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Cadwgan glanced at her, his expression thoughtful. He turned the pendant in his hand. The sunbeams swirled. “How much for this one?” he said loudly.

“Raising your voice does not assist comprehension,” Leif said. He stepped forward but kept his face averted from Rhiannon. “And that particular item is not for sale.”

The words spilled out without forethought, driven by an emotion he did not understand. He simply knew that he could not countenance the haughty nobleman taking possession of that particular necklace.

Cadwgan’s dark eyes sparked with anger. “Your name, if you please.”

“Leif,” he said. This was not the time to give his parentage. Any nobleman with close connections to the crown would recognize the name of Jarl Ottar of Dyflin.

“How does a Norseman come to speak the Gaelic tongue?”

Cadwgan offered no introduction, and Leif attempted to tamp down his irritation. As far as the nobleman knew, he was a simple silversmith and deserved no such courtesy.

“I live in Ireland. Gaelic is spoken there.”

Cadwgan’s nostrils flared, a sure sign that he did not appreciate Leif’s blunt response. But Leif owed this nobleman nothing—least of all, one of his most valuable pieces of jewelry. He extended his hand for the pendant. “There are many other fine items available for purchase,” he said.

With a scowl, Cadwgan dropped the necklace into Leif’s hand and turned away. “Are you ready to visit the candlemaker, Rhiannon?”

She did not reply immediately. Leif shifted slightly, meeting her eyes for the first time. Her face was ashen.

“No,” she finally whispered. “It cannot be.” She raised one hand to her mouth to stifle a sob and staggered back a pace.

“Rhiannon! What is it?” Gwenllian reached her side.

“The Viking.” She shook her head as though unable to say the words. “He . . . he . . . was there. He . . .”

Guilt, hot and searing, pierced Leif’s chest. “Please, Rhiannon,” he said, taking a step toward her. “I would speak with you.”

“No,” she cried, cutting him off before he could say anything more. She seized Gwenllian’s hand. “We must go. Now.”

He sensed movement at his left and swung around just in time to avoid Cadwgan’s vicious thrust. The blade in his hand missed its mark, but the nobleman was undeterred.

“What manner of vermin are you to speak to one of Cymry’s noblewomen with such familiarity?” He lunged again. Leif sidestepped and reached for the knife at his belt.

“Stop,” Rhiannon sobbed. “I beg of you. There has been too much needless bloodshed already.”

Ignoring her, Cadwgan advanced a step. Leif sensed Knud’s presence, tense and alert behind him. Beyond the small group, a crowd of whispering spectators was gathering.

“She is right, my lord,” Leif said. “I have no desire to do you harm.”

“Silence,” Cadwgan growled.

Leif circled left, his eyes not leaving the nobleman’s face. He stopped and feigned a step to the right. Cadwgan pounced. Leif pivoted, catching the Cymry off guard. He reached for Cadwgan’s wrist and squeezed. The nobleman’s knife clattered to the ground.

“One should never underestimate a grip born of rowing across the sea, my lord,” Leif said, pulling Cadwgan’s arm behind his back and leaning close. “Rhiannon ferch Iorwerth has expressed her desire for no bloodshed. Unlike you, I shall honor her wishes.”

“Knud,” he said, reverting to Norse. “Pick up his knife and give it to the lady with the long dark hair.”

There was a rustle behind him and then Knud’s voice. “It is done, Leif.”

Forcing Cadwgan to turn around, Leif faced Rhiannon once more. “The choice is yours, my lady,” he said, speaking in Gaelic once more. “If you choose to leave with the knife in your hand, there will be no further bloodshed. If not, I can give you no promise.”

Cadwgan pulled against his grasp. “Return it to me, Rhiannon. He will not wrest it from me a second time.”

Rhiannon lowered her gaze to the knife in her trembling hand. All around them, the crowd hushed. Leif counted the pounding beats of his heart. A baby cried, and then Rhiannon moved. Wrapping her fingers around the handle of the knife, she backed away. “I wish to return to the llys, Cadwgan.”

Gwenllian moved to stand at her side. “Come,” she said. “I will go with you.” The two young ladies walked away. The spectators parted for them.