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“If one of them chooses to climb up to see what lies on the other side of the promontory, we have minutes, at best.”

A shout sounded, and the rattle of falling rocks filled the inlet. With renewed urgency, Knud dipped his oars into the water and pulled. The boat slid forward.

“Watch for the sandbar up ahead,” he warned from the bow of the boat.

Silently praying that the tide had risen sufficiently to allow them access to the open water, Leif raised his oars. He heard the soft grind of the hull brushing the sandbar, but moments later, a receding wave caught the boat, lifting it free and sending it through the inlet’s narrow opening and into the sea.

There was another shout, this one much closer.

Leif did not turn around. “Row,” he said.

A splash sounded at his right, followed by another at his left. Arrows. A solid thud vibrated through the boat.

Knud’s head whipped up. “They hit the mast.”

“Row harder,” Leif urged.

Experience lent them rhythm; well-used muscles gave them speed. The boat cut through the water like a knife through butter. Behind them, the voices faded until all that could be heard was the sound of the wind, the waves, and the splash of their oars.

“Enough,” Leif panted, lifting his oars. “We are beyond the range of their longbows.”

Knud lowered his head to catch his breath. “I would not recommend fleeing arrows by sea as the best method of awakening from a nap.”

Leif managed a wry smile. “Better that than awaking to a dagger at your throat.”

“I cannot argue with you on that score.” Knud rolled his shoulders and raised his head. “What of the sail? Was it damaged?”

The fading light made it impossible to tell. “Lower the sailcloth. We shall make the best use of it we can, even if it is torn.”

As Knud reached for the leather straps attached to the wool sail, Leif took one last look over his shoulder at the smudge of land disappearing in the darkness. Had Rhiannon returned to the llys only to send Cadwgan after him? The thought filled him with unexpected sorrow. So too did the realization that he would likely never know.

Chapter 18

Rhiannon awoke in a cold sweat. It had been months since she’d relived her father’s death so vividly, but tonight’s nightmare had been different. The characters had changed roles.

Tossing back the bedcovers, she stumbled to her feet and crossed the room to the small table on which sat a pitcher and bowl. She lifted the pitcher. Her hands trembled, sending water spilling onto the table as she attempted to pour a small portion of the liquid into the bowl.

“Help me, Father God.” It was the same simple plea she’d uttered after every nightmare in the past, but this time more than ever, she felt the need for divine aid and comfort.

Setting down the pitcher, she splashed the cool water on her face and neck and wiped it dry with a nearby rag even as her nightmare’s last images replayed in her mind. The vicious, redheaded Viking raising his arm to throw his axe at her father and Leif snatching the weapon from him moments before it launched. Cadwgan stepping out of the shadows, his longbow drawn. Her scream masking the whoosh of the arrow in flight and her father’s cry as it pierced his chest.

Lowering her head, she took three cleansing breaths. The pictures would fade. They always did. But she could not return to bed until her overwhelming distress had passed. She reached for the shawl draped over the nearby chair and drew it across her shoulders. Her hands shook still. This nightmare had affected her deeply.

She moved closer to the window. Pushing open a shutter, she gazed out at the night sky. It was black and sprinkled with myriad pinpricks of light. Her gaze instantly landed upon Ursa Major, and she followed the line of stars to the bright light of Polaris. The star that guided men home. That was what her father had called it. She swallowed the lump in her throat. Where was her home?

Bryn Eithin, the home of her childhood, now belonged to another. Some might say that the llys was her home. She had lived here for two years. But although the royal family had made her feel welcome, it had never truly felt like home. Cadwgan had once offered her his home. Would he ever do so again? She shuddered, the memory of her nightmare still fresh in her mind.

Inevitably, her thoughts slid to Leif. Was he using Polaris to guide him home to Ireland this very night? She tried to imagine what it would feel like to use the wind and the waves to travel so far, to be one with the sea and the stars. In her small chamber built of stone, such freedom seemed as intangible as smoke.

Cadwgan had arrived back at the llys just as the royal family was leaving the great hall. She had been relieved to see him return unharmed, but since he and his men had lacked all hint of jubilation, it seemed clear that his quest to discover the Norsemen had been unsuccessful. Hywel had not been satisfied with supposition alone, however, and had pressed Cadwgan for details.

“We saw them,” Cadwgan had said. “They were hiding like water rats in the inlet beyond the bay and were too cowardly to face us like men.”

“What happened?” Gwenllian had asked. Rhiannon had been afraid to question him further, but curiosity had drawn her cousin out of the contemplative mood that had descended upon her after hearing of their impending journey to Deheubarth.

“They took to sea.” Cadwgan’s response had been terse.

Surely Rhiannon’s sense of relief at such news was wrong. She, more than anyone, had reason to wish the early demise of any Viking. And yet, last night, standing in the courtyard, listening to Cadwgan’s report, she had been glad to know that Leif and his companion had escaped. And now, staring at the stars guiding them across the water, she realized that her sentiment was unchanged.