,” he said. “And in the meantime, you and your men shall remain here. Under guard.”

Something that looked remarkably like relief flickered through Cadwaladr’s eyes. “No guard will be necessary,” he said.

“On the contrary,” his father said, rising to his feet as Leif continued to translate for both men. “The guard is essential.” He barked a command at his men. “Take them to the north chamber and lock them up.”

Cadwaladr straightened his shoulders and glared at Leif’s father. “You would lock the brother of Gwynedd’s king in a bedchamber?”

“There is a dungeon if you would prefer.”

“I have done nothing,” Cadwaladr hissed.

His father ignored him. “Guards!” he called. The men who had been watching the exchange moved to surround the Cymry. “Take them away.”

Once again, the Cymry needed no translation. Without a word, they followed Cadwaladr out of the room. Halfdan waited only until the door closed behind them before voicing his concern.

“It could be a devious plot, my lord. The Cymry are known to be wily adversaries.”

“True,” Leif’s father responded thoughtfully. “But one thousand head of cattle is no mean prize if this Cadwaladr ap Gruffydd speaks aright.”

Leif turned from watching the door through which the Cymry had disappeared. “What sense do you have, Father?”

“That he desperately wishes me to accept his offer,” his father said. “But I have yet to ascertain whether it is truly for his own preservation or for a larger, underhanded scheme.”

“How do you intend to uncover the truth?”

His father looked at him, his expression shrewd. “By sending someone I trust to Gwynedd.”

“You would do as Cadwaladr suggested? Do you truly believe Owain Gwynedd would share the details of infighting within Gwynedd’s royalty with a Norseman?”