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“Perhaps Father Iestin can be of assistance in getting word to the priest at Sant Cwyfan church,” she said.

“That will not be necessary. I have men enough to spare for such things.” Without waiting for a response, Cadwgan inclined his head. “If you will excuse me, I shall give those waiting in the yard their instructions.”

It appeared that as far as Cadwgan was concerned, all was settled. Numbly, Rhiannon watched him stride back toward the door and the men awaiting him without. Every one of them was a stranger to her. It was likely that not one of them had ever known her father. Now they never would.

She needed to be with someone familiar—someone who shared a small portion of this all-encompassing loss. Turning a blind eye to the disheveled state of the house, she made for the stables. She had yet to learn the fate of the men who had stood at her father’s side.

Lanterns sat atop the stalls closest to the door. Rhiannon paused, waiting for her eyes to adjust to the light. Cadwgan’s men milled around, their voices filling the stable as they saw to the needs of their mounts. Eifion hurried past, a bucket of water in his hands.

“Eifion,” Rhiannon called, “have you seen Heledd? Where are Meurig and Dai?”

The stableboy swung around, his puffy red eyes a sure sign that he’d been crying. “Heledd’s seein’ to them over there.” He pointed to the far corner of the stable where another lantern glowed. His chin quivered. “Meurig’s not doin’ so well, Miss Rhiannon.”

She did not wait to hear more. Weaving through the confusion of men and horses, Rhiannon reached the other side of the building in seconds. Heledd was bent over Dai, bathing an ugly gash on his arm with a wet rag. Beside him, her father’s younger groom, Meurig, lay with his eyes closed, a wide strip of fabric tied around his chest. A red stain marked the center of the bandage.

Rhiannon dropped to the ground beside Heledd. “How bad are they?”

Heledd looked up with a start. She dropped the rag into the nearby bucket of bloodied water and wiped her eyes with her sleeve. “Meurig took a spear to his side. I’ve bandaged him as best I can, but . . .” She left the words hanging, and neither of them spoke for a few seconds. Rhiannon bit her lip in a vain effort to control her emotions. Meurig’s only movement was the unsteady rise and fall of his rib cage.

“What of Dai?”

Heledd’s voice shook. “The cut on his arm is the worst of it.”

“I’ll manage, Miss Rhiannon.” Dai’s voice was faint. “Don’t you be worrying ’bout me.” He met her eyes, and she saw deep sorrow there. “Heledd told me about Master Iorwerth.” He cleared his throat, his mouth moving before any more words emerged. “We fought hard, miss. And though it’s small consolation after all you’ve lost this night, I believe the master would do the same again if given another chance. His presence saved you, and I reckon that means he did what he set out to do.”

Rhiannon had thought she had no tears left to shed, but at Dai’s somber observation, they came anew.

“You must heal, Dai,” she said brokenly. “Bryn Eithin cannot lose another soul tonight.”

“You listen to Miss Rhiannon,” Heledd said, a hint of desperation in her voice as she swabbed his arm again. “Do you hear me, Dai ap Ifor?”

Dai’s smile was weak, but it was welcome. “What’s all this? You’ll be having everyone thinking you care about me, Heledd.”

“Of course I care about you, you foolish man.” She wiped her eyes again. “Don’t you dare let the wicked actions of Viking barbarians cut your life short.”

“Or you’ll have words with them?”

“Enough talking,” Heledd said, attempting to hide her emotions behind her brusque tone. “You must save your strength.” She began wrapping a strip of cloth around his arm, and he moaned.

“Gently, woman.”

“Hush,” she said, tying the cloth in a knot. “We must get you to a bed in the house.”

“I will ask some of Cadwgan’s men to assist us,” Rhiannon said, coming to her feet. “They can carry Meurig.”

“Aye. Do that, bach.” Heledd glanced at Meurig again and shook her head sadly. “Even though he was always happiest when he was in the stables, it wouldn’t do to leave him here tonight.”

Chapter 5

Early-morning mist hung over the water as the two Viking longboats entered Dyflin Bay. The first rays of sunlight outlined the rows of buildings lining the shore, and Leif experienced an unexpected wave of relief. Normally, he was sorry to see his time at sea come to an end, but this homecoming felt different. He found himself desiring time away from his companions and their self-satisfied talk.

As was their wont, the Vikings had kept their spirits high by sharing stories of their triumphant raids. Leif had listened in silence. Until now, he had only ever participated in the pillage of monasteries and churches. The men of the cloth associated with those places were known to disappear at the first sighting of Vikings. Many of the monasteries had a round tower with a door placed so high above the ground that it was accessible only by ladder. Although some monks had the wherewithal to take food and treasures into the tower with them when they escaped the incoming hordes, there was almost always something left behind for the Vikings to claim.

The ornate crosses, goblets, and dishes held no religious significance to the Norsemen, and they felt no compunction over seizing anything that caught their eye. There had never been anyone in the vicinity to denounce the act, let alone make a personal and emotional plea that they desist. Until yesterday.

For hours, the Vikings had rowed against the blustery and capricious wind and waves of the Irish Sea. The sail had been of little use to them, and over the last hour, the ache in Leif’s shoulders had gradually worked its way down his arms until his very fingers hurt from holding the oar. But no amount of physical exertion had removed the image from his mind of the young woman named Rhiannon dropping to the ground beside her father. Her tear-filled brown eyes and gutted expression had consumed him the entire sea crossing. As had the heart-wrenching words she’d cried.

His Gaelic was not fully fluent, but he was sure she had spoken of a god extending mercy and of the state of his soul. The gods he knew—Ymir, Odin, Frigg, Thor, and Loki, to name a few—ruled over many things, but none of them offered mercy to a man’s soul. What had she meant by such words? He shook his head slightly. A good meal and several hours of sleep were what he needed. It was time to put his experience with the young lady behind him and redirect his focus to the haul they were to present to his father.