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A breeze danced into the room through the open window. Reluctant to close the shutter, she gathered the shawl around herself more tightly. The courtyard below was silent. A single torch burned at the llys’s main gate, marking the entrance for travelers arriving at night and lighting the way for the guards. But for now, the royal court was silent.

Rhiannon rested her head against the window frame and closed her eyes. How much of what Leif had said could she truly believe? He’d spoken of God—her God—as though he knew Him. And the remorse in his eyes and voice when he’d recalled the Viking raid upon her home had seemed genuine. If it had caused him to turn his back on the life he’d been born to, it was significant indeed.

She sighed. He’d talked of forgiveness. It was something she’d never thought to entertain when it came to Vikings. Even now, revulsion for the man who had felled her father churned in her stomach. But if she was honest with herself, she could admit that sometime during the last twenty-four hours, there had been a softening in her attitude toward Leif. She had not reached full forgiveness—mayhap she never would—but she no longer felt fearful in his presence, and she found herself wishing that she knew him better.

The sound of footsteps reached her through the open window. She looked out to see a guard’s silhouette outlined against the gate. Another guard approached to take his place. Rhiannon glanced at the sky again. The horizon was tinged with the gray light of oncoming dawn; the night shift was over.

Closing the shutter, she crossed the room and crawled into bed with her shawl still about her shoulders. The day ahead would be filled with preparations for a long journey, and her opportunity to rest was rapidly disappearing. Blocking all thoughts of Leif from her mind, she pondered on the beauty of the stars and the majesty of the sea. Her body relaxed, her breathing slowed, and sleep finally overtook her.

Rhiannon woke to a knock on the door of her chamber. Blinking against the bright light streaming through the chinks in the shutters, she pulled herself into a sitting position on the bed. Her shawl fell from her shoulders, reminding her of the reason she had slept so late. “Who’s there?” she called.

“Euan, Miss Rhiannon. I bear a message from the king.”

Rhiannon stumbled out of bed. She could not very well put off receiving Owain Gwynedd’s page. With no sign of her maid, Efa, Rhiannon tugged her shawl more fully around herself, ran her fingers through her tangled mane, and opened the door.

Euan bowed. “Forgive the interruption, Miss Rhiannon. Owain Gwynedd requests that you join him in the great hall at noon.”

“Of course,” she said, assuming a calm she did not feel. “Please tell the king that I would be honored to meet with him.” She tightened her grasp on the ends of her shawl. It was not the page’s duty to do her bidding, but she was desperate. “While you are on your way back to the great hall, if you would be so good as to get word to Efa that I am in need of her assistance, I would be most grateful.”

He bowed again. “Yes, miss.”

Rhiannon closed the door and leaned against it. She took a deep breath. What the king wanted with her, she did not know, but such a summons was rarely a good thing. Pushing away from the door, she hurried to her wash basin. If the position of the sun in the sky was any indication, she had no time to spare.

It was not long before the echo of the guards’ marching footsteps outside marked the arrival of the noon hour.

Efa tied a strip of leather to the bottom of Rhiannon’s plait and stepped back. “That should do it, miss.”

“Bless you, Efa.” Rhiannon rose from her chair and hurried to the door. “I cannot thank you enough.”

Her maid bobbed a curtsy. “’Twas nothing, miss.”

Rhiannon took the passage that led to the spiral staircase at a run. Placing her hand on the smooth stone walls to guide her, she navigated the east tower’s steep stairs, emerging into the daylight at the bottom. Hastening across the courtyard, she passed through the arched entrance that led to the great hall.

The passage was empty. She stood outside the main doors and ran her hands down her blue gown. Drawing back her shoulders, she took another deep breath and knocked.

“Enter!”

Rhiannon pushed open the door. The vast room was empty, save for Owain Gwynedd. He sat on a large, ornately carved wooden chair on a raised platform to her right.

She dropped to a curtsy. “You asked to see me, Sire.”

“I did.” He beckoned her forward. “I wish to thank you for the particular kindness you have shown to Gwenllian since the news of Anarawd’s death reached us. She spoke with me last evening and told me of your benevolence.”

Relief filled her. If she had been summoned simply to allow the king to offer her his thanks, all was well. “It has been my pleasure.”

“You and Gwenllian have become close friends these past two years. I fear that with Gwenllian’s marriage postponed, your upcoming separation will be all the more difficult.”

In an instant, Rhiannon’s relief evaporated. “What separation is that, Sire?”

“Cadwgan ap Gronw requested an audience with me last evening.”

A large stone settled in Rhiannon’s stomach. She clasped her hands together, willing herself to remain calm.

“He has been extremely patient, Rhiannon,” the king continued. “Indeed, I am twice amazed that he has waited so long after your father’s death to renew his offer of marriage. Cadwgan’s consideration of your time of mourning is to be commended.”

“Yes, Sire.” She could not argue the point, even though her heart screamed that she was still unready to enter into marriage vows with the nobleman.

“With your father now gone, he has come to me asking for your hand in marriage. I have given my consent.”