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Leif scoured the yard in search of Bjorn. Most of the men had already entered the longhouse. The clatter and rumble of voices now coming from the small building at his rear suggested that others had beaten him to the kitchen.

Another crash sounded as the shutters on one of the longhouse’s windows flew open. By the light of a single candle flickering on the windowsill, Leif saw a man leap out and land catlike on the ground, not more than an arm’s length from the fleeing women.

One of the women screamed.

The man came to his feet, towering over them. “Well, well, what have we here?”

Leif’s stomach curdled at the tone in Rune’s voice. With the Cymry at the stables outnumbered and the men in the kitchen having no need of his assistance, he crossed the short distance between him and Rune at a run.

The candlelight illuminated the pale faces of two women. The older one, whose brown gown was partially covered by a white apron, was pressed against the wall. The other was facing Rune with clenched hands. Her elegant gown indicated her elevated status in the household, and her stance spoke of anger rather than fear.

“Give me that,” she demanded, pointing at a small wooden box in Rune’s hand.

Rune grinned and took another step toward the young woman. “I daresay you are fair enough to make me wish that I understood your tongue.” He raised his free hand and reached for the necklace around the young woman’s neck. She slapped his hand away, and he laughed, grabbing her arm and yanking her closer. “Ah, there is some fire in this one.”

“You are despicable,” she said, her voice shaking with emotion. “First you ransack my home, and then you wish to steal all that I have left of my mother.”

Leif could not tell whether Rune grasped the meaning of her words, but Leif had heard enough. He stepped out of the shadows. The older woman whimpered, but the young one instantly swung her head around to face him.

Her dark eyes met his, and she wrapped her hand around the circled cross at her neck. “You shall not have it,” she cried.

“Let her go, Rune,” Leif said, reverting to his Norse tongue.

Rune’s grip on the girl remained firm. “I am not finished with her yet.”

The shouts and clanks associated with deadly combat continued on the other side of the yard.

Leif met the man’s eyes with a chilling stare. “We came for food—not women or trinkets.”

Rune gave a derogatory snort. “To ignore such things when they are here for the taking is foolishness.”

“I disagree,” Leif said through gritted teeth. “True foolishness is to disrespect the captain of one’s boat.”

Rune’s narrowed eyes told of his simmering anger. The man was five years Leif’s senior. His broad shoulders hinted at his formidable strength, but Leif was a hand’s width taller than him and had the advantage of rank. He stood completely still, waiting.

With a grunt of disgust, Rune released the young woman and pushed her away. She stumbled, righted herself, and then lunged for the wooden box in Rune’s other hand. The Viking anticipated her move, raising the box out of her reach and hitting her across the head with the back of his other hand. She cried out in pain and staggered backward.

“Miss Rhiannon!” The older woman’s shriek cut through the night and was answered by a roar of fury.

Leif pivoted. One of the Cymry had broken free of the melee at the stable doors and was running toward them, his sword raised. The muscles in Leif’s arms tensed. Gripping his knife more securely, he shifted to the right. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rune step behind the young woman and reach for the axe at his hip.

“Touch her again and I shall run you through!”

The Cymry’s shout had barely left his lips before Rune let his axe fly. The deadly weapon sailed through the air, penetrating the older man’s chest with a sickening thud. Their assailant staggered sideways before doubling over and dropping to the ground.

“Father!” The young woman’s cry of anguish reached deep into Leif’s heart. She bolted to the fallen man’s side, dropping to her knees in the dirt. “No. No, Father.”

Leif crossed the short distance between them. The young woman had taken hold of her father’s hand and was frantically smoothing back the gray hair from his face. The older man moaned.

“Forgive me, bach.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “I . . . I failed you.”

“No, Father. You have never failed me. And you never shall.” Tears were streaming down the young woman’s face.

Rune approached. With a curled lip, he looked down at the injured man. “One day the Cymry will learn that they are no match for a Viking,” he said. And then he reached down and pulled his axe from the man’s chest.

His victim moaned and gave one last faltering breath before falling silent.

“Father!” the young woman sobbed.