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“Yes,” Gwenllian said, the tension in her shoulders visibly lessening. “It is good to be here.”

“Good day, Princess Gwenllian.” The cloth merchant greeted her with a glint in his eyes that hinted at an anticipated sale. “You must see what I have for you.” Without waiting for Gwenllian to respond, he withdrew a bolt of pale-blue finely woven wool from beneath his table. “I did as you asked, you see, and I set this aside for you. Such exquisite fabric should be worn only by royalty.”

Gwenllian ran her fingers across the cloth. “It is very fine.”

“It was created by master weavers in Flanders.”

Gwenllian’s eyes widened. “Flanders, you say?”

“Aye, Your Highness.” He took in Cadwgan’s skeptical expression and straightened his shoulders. “Any good wool merchant would recognize the unique quality of cloth produced there.”

“How did you come by it?” Cadwgan asked.

“The best weavers are always anxious for wool from Gwynedd, my lord, and are often willing to barter to acquire it.”

His answer likely lacked the details Cadwgan had hoped for, but Gwenllian was more than satisfied. “What do you think, Rhiannon? Is it not the most beautiful fabric you have ever seen?”

“It is, indeed,” Rhiannon said. “It would make a very fine gown.”

Gwenllian’s smile was instant. “My thoughts exactly.” She turned to the merchant. “I wish to purchase your fabric and would have you deliver it to the llys by day’s end.”

Rhiannon caught the merchant’s gratified look immediately before he bowed his head. No doubt he knew that Gwenllian had no more need of another gown than he did.

“It would be my pleasure, Your Highness,” he said.

Cadwgan cleared his throat. “Does this market boast a bladesmith of any worth?” It seemed that the nobleman had tired of discussing fabrics.

“There’s a fellow who comes once a month from over Amlwch way,” the merchant said, “but he usually sets up his stall near Afan the Fishmonger. A couple of silversmiths from Ireland have put out their wares in his usual spot, but whether they have blades to sell, I cannot tell.”

“Silversmiths, you say?” Gwenllian’s interest settled on the intriguing merchandise even as Rhiannon’s was drawn to the travelers who had braved the sea.

“Aye.” The wool merchant pointed to a large man on the other side of the square who was gesturing at a silver bowl lying amid an assortment of other glittering objects on a cloth upon the ground. “There’s one of them, see?”

The stranger’s tunic was cut a little differently than the tunics of the Cymry at the market, and his sandy-colored hair hung in two plaits below his shoulders.

Rhiannon’s breath caught. “He’s a Viking.”

“Norsemen is what they’re calling themselves,” the merchant said. “From Dyflin.”

“I’ve heard tell that the Norsemen are uncommonly skilled silversmiths,” Cadwgan said.

“I’ve heard the same,” the merchant said.

“We should go there next,” Gwenllian said. “Mayhap they have some pieces of Norse jewelry for sale.”

Rhiannon touched the ringed cross that always hung around her neck and swallowed against the memories she had worked so hard to suppress. “I believe I shall visit the candlemaker whilst you see what the Norsemen have brought,” she said.

“Nonsense,” Cadwgan said. “You are as likely as Gwenllian to see a trinket that catches your eye. We shall go together.”

Rhiannon took an unsteady breath. Cadwgan was right, and she was being foolish. There was no need to miss out on seeing the Norsemen’s handiwork for a memory that was so wholly unconnected with this marketplace.

“Come, Rhiannon,” Gwenllian said. “The candlemaker is always here. The Norsemen will have something entirely new to show us.”

Rhiannon managed a weak smile. The market had worked its magic upon her cousin. She could not allow her own irrational fears to undo the progress Gwenllian had made.

The newcomers crossed the square, their sights set on Knud and the goods he stood over. From his position behind the fishmonger’s stall, Leif studied the young woman whose finely embroidered gown and elegantly dressed hair set her apart from the other shoppers. This must be Owain Gwynedd’s daughter. The one whose betrothed had so recently been murdered. He glanced at the nobleman walking beside her. His brooding expression was a fitting accompaniment to his dark hair and eyes. The dagger at his belt and his air of watchful tension spoke of a man alert for possible danger, but no guard would be dressed so finely.

“The gentleman with the princess,” Leif said. “Is that the cousin you spoke of?”