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Myfanwy nodded mutely and softly set the cloth over Rhiannon’s father’s face, unfolding it until it covered him entirely.

“If I may be so bold, Miss Rhiannon,” Cadwgan said, “allow me to offer my men to transport the body to the house.”

The body. Rhiannon clasped her fingers together to prevent their trembling. How had her vibrant father suddenly been relegated to something as impersonal as a body?

“If you would be so good as to have your men place my father on the bed in his bedchamber, I would be most obliged.”

Cadwgan snapped his fingers. “Wyn,” he called. “Madoc.” Moments later, two men dressed in similar traveling cloaks materialized in the darkness. “Carry Iorwerth ap Gwion’s body to his bedchamber.”

The men moved to stand on either end of the draped sheet, and Rhiannon turned to Myfanwy. “Would you show them the way, Myfanwy?”

“Yes, miss.”

Myfanwy darted toward the door, and Rhiannon watched as the two men heaved her father off the ground and started after her. She followed behind.

Cadwgan fell into step beside her. “You have my deepest condolences, Miss Rhiannon.”

She nodded. No words would come.

“Was there no warning raised that Vikings were abroad?”

“None until our stableboy saw them on the beach,” she said.

They entered the hall. Benches lay on their sides. Wooden goblets and trenchers were scattered across the floor. There was no trace of the bread that had sat on the tables. The platters of fruit were gone, as was the meat that had hung on the spit over the fire.

“The heathens left destruction in their wake,” Cadwgan said, surveying the room grimly. “You will need to look past the disarray if you are to discover the valuables they took with them.”

Rhiannon had given no thought to the loss of her mother’s jewelry box since the shorter Viking had thrown his axe.

“Nothing is so valuable as my father’s life,” she said.

They had reached his chamber, and she came to stand at the foot of his bed, attempting to comprehend the sight as Cadwgan’s men set the draped body down.

“I was a little younger than you when my father died,” Cadwgan said. “He too was killed at another’s hands.”

Rhiannon looked at him then, the candles flickering in the bedchamber allowing her to see him clearly for the first time. His hair and beard were dark brown, his eyes hazel. Under normal circumstances, his features would have been considered comely, but at this precise moment, bitter memories had pinched his lips and creased his brow.

“His death pains you still,” she said.

“It does.”

Rhiannon looked away. If there was to be no easement to the agony she was currently experiencing, she would not survive. Her mother’s passing had been difficult, but she and her father had turned to each other for comfort. Now there was no one. Shock rippled through her. There was no one. She was orphaned, and as an unmarried young woman, she had no claim on this house or the land upon which it stood. She swallowed the lump in her throat. Cadwgan had come expecting to meet a potential bride with a substantial dowry, not a bereaved young woman who might be homeless by week’s end.

“I am sorry that you have come all this way for naught.” She gestured to the upturned table and broken washbasin on the floor. “As you can see, I can offer you little by way of hospitality, and as such, I would not have you feel obliged to stay.”

Cadwgan’s gaze traversed the room. “It is late. I will send two of my men for the local priest. Upon their return, my men and I shall bed down for the night in the great hall.” His eyes settled on her, his assessment obvious but his conclusion a mystery. “Have you considered where your father should be buried?”

Up until this moment, it had not entered her mind. Numbly, she faced the first of the difficult tasks before her. Her father’s body would need to be washed and shrouded. There would be prayers, the ringing of the church bells, and at least one mass said for his soul.

“My . . . my mother lies in the Sant Cwyfan church cemetery on Ynys Môn,” she said.

He raised his eyebrows. “Adjacent to Owain Gwynedd’s llys?”

“Her family is originally from Ynys Môn. It was fitting that she return there for burial.” Rhiannon attempted to hold her emotions in check. “I believe my father would wish to lie beside her.”

Cadwgan nodded. “Your father was a member of the uchelwr. It is only right that he be buried within sight of the royal court.”

As far as Rhiannon was concerned, the gravesite’s proximity to the king’s llys was immaterial, but if her father’s position in society helped facilitate his burial beside her mother, she was glad of it.