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“No. But I daresay the locals at the market on Ongullsey would happily recount recent news from within the royal court. Especially to visiting Norse merchants who were willing to listen.” His father smiled, a slow, self-satisfied smile. “Did you not tell me that you and Knud have been creating silver items to sell?”

“The market is in Veisafjordr, Father. Not Gwynedd.”

“I have been told that Norsemen with goods to sell are always welcome at the markets on Ongullsey.”

“Forgive me,” Leif said stiffly. “I find it hard to believe that the very people who so openly abhor Vikings would willingly make room for Norsemen at their market.”

“Then you have much to learn of human nature,” his father said. “It is remarkable how quickly avarice for an unusual silver armband or an exquisite Viking necklace will change hearts.”

The thought did not sit well. “I am a silversmith, not a spy. I do not—”

His father’s eyes flashed, and he raised his hand, stopping Leif’s refusal before it fully began. “Do not misunderstand me, Leif. I am not issuing a suggestion. The brother of Gwynedd’s king has come to Dyflin spewing forth words of treachery. He wishes the Vikings to form an allegiance with him. We must know the truth before we proceed. Not only do you have a sound reason for visiting the island where the king dwells, but you are the son of the jarl and speak the best Gaelic of any Norseman in Dyflin. You may have eschewed Viking raids, but with your brother and our forty strongest men gone, you are duty bound to your people to do this.”

It was true. All of it. Smothering the painful memories of his last visit to Gwynedd, Leif straightened his shoulders and inclined his head. “I will speak to Knud directly. We shall leave with the tide tonight.”

“Put out your wares at the market closest to Owain Gwynedd’s court. A casual conversation with those who come and go freely within the llys will teach you much about what has occurred. Learn what you can of the king’s mindset and where he places the blame,” his father said. “Cadwaladr and his men will be kept under lock and key until I receive your report.”

The message was clear. Do what must be done and return directly. It was the Viking way. And in this instance, the familiar pattern was just as well. The less time Leif spent in Gwynedd, the less likely it was that his thoughts would dwell on the young woman from that land who had haunted his dreams for so long.

Chapter 13

Rhiannon stood in front of the door to Gwenllian’s chambers. It had been a week since her cousin had shut herself away to grieve over the loss of her betrothed. Seven long days of waiting for Hywel to return from Ceredigion with a report from Cadwaladr’s residence. And seven unnerving days of watching the king pace the llys muttering about betrayal, dishonor, and revenge.

There was nothing Rhiannon could do about Hywel’s continued absence or Owain Gwynedd’s foul temper, but surely there was some way to help Gwenllian move forward. Something that might make this day better than the previous seven.

She knocked, and Gwenllian’s maid, Bethan, answered the door.

“Good day, Bethan,” Rhiannon said. “I am here to see Princess Gwenllian.”

Bethan shifted her feet anxiously. “I fear that the princess is not of a mind to entertain anyone at present, Miss Rhiannon.”

“Of that, I am sure. But I am not here to be entertained.” She leaned forward and lowered her voice to a whisper. “Allow me entrance, and if your mistress objects to my presence, I shall tell her that I forced you to admit me.”

Bethan glanced over her shoulder before settling a concerned look on Rhiannon. “Very well, miss. I reckon she could use some company.”

“As do I,” Rhiannon said, quashing the last of her qualms and stepping into the room. “Where is she?”

“In bed, miss.”

“At this hour?” Noonday was rapidly approaching, bringing with it the heat of the afternoon sun.

“She . . . she claimed there was nothing to rise for.”

Rhiannon sighed. She’d faced more than her share of loss, so she recognized the hurt Gwenllian was experiencing, but she also knew that giving up was not the answer. “Lead me to her.”

Bethan crossed the straw-covered floor to stand before a large tapestry suspended from an iron rod.

“Miss Rhiannon is here to see you, Your Highness,” she said.

“Tell her that I am not entertaining callers today,” Gwenllian said, her voice muffled.

Rhiannon moved forward and pulled back the tapestry. “She told me that already. I am come to change your mind.”

Gwenllian raised her arm so that it covered her eyes. “No, Rhiannon. Leave me in peace.”

“This wallowing in misery,” Rhiannon said, pausing to gesture at the rumpled bedding and Gwenllian’s tangled hair, “is not peace.”

Gwenllian moaned. “Close the drape. The sunlight is hurting my eyes.”