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Beneath her arm, Gwenllian stiffened. Rhiannon ignored the subtle message. There was no doubt her cousin would claim that a ride to the market was beyond her present capabilities. Rhiannon did not believe it. Cadwgan may not have intended for the excursion to assist in Gwenllian’s recovery, but that was precisely what Rhiannon hoped it would do.

“The ninth hour at the stables,” Cadwgan said, confirming the arrangement with an inclination of his head.

It did not escape Rhiannon’s notice that he exhibited no more enthusiasm for the appointment than he would have had Owain Gwynedd scheduled a meeting with him to discuss a hostile incursion. Mayhap he did not consider spending time with her to be as desirable as she would wish.

“I am not certain that—” Gwenllian began.

“Until then, my lord,” Rhiannon said, cutting off her cousin’s pretext for remaining in her bed past noon before it fully began. “Come, Gwenllian. We should inform your father that Cadwgan is here and that Hywel will arrive shortly.”

Thankfully, Hywel’s coming was sufficiently significant to distract Gwenllian from her excuses, and she increased her pace to match Rhiannon’s.

“At this hour, my father should be in the great hall,” she said.

Rhiannon nodded. “Then we shall go there first.”

Leif stood in the shade of a large oak tree and absently swatted a fly away from his face. A few feet away, Knud was haggling with a farmer over the price of an etched silver platter. Notwithstanding his limited Gaelic, Knud was managing the job well. Leif smothered a smile. His friend’s business acumen was almost as impressive as his silversmithing.

Leif allowed his gaze to travel slowly around the marketplace. There was a surprisingly large assortment of vendors. Some were locals, selling such things as vegetables, fish, and honey. Across the small square, a portly fellow had a barrow filled with woolen fabric, and an older couple a little farther down had a table full of linens. Closer to the livestock, women were selling butter, eggs, and cheese.

The square had been filled with people all day. Leif had placed Knud in charge of selling their wares while he’d tuned his ears to the lyrical cadence of the Cymry’s Gaelic. At first, he’d had to concentrate to make sense of the words, but over the last few hours, the differences in pronunciation had seemed to lessen. Not that any increase in his comprehension had been very helpful. He had yet to hear any mention of Anarawd’s death.

“We have sold over half our wares already,” Knud said. “And for a good price.” He grinned. “It seems that Viking silver is valued even more on Ongullsey than it is in Veisafjordr.”

“We may need to hold back some items so we have reason to return another day,” Leif said. “No one has spoken of Anarawd or Cadwaladr within my hearing.”

“What of Owain Gwynedd’s daughter or the wedding that was to happen?” Knud asked.

Leif shook his head. “Not a word.” He eyed the fishmonger at a nearby cart. He was chatting with a young maid as he scooped a handful of mussels into a bowl. If Leif’s initial observations were any indication, the fishmonger was the most talkative of their merchant neighbors. “Mayhap it is time for me to do some fishing,” he said.

Knud followed his gaze. “Aye. I daresay some friendly interaction with the locals would not go amiss.”

Leif grinned. “I am going to take a short walk. Do not sell everything in my absence.”

“Everything but the pendant you created,” Knud said. “That is quite possibly the ugliest piece I have ever seen.”

With a chuckle, Leif turned his back on him. They both knew that the only reason the pendant still lay on the table was because it was priced so high. It had taken Leif a fortnight to perfect the etching on the silver that had been molten and cast to resemble a crashing wave. It was one of his most beautiful pieces of work, and Knud would not sell it for less than the asking price.

Leif wandered closer to the fishmonger’s barrow. As soon as the maid took her leave of the merchant, he approached the man. “What kind of fish do you catch in these waters?” he asked.

The fishmonger looked at him with surprise. “Well, I never. A Norseman who speaks Gaelic!”

“I am glad you understand. The Cymry’s inflection is a little different from what I am used to.”

“Different. Smoother on the tongue. Easier on the ears.” He shrugged. “It’s one an’ the same to a Cymry.”

Leif smothered a smile. It appeared that national pride was not limited to Vikings. “And do the Cymry’s melodious voices attract the biggest fish?”

The fishmonger’s weather-worn face cracked into a crooked smile. “I would not be surprised. Just look at this plaice.” He held up a large, flat fish. “’Ave you ever seen the like?”

“I cannot say that I have,” Leif admitted. “It would feed a family well.”

The fishmonger grunted. “I daresay. But I’m savin’ this one fer the royal court. It’s worthy of the king’s table, this one.”

It was exactly the opening Leif had hoped for. “Does the royal cook buy from you often?”

“Often enough,” the man said, puffing his chest out a bit. “She knows I ’ave the freshest fish at the market.”

“With such regular contact with people living in the llys, you must hear all the news.”