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“I am willing to honor that,” Leif said. But only until he had arranged for his father’s accommodation. After the heart-wrenching shock Rhiannon had just received, being alone was the last thing she needed.

The mother and daughter exchanged a silent communication, and then Gwenllian spoke. “Rhiannon usually finds solace at the seashore,” she said. “But when she is particularly troubled, she visits the graves of her parents.”

That was it. The surety that seeing Rune had sent Rhiannon to her father’s burial plot distilled upon him, along with a new measure of urgency to reach her quickly.

“Where is that located?” he asked.

“Her parents are buried in the small cemetery at the church of Sant Cwyfan.” Gwenllian turned to point at the grassy headland jutting out into the sea beyond the bay. “If you look carefully, you can see the church’s roof at the end of the promontory.”

“I thank you for your trust,” he said.

“You earned it at Dinefwr, Leif, son of Jarl Ottar,” the queen said. “Although I would suggest that you return to the king before he is given any cause to question the confidence he has placed in you.”

Grateful for the queen’s perception, Leif inclined his head. “With your approval, I shall take my leave.” He stepped away, his thoughts racing. If he wished to locate Rhiannon, he would need to do something to postpone the counsel Owain Gwynedd, Cadwaladr, and his father were planning to convene as soon as they reached the king’s court. Such a counsel would require an interpreter, and unless Leif was mistaken, he was the only one available.

Kicking up sand as he cut across the sand dunes, he spotted his father and Bjorn first. A groom was approaching them, leading two fine-looking horses.

“Bjorn!” he called.

His brother turned, a frown on his face. “Where have you been? You know full well that Father and I cannot understand a word these Cymry utter.”

“I am working to repair a breach in relations,” Leif said. He made no further clarification. If Bjorn chose to believe that the crisis involved dealings between the Norsemen and Cymry in general, so much the better.

Bjorn’s expression changed from irritated to wary. “Do I need to put our men on alert?”

“I believe the opposite is our best course of action. I intend to tell Owain Gwynedd that Jarl Ottar and his men request a time of rest before negotiations begin in earnest. Entering into such discussions refreshed will enable us to gain the most from our meeting.”

Bjorn stroked his beard thoughtfully. “There is wisdom in your plan. Have you spoken to Father about it?”

“Not yet. If you wish to do so, I shall make the request of Owain Gwynedd.”

“Very well.” Bjorn’s eyes darted to the man already astride his black mount. “But you’d best be quick about it.”

Leif needed no urging. He approached Owain Gwynedd and executed a bow. “If I may be so bold, Sire, Jarl Ottar respectfully requests a two-hour postponement of the planned meeting between the Norsemen and the Cymry.”

Owain Gwynedd lowered his brows. “And why is that?”

“That he may fully recover from the long voyage before entering into serious negotiations.”

The muscle in the king’s jaw twitched. He was not pleased. But it would be difficult, if not impossible, to deny the Norsemen their request if he wished to maintain the impression that he was a welcoming host. “I bid you tell Jarl Ottar that his request has been granted. Upon our arrival at the llys, servants will conduct him and his men to their quarters, where they may repose.” He raised one eyebrow. “I shall expect all those involved in the negotiation proceedings to be present in the great hall at the start of the none hour.”

Schooling his features to prevent his relief from showing, Leif bowed again. “It shall be done, Sire.”

Chapter 38

Leif approached the small church cautiously. Not unlike the one he attended in Dyflin, the stone structure was modest in size and unadorned. A narrow path led to the arched entrance, but the dark-wood door was closed. He hesitated. It was possible that Rhiannon had gone inside to pray, but as the day had warmed since this morning’s cool temperatures, he thought it more likely that she had remained outdoors.

Following the path around the building, he found himself in a small cemetery. A few trees, bowed from their battle with the prevailing wind, broke up the grassy area, and a few hardy shrubs grew in between the graves marked by stone crosses.

A blackbird took off from the church roof in a flurry of feathers. Leif paused to watch as it sailed over a small figure dressed in a blue gown seated on the grass at the foot of one of the stone crosses. Her head was lowered, her dark hair covering her face, but he knew her immediately.

“Rhiannon.” He kept his voice low so as not to startle her.

Pressing the corner of her shawl to her damp cheeks, she scrambled to her feet. “Leif. What are you doing here?”

He heard the accusation in her tone, but attempted to ignore it. “I asked the queen where I might find you.”

“I told her and Gwenllian that I wished to be left alone.” There was no mistaking her anger now.