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Rhiannon released her hand. “Remain here. I will send Myfanwy to you. As soon as she reaches you, go to the trees. I will fetch Nest, and we shall follow.”

“No, Rhiannon. Let me—”

“I am faster on my feet than you,” she interrupted. “I shall join you again in no time.” And then, before Heledd could argue further, Rhiannon left the protection of the wall and darted across the yard.

“Myfanwy!”

At Rhiannon’s urgent whisper, the young maid stumbled to a halt. The mead in the pitcher she was carrying sloshed loudly. “Miss Rhiannon?”

“Yes.” Rhiannon was close enough now that she could see Myfanwy’s face. “Quickly. Put down the pitcher.”

“Here, miss? In the yard?”

Myfanwy could not have sounded more mystified had Rhiannon asked her to place the pitcher on the moon.

“Vikings have come.”

Significantly more mead spilled to the ground.

“V-vikings, miss?”

“Yes. And we have no time to lose.” Rhiannon worked to curb her impatience as Myfanwy set the jug on the ground. “Run to the far corner of the longhouse. You’ll find Heledd there. Go with her to hide in the trees. I must fetch Nest.”

Now that she was free of the pitcher, Myfanwy took off running toward the spot where Heledd waited. Rhiannon did not watch her go. She picked up her skirts and crossed the remaining distance to the kitchen at a sprint.

Chapter 3

Leif could not rid himself of the discomforting feeling that all was not well. He reached the scrub grass and paused to look back at the two longboats lying side by side on the sand. They were far enough up the beach to prevent the tide from reclaiming them but close enough to the water’s edge for a speedy departure. With half a dozen men standing guard, the craft would be well protected. Three more men had been sent up the nearby hill to act as lookouts. But neither of those precautions fully offset the risk of storming the unknown longhouse.

He shifted to his right so that he was within arm’s reach of his brother. “Are you sure this is wise, Bjorn?” Leif kept his voice low. He had no qualms about expressing his concerns privately, but it would not do for the other men to hear him questioning his brother’s leadership.

“The men are hungry,” Bjorn said. “They will row better with their bellies full.”

Leif refrained from pointing out that if the wind were in their sails, there would be plenty of time for the men to rest. Bjorn knew that as well as he did.

“Do you truly believe that a single longhouse will have sufficient food to satisfy forty hungry men?”

“We will take whatever they have,” Bjorn said, his eyes trained on the flickering lights ahead.

Leif frowned into the darkness. There was no reasoning with Bjorn when he was like this. He’d set his sights on the Cymry’s longhouse, and like a hawk circling a field mouse in the grass, he was preparing to pounce.

“We go in as one,” Bjorn said, raising his voice just enough for the waiting men to hear. “All food is to be brought out to the boats.” He raised his arm and eyed the shadowed men sternly. “Is that understood?”

“Are you listening, Knud?” Rune’s whispered taunts had yet to abate. “I am to share whatever spoils you remove from the pantry, but anything I discover in the bedchambers shall be mine to keep.”

Moonlight glinted off Bjorn’s silver armband as he dropped his arm, and Knud’s growled curse was lost beneath the Vikings’ chilling war cry. In a ferocious wave, they rushed toward the longhouse. Crossing the stretch of grass that separated them from the main structure, the men entered the yard and fanned out.

As far as Leif was concerned, they were there for one reason: to find food. Clutching his dagger, he made directly for the small building adjacent to the larger structure. If the aroma of baking bread emanating from the half-open door was any indication, it was the kitchen.

He was within a stone’s throw of the structure when the door opened wider and two figures exited. Indistinguishable in the darkness, the rustle of fabric told him they were women.

“Make haste, Nest.”

The female voice confirmed his guess, and Leif adjusted his thinking from his native Norse to Gaelic. His frequent interaction with the Irish people living around the Viking settlement of Dyflin had given him a good grasp of their language. There was enough similarity between the Gaelic dialects to enable him to follow a rudimentary conversation in the language of the Cymry.

The women ran toward the far corner of the longhouse. A dog barked, the frantic warning sounding uncomfortably close. Turning to gauge the canine’s proximity, Leif saw four men burst out of the stables. Starlight caught the blades in their hands. Instantly, his forward momentum stalled. These men had not been caught unawares; they were wielding weapons.

Several Vikings veered to meet them, their shouts preceding the thuds of impact and the clash of metal.