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“I believe that truth was determined weeks ago, Viking.” There was steel in Owain Gwynedd’s voice. “You are come too late, and I would suggest that you quit the castle before that endeavor is also attempted too late.”
“If you are referring to the false accusation of guilt heaped upon the head of Cadwaladr ap Gruffydd,” Leif said, “I would respectfully suggest that you have yet to discover the truth. Cadwaladr came to Dyflin to request the assistance of my father in proving his innocence. Based on what I have learned since arriving in Dinefwr, I can now attest that the so-called proof of your brother’s guilt is nothing more than a deception.”
“How much did my brother pay your father to have you deliver these lies?” Owain Gwynedd growled.
Leif raised his chin a fraction. “He has paid him nothing. My father was unwilling to harbor a murderer, no matter his lineage, but Cadwaladr was so sure that the truth could be uncovered, he offered my father two thousand head of cattle to send a delegation to Deheubarth.”
Owain Gwynedd snorted. “Your father has been twice duped. Cadwaladr cannot pay one cow, let alone two thousand head. He has lost all claim to land and wealth in my kingdom.”
“Cadwaladr’s properties are not my concern,” Leif said. “I stand before you simply to declare that he is innocent of blame in the death of Prince Anarawd. What you choose to do with that information is your right.”
The king remained silent, the flexing of the muscles in his jaw the only indication of his discomposure. Time stood still. Cadwgan’s hand slid from the stem of his goblet to the hilt of his knife. Owain Gwynedd’s gaze shifted from Leif to Cadell.
“Prince Cadell,” he said. “I believe it is time that your guards take these foreign agitators away.”
Chapter 33
All eyes in the room turned to Cadell. Leif sensed Knud’s questioning look, but this was not the time to attempt a translation. This was the time to offer a silent, fervent prayer.
Cadell acknowledged Owain Gwynedd’s suggestion with a slight nod. He leaned forward, his arms on the table, his expression unreadable. “I was given to understand that you had vital information for me, Leif, son of Jarl Ottar. Information that should be relayed without delay. Is that correct, or did you come here simply to propagate whispers and spread unease?”
Leif met his eyes. “If the wrong man had been accused of my brother’s murder, I would want to know it.”
It was obviously not the defensive response Cadell had expected. He took a moment to regroup. “Do you believe that the man who murdered my brother is capable of murdering again?”
“I do.”
Something that looked suspiciously like agreement crossed Cadell’s face, and for the first time, Leif considered the new prince’s tenuous position. If Anarawd had been killed in his own bed in this very castle, Cadell had surely considered the matter of his own safety. With no obvious motive in play, he would wish to be certain that the murderer had been correctly identified and properly dealt with.
Cadell straightened his shoulders. “Very well,” he said. “Before my guards escort you to the dungeon, I will hear what you have to say.”
Owain Gwynedd scowled. Hywel appeared genuinely curious. Leif did not dare look any farther down the table. He had caught a glimpse of Rhiannon when he’d entered the room. A vision in a pale-yellow gown, with her dark hair twisted in an elaborate plait around her head, he had felt her gaze upon him several times, but he could not look upon her. Not without someone else—particularly Cadwgan—taking note. Indeed, the less Cadwgan knew of what brought Leif to the castle, the safer it would be for everyone.
“Might I be so bold as to request a private audience to discuss the matter with you and Owain Gwynedd?” he asked.
Cadell frowned. “Do not attempt to push my willingness to hear your argument beyond this moment, Viking. Say your piece before I reconsider my decision.”
Leif inclined his head. “As you wish, Your Highness.” He had done what he could. There were guards enough in this large hall. The responsibility for Cadwgan’s response to what Leif had to say must now fall upon the Cymry. He fixed his attention on Cadell. “It is my understanding that the primary reason Cadwaladr was blamed for Anarawd’s death is because his knife was discovered with the prince’s body,” he said. “Cadwaladr claims that his knife—one that was unique because it is a Norse-made blade—went missing a few days before the death. He assumed that he had lost it; he now believes it was purposely stolen.”
“It comes as no surprise that he would make such a claim,” Cadell said.
“True,” Leif said. “But his assertion was given more credibility when I spoke with one of the best bladesmiths in Dyflin only this morning.”
“How did you manage that?”
“My companion and I stumbled upon him at the Dinefwr market. There, we learned that a nobleman had come to his stall a few short weeks ago, claiming to have owned a Norse-made knife for a matter of days.” Leif paused. “I would venture that it was just long enough to admire it before committing a murder and leaving it behind.” Cadell grimaced, but before he could object, Leif continued. “Apparently, this nobleman had been so enamored by the weapon, he desired a replacement. The bladesmith sold him one and returned to Dinefwr with the hope that this particular nobleman might recommend his work to another.”
“Who was the nobleman?” Cadell asked.
“His name was Gaelic and began with a C.”
Cadell stiffened. “That is ludicrous. One cannot accuse a man of murder due to the first letter of his name.”
“Agreed.” Cadwgan’s angry voice drew everyone’s attention to the other end of the table. “Surely we have listened to this drivel long enough.”
“Prince Cadell has shown you more courtesy than I would have done, Viking,” Owain Gwynedd warned. “You had best have more to offer him than that.”
An instant dislike of Cadwgan. Intuition. A personal knowledge of Grom’s integrity. As valid as all those things were in Leif’s mind, none of them would sway these men. He needed something more. He needed the proof that had caused Rhiannon to send young Iago to the inn.
