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Knud raised his eyebrows. “Do you believe it was one of Grom’s blades?”

“It had to be. He’s the best bladesmith in Dyflin and the only one who sells his wares abroad.”

Knud whistled through his teeth. “Your father is fortunate that the knife was linked to Cadwaladr. A Viking knife and a dead prince of Deheubarth is a flammable mix.”

Leif nodded grimly. “The brother of the king of Gwynedd seeking refuge with Vikings after committing a murder is equally incendiary. My father must either offer Owain Gwynedd proof of Cadwaladr’s innocence or wash his hands of him.”

“Washing his hands of him would be a far easier option.”

“So my father believes.”

Knud’s glare returned. “Did you truly volunteer us for this madcap expedition when your father was prepared to have Cadwaladr face his future without our interference?”

“I did.”

“Why do I even consider you a friend?”

Leif grinned. “Because you cannot live without me.”

“False. I could live quite happily and far more safely without you.” Knud began putting away the tools that he had only recently taken out. “Frida is making herring for dinner, and I refuse to leave without eating it with her.”

It was a fair request. Leif had no wife at home waiting for him. Knud and Frida deserved one night together.

“We will sail with the morning tide,” Leif said. “And whilst you enjoy Frida’s company and cooking, I will pay a visit to Grom to see what he can tell me about the knife he sold to a member of Gwynedd’s royal house.”

“I wish you luck,” Knud said, already making for the door. “The last I heard, Grom was gone to Britannia. His son is likely watching over the shop.”

Leif nodded. He’d heard the same news. If Grom was away, perhaps Leif would visit Father Robert instead. In truth, his need for counsel from the priest was likely greater than his need for information from the bladesmith.

Chapter 20

The steady cadence of hooves hitting the hard-packed earth mingled with the creak of leather and jingle of bridles as the royal caravan slowly wound its way along the coast road. A flag bearer flanked by two guards led the long cortege. Behind them, Owain Gwynedd sat astride his charger, with Hywel riding at his right and Cadwgan at his left. Members of the king’s retinue, the queen, Gwenllian, and Rhiannon came next, followed by more guards.

For the first part of their journey, the sea had been in plain sight, but now the road was leading them inland. In the distance, the tip of Yr Wyddfa was lost from view in a layer of low-lying clouds. The overcast skies had yet to produce any rain, and Rhiannon silently prayed that their good fortune would continue. Gwynedd’s weather was notoriously fickle, particularly in the spring.

The green hillsides were covered in bright splashes of yellow. It seemed that the blooming gorse bushes were valiantly attempting to bring cheer to the otherwise gray day. Rhiannon sighed. She should not be feeling so disconsolate. After all, they were traveling to attend the burial of Gwenllian’s betrothed, not hers. Another sigh escaped. Why could she not bring herself to be happy that her marriage to Cadwgan was now assured?

Her gaze drifted to the dark-haired man riding at the king’s left.

“He is a fine-looking gentleman,” Gwenllian said.

Rhiannon started. “Who?”

“Why, Cadwgan, of course.” Gwenllian offered her a small smile. “You were gazing upon him.”

Warmth crept up Rhiannon’s cheeks. “I did not think—”

“You do not need to apologize for admiring your betrothed,” Gwenllian said.

Rhiannon was beginning to regret telling her cousin about the betrothal before it was officially announced. Gwenllian’s enthusiasm over the news was significantly greater than her own, and she had brought up Rhiannon’s new status more times than Rhiannon could count.

“Did you spend very much time with Cadwgan when you were young?” Rhiannon asked, looking to the past in an effort to deflect Gwenllian from yet another conversation about her future.

“Not a great deal. He’s significantly older than me, and when one is young, the difference in age seems far greater. Hywel knew him better in his youth than I.”

Rhiannon’s gaze shifted to Hywel. His head was tilted so as to listen to something the king was saying. His hair was lighter in color than Cadwgan’s, his eyes less striking, and his nose slightly bent. And yet his smile was ready. Rhiannon tightened her grip on the reins as she realized that in the two years she’d known him, she had yet to see Cadwgan smile.

“Was he a happy child, do you think?”