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Without another word, Cadwgan offered her his arm.

Averting her eyes from him, Rhiannon set her hand upon it and smiled at the children again. “I wish you both well,” she said.

The girls repeated their faltering curtsies, and Cadwgan led her away.

“If you wish to speak to someone, one of my men can fetch the person,” he said. “There is no need for you to go out of your way.”

“In this instance, that was not possible,” Rhiannon said. “Those young girls were standing exactly where their brother had requested that they stay.”

Cadwgan sniffed disparagingly. “They are children.”

“Which makes their obedience all the more admirable.” A change of subject would seem to be the best recourse to counter her mounting irritation with the proud man at her side. “Is there something in particular that Gwenllian is hoping to find?”

“The highest quality linen, I believe.”

They had reached the stall. Rhiannon lowered her hand from his arm and moved to stand beside her cousin.

“Look,” Gwenllian said. “Is this not the finest fabric you have seen?”

Gwenllian’s quest for linen had obviously been forgotten in the presence of the green silk the merchant had laid out before her. Rhiannon ran her fingers over its smooth surface.

“It is magnificent,” she said.

“I agree.” Gwenllian gave a pleased nod and turned to the balding man with the leathery skin, who was standing behind the stall watching them with hawklike attentiveness. “How soon can you have this delivered to the castle?”

“If you have decided upon this fabric, there is no need to wait.” Cadwgan spoke before the man could respond. “One of my men can carry it.” He snapped his fingers, and a retainer stepped forward. “Madoc, I would have you transport this to the castle.”

“Very good, my lord.”

The squat man waited for the merchant to gather up the fabric and then reached for it with his left hand before clasping the other end between his thumb and the remaining portion of his forefinger on his right hand.

Rhiannon reminded herself to breathe. Dai’s description of the man who had demanded a horse the night of Anarawd’s murder circled her mind. Short. Missing half the forefinger on his right hand. She took another breath. Dear heaven. This had to be one of the villains. And he owed his allegiance to Cadwgan.

With her thoughts racing as quickly as her heart, she turned slightly. The other retainers were watching the exchange at the stall. Both stood a full head above the man with the damaged finger. Was one of them the second assailant?

“I thank you for your assistance, Cadwgan,” Gwenllian said.

Rhiannon dragged her attention back to her companions to see Cadwgan incline his head politely. “It is my pleasure.”

A tremor of abhorrence coursed down Rhiannon’s spine, leaving her trembling. The man she was to marry had orchestrated a murder and then duped everyone—including the king—into believing it was done by another.

“Are there any merchants you wish to seek out?” Gwenllian asked.

“I am content to wander the marketplace,” Cadwgan replied. “What of you, Rhiannon?”

Rhiannon opened her mouth to speak, but no words emerged. She cleared her throat.

Gwenllian frowned. “Are you quite well?”

“I am.” Somehow, Rhiannon managed some semblance of a smile. “It is simply that Cadwgan’s question took me by surprise.” She pointed to the other end of the square. “Mayhap we should do as he suggests and walk a while.”

Cadwgan appeared satisfied with her response, and Rhiannon took a moment to regain her composure. Even as the ramifications of her discovery washed over her, it was vital that neither Cadwgan nor his men suspect that she had noticed anything out of the ordinary.

They started across the square. Her thoughts swirling, she focused on putting one foot in front of the other. Owain Gwynedd needed to know what she had discovered. As did Cadell. But if she made a request for an audience with them, how long would it take before they responded? They were locked away in private meetings and would not look kindly upon an interruption. Hywel was more likely to listen to her, but gaining access to him today might be as difficult as reaching his father.

They passed a fishmonger drawing freshwater eels out of a barrel and a farmer’s wife selling butter. A dog barked; a bird took flight. For the people in the marketplace, nothing much had changed in the last few minutes. In Rhiannon’s world, everything had.

Her thoughts flew to Leif. He had been correct to question Cadwaladr’s guilt. Correct to believe that clues to the true perpetrator existed. If he were to learn what she had uncovered, what would he do? She knew the answer immediately. He would inform the king. And if he entered the castle as Leif, son of Jarl Ottar of Dyflin, Owain Gwynedd would be informed directly. Her heart pounded. That was it. Her best means of relaying the information in a timely fashion was to do it through Leif. But how to reach him?