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Cadwgan leaned forward so as to talk past Rhiannon. “What news, Hywel?”

On her left, Hywel shrugged. “I have yet to be told. From the little I overheard, I would surmise that Cadell has some unanticipated visitors.”

Rhiannon swallowed. It might be a nobleman traveling through Dinefwr from a neighboring kingdom. Or perchance a marcher lord wishing to speak with the new prince of Deheubarth. Her thoughts whirled, searching for any scenario but the one that placed Leif in a room filled with armed knights and surrounded by castle guards.

“If that is the case,” Cadwgan said, “he must consider himself a person of much worth to interrupt the king’s meal.”

“True.” Hywel eyed the main doors curiously. “Or he comes bearing news of great importance.”

Rhiannon hands were so tightly clasped her fingers hurt. She forced herself to relax her hold.

“It seems that word of fresh skirmishes with the Normans in the Marchlands reach the king daily,” she said. “Mayhap they have spread into Deheubarth.”

“Aye.” Hywel nodded. “It could be that.”

Cadwgan appeared unconvinced. He took a swig of ale and set his goblet down with a firm thud. Rhiannon started. With a raised eyebrow, he studied her, his penetrating appraisal sending alarm skittering down her spine.

“Methinks you know more about these visitors than you are sharing, Rhiannon.”

“How could that be, my lord?” Rhiannon met his cold eyes. “If someone has come, it is a recent occurrence, and I have been seated beside you this entire time.”

“Your suspicious nature does you no favors, Cadwgan,” Hywel said, a hint of anger in his voice.

“So you say,” Cadwgan responded, his eyes flashing. “But I would counter that it has served me well. It has kept me alive, which is more than can be claimed by others within our family.”

Hywel’s forehead creased, his expression perplexed. “You consider Rhiannon a threat to your safety?”

“Only a fool places his full trust in another,” he retorted.

A vision of her father gazing adoringly at her mother when she entered the great room at Bryn Eithin filled Rhiannon’s mind, and she fought back tears. Her parents had known deep love and complete trust. Until her mother’s untimely passing, theirs had been a marriage filled with joy.

Her fingers found the brooch she’d pinned to her gown. At first, she had been unsure of her future with Cadwgan, but ever since Owain Gwynedd had voiced his intention to announce their betrothal, she had known dread. Now, both unsettling emotions had been replaced by a new and firm conviction. No matter how far she had to go to escape the nobleman’s machinations or the king’s decree, she would never be Cadwgan ap Gronw’s bride.

Before she could dwell any further upon this realization, the great hall’s main doors swung open to admit half a dozen armed guards. All chatter in the room ceased. Every eye watched the two men who walked in their wake toward the head table. Another half dozen guards followed, effectively surrounding the visitors. Cadell’s marshal stepped up and bowed to those seated at the head table.

“Your Highnesses, I present to you Leif, son of Jarl Ottar of Dyflin.”

With their hands on the hilts of their swords, the guards at the front moved aside to allow Leif and Knud to approach the head table.

A few of the ladies in the room gasped. The sound was followed by a low rumbled murmur from the knights. At the head table, there was deafening silence. Rhiannon stared at Leif and reminded herself to breathe.

The man who had blended in with commoners in the tref was gone. Taller than most of the guards in the room, Leif approached the king with confidence. His tunic was the same deep blue as his eyes and was elaborately embroidered around the neck and sleeves. A small purse and knife hung at his girdle, and his blond hair remained loose, falling below his shoulders.

“Prince Cadell,” he said, bowing to the ruler of Deheubarth and lord of the castle. “I carry with me the greetings of my father, Jarl Ottar of Dyflin, and the Norse people of Ireland.”

Cadell accepted the salutation with the inclination of his head.

“Well met, Owain, king of Gwynedd,” Leif said, executing a second bow.

“A Viking who speaks Gaelic,” Owain Gwynedd said. “Unusual, indeed.” He studied Leif guardedly. “What brings you to Dinefwr Castle, Leif, son of Jarl Ottar? It is not often that your people venture so far inland.”

“I made the journey as a Norseman in search of truth,” Leif said. “I am come to the castle to deliver that truth to those who need to hear it.”

“And what truth might that be?”

“The name of the man responsible for the murder of Prince Anarawd of Deheubarth.”

Owain Gwynedd stiffened. Rhiannon glanced at Gwenllian. Her face was pale. Beside Gwenllian, Cadell sat perfectly still, his eyes not leaving Leif.