The Call of the Sea

  Cover images: Woman Photo by Abigail Miles © Arcangel Viking Ship Photo by Steinar Engeland on Unsplash

  Cover design copyright © 2022 by Covenant Communications, Inc.

  Map copyright © 2022 by Briana Shawcroft

  Published by Covenant Communications, Inc.

  American Fork, Utah

  Copyright © 2022 by Sian Ann Bessey

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any format or in any medium without the written permission of the publisher, Covenant Communications, Inc., P.O. Box 416, American Fork, UT 84003. The views expressed within this work are the sole responsibility of the author and do not necessarily reflect the position of Covenant Communications, Inc., or any other entity.

  This is a work of fiction. The characters, names, incidents, places, and dialogue are either products of the author’s imagination, and are not to be construed as real, or are used fictitiously.

  First Printing: November 2022

  ISBN 978-1-52442-226-4

  For Sarah Eden

  I could not write of Ireland without thinking of you

  Acknowledgments

  I wish to thank my wonderful colleagues at Covenant for their friendship and support. My editor, Samantha Millburn, is a miracle worker. Without her, this book would not be what it is today. My publicist, Amy Parker, works tirelessly on my behalf. Her daughters Lauryn and Kat are my unsung heroes.

  Special thanks also to Sarah M. Eden, who answered many questions about medieval Ireland and commiserated with me over the messy and complicated nature of that time in history. Thank you, Briana Shawcroft, for creating the beautiful map at the front of this book, and, Hannah Bischoff, for designing such an eye-catching cover.

  I am grateful for my Welsh heritage. My father is fond of reminding me that we descended from Welsh royalty and can trace our family line to Owain Gwynedd. Even though none of my family members currently wears a crown, I am thankful for the opportunity to share a small portion of my homeland’s rich history with my readers.

  In addition to that, creating this story enabled me to more fully contemplate the peace that comes from a belief in Christ and His teachings. I am forever grateful for Him and for the love and support of my family, friends, and readers. Thank you all for making my writing journey possible.

  Genealogy

  These family trees include only those people who are mentioned in this book as well as a few parents who were added for clarification. Many of those listed (including Owain Gwynedd) had more than one spouse and several more children.

  Owain’s daughter Angharad (from the House of Tegeingl) is the same person as Gruffydd’s wife, Angharad (from the House of Aberffraw), making Owain Gwynedd and Cadwgan first cousins. The only fictional people listed are those in the House of Bryn Eithin.

  Owain ap Gruffydd became known as Owain Gwynedd when he was made king. This was done to distinguish him from Owain Cyfeiliog, who was the ruler of the neighboring kingdom of Powys.

  Pronunciation

  In order to maintain the historical integrity of this novel, I have stayed true to the names and places found in the accounts of the Vikings’ involvement in Owain Gwynedd and Cadwaladr’s dramatic falling-out in 1143. Since many of the names, places, and foreign words will be unfamiliar to modern readers, Covenant Communications is making available an audio pronunciation guide on The Call of the Sea’s webpage on the Covenant Communications website.

  The QR code below will take you to that audio pronunciation guide, a recording in which I personally pronounce each of the unfamiliar words. This webpage will also include a listing of the words and where they are found in the book as well as a time stamp for where they are found in the recording so you can jump to any word you want to see or hear. I hope this will enhance your reading experience as you enter the world of medieval Ireland, Gwynedd, and Deheubarth.

  Glossary

  Ap: Welsh for “son of.” Used in lieu of a surname.

  Bach: Welsh term of endearment. Literally, “small.”

  Britannia: England.

  Cymry: The general name given to the people living in the country we now call Wales when the land was divided into different kingdoms. Literally, “fellow countrymen.” Cymru (pronounced the same but spelled differently) is currently the Welsh word for “Wales.”

  Dyflin: Norse name of the city now known as Dublin.

  Edling: Male heir to the Welsh throne.

  Faering: Small boat, usually with two sets of oars and may include a sail.

  Eryri: Welsh name for the Snowdonia mountain range.

  Farfar: Norse for “grandfather.”

  Ferch: Welsh for “daughter of.” Used in lieu of a surname.

  Gramercy: Ancient exclamation of thanks.

  Jarl: A Norse chief.

  Karve: A longship with a broad hull, often used for transporting goods.

  Llys: Welsh royal court.

  Nain: Welsh for “grandmother.”

  Nones: A fixed time for prayer that usually refers to the ninth hour after dawn or 3:00 p.m.

  Ongullsey: Norse name for “Ynys Môn,” believed by many to be the origin of the name Anglesey.

  Styrimadr: Norse for “navigator” or “skipper.”

  Tref: Welsh for “town.”

  Uchelwr: Welsh pedigreed aristocracy.

  Valhalla: A great hall in Norse mythology where those slain in battle are received.

  Veisafjordr: Norse name for Wexford, Ireland.

  Ynys Môn: Welsh name for the island of Anglesey.

  Yr Wyddfa: Welsh name for Snowdon, the tallest mountain in Wales.

  Chapter 1

  The Kingdom of Gwynedd, 1141

  A seagull’s cry pierced the air. Rhiannon raised her head to watch the large white bird glide in a wide arc over the sheltered bay and soar out to sea. What freedom such birds enjoyed. To ride the wind and the waves, to travel farther than the eye could see. Rhiannon could only dream of such unfettered liberty.

  Stepping over the tide pool she’d been exploring, she turned toward the large house that overlooked the beach. Bryn Eithin’s solid gray-stone walls and purple slate roof had protected her since her birth sixteen years previously. Its idyllic location, with the Irish Sea at its front and rolling pastures at its rear, was hard to equal. Indeed, compared to most young women in Gwynedd, she was fortunate. Her father owned land and retained servants. She was well cared for. Beyond the loss of her mother several years before, she lacked for nothing. Except, perhaps, the freedom of a seagull.

  “Rhiannon!”

  Her father, Iorwerth ap Gwion, appeared where the sand met the scrubby grass of the low dunes. He stood with his hands on his hips, his expression grim. Rhiannon spared the sky another glance, and her heart sank. The sun had lowered, and she had no need to consider the lengthening shadows to realize she was inexcusably late.

  Lifting her skirts, she scrambled off the craggy rocks and ran across the beach toward him. “Forgive me, Father.” She stopped to catch her breath. “I failed to keep track of the time.”

  “Clearly.” He frowned. “I had hoped that today, of all days, you would not give me cause to seek you out, Rhiannon.”

  “I would have returned before the evening meal. Truly, I would have.”

  “The servants have their preparations well in hand, but you are still whiling away the afternoon beside the sea.” His gaze traveled from her windswept hair to her sand-dusted gown and damp hem. He shook his head despairingly. “How am I to introduce you as a prospective bride to Owain Gwynedd’s cousin when you resemble a foundling? And a wet one,
at that?”

  She offered him a contrite smile and slipped her arm through his. His frustration was born of concern for her. She knew this. Just as she knew that it would soon pass.

  “Walk me back to the house to ensure that I cannot be distracted by the call of the sea again, and then place me in Heledd’s expert care,” she said. “Heledd will have me dressed and ready to greet your guests in no time.”

  “Our guests, Rhiannon.” He was not yet ready to fully exonerate her. “Cadwgan ap Gronw does us a great honor by coming to dine with us.”

  “He comes because the king suggested it,” Rhiannon said.

  “And why should he not? Your mother was the sister of his wife, the queen. Your father is a member of the uchelwr.”

  “Your position as a member of the pedigreed aristocracy will undoubtedly influence who I eventually marry, but must that decision be made so soon?”

  “Yes,” her father said firmly. “Cadwgan may wait as long as he wishes for the wedding ceremony—you know that I have no desire to have you leave—but you have reached the age when a betrothal is both expedient and expected.”

  Rhiannon sighed. This was not the first time they’d had this conversation. No matter how much she hoped for her father’s stance to alter, it did not. As his only daughter, it was her duty to marry well. Her father wanted what was best for her. He wished her to have every comfort and security. She should be glad. Mayhap, if she exerted a little more effort, she would be glad.

  “This Cadwgan ap Gronw is handsome, is he not?” she said.

  They started back toward the house together.

  “I am not of a mind to consider such things, but I daresay he is pleasing enough. A little taller than I, with curly, dark hair.”

  “And young.” That attribute alone was more than most young ladies in her situation could claim when meeting a potential spouse.

  “Not more than eight and twenty. And yet, despite his youth, he owns a large parcel of land in Dyffryn Clwyd.”

  The district of Dyffryn Clwyd had been claimed by Gwynedd several years before, but with all the infighting that continued to plague the king, it was no secret that Owain Gwynedd was anxious for an ally within the uchelwr living in that area. As much as Rhiannon wished it were different, her role in this marriage was that of a prize or a bargaining chip.

  “What will happen if Cadwgan decides against me?” she asked.

  “He will not.” Her father’s expression softened. “Your lack of awareness of your natural beauty only enhances it, bach. Cadwgan cannot help but be captivated by you.”

  Her hair swirled wildly around her shoulders, and Rhiannon glanced at her wrinkled, salt-water-stained gown.

  “Even if he were to come upon me now?” she asked.

  Her father nodded. “Aye. As loath as I am to admit it, even now.”

  His words, which surely should have offered her greater confidence, in actuality, did the opposite. Rhiannon had oft been told that she had inherited her mother’s silky tresses, dark-brown eyes, and flawless skin. Unfortunately, the same could not be said of her disposition. Whereas her mother had thrived as mistress of a sizable home and a hostess of large gatherings, Rhiannon preferred to wander the beach alone and quietly observe others from afar. If Cadwgan were to base his matrimonial decision upon appearances while paying no heed to her preference for solitude, he would undoubtedly be sorely disappointed in his choice of wife.

  The feelings of apprehension that had sent Rhiannon to the sea in search of peace resurfaced. She wished to please her father. If she were fully honest with herself, she also wished to please Cadwgan. But only if she could also remain true to the person she was within. She took an unsteady breath. For now, she could only pray that when her upcoming meeting with Cadwgan was over, she could also claim some measure of pleasure for herself.

  They had reached the front door. Her father paused. “A small portion of discomfort over meeting Cadwgan for the first time is understandable, Rhiannon, but I expect you to rise above it. A man of Cadwgan’s rank deserves your respect.” He glanced at her bare, sandy feet. “And that includes being dressed appropriately when you greet him.”

  “Yes, Father.” Her stomach churned, but she somehow maintained a placid countenance. “I shall see to my wardrobe straightway. And I will have Heledd help me locate my shoes as soon as she finishes with my hair.”

  “Very well,” he said. “I shall look for you in the great hall within the hour.”

  The sleek longboat cut through the rolling waves. Dusk was turning to dark, and from his position in the bow of the agile craft, Leif breathed in the salty air and grinned. Returning home from a successful raid was an exhilarating experience, but unlike most of his companions, Leif’s excitement came not from the value of their haul but from being out at sea.

  Ahead of his craft, another longboat navigated the breakers. The Norsemen within were silhouetted against the sky even as the row of circular shields lining the craft’s hull glinted in the last light of the setting sun. Although currently indistinguishable, Leif’s brother sat in the bow of that boat. As the oldest son of Jarl Ottar of Dyflin, Bjorn was the designated leader of this raiding party. Leif did not envy him the position. At nineteen years of age, captaining the second boat was responsibility enough for him.

  He pulled on his oar, feeling the water’s resistance as his arms moved in unison with those of the other men. The steady, powerful rhythm powered them forward, increasing the distance between the Vikings and the monastery they’d pillaged. Later, if the wind was in their favor, they would raise the sail, but for now, the longboat hugged the coastline, fueled by oars in the hands of twenty Norsemen.

  “It would have been nice if the monks had left us something to eat,” the man sitting on the other end of Leif’s bench grumbled softly.

  “What ails you most, Knud?” Although Rune, the rower sitting behind Leif, kept his voice low, there was no mistaking his taunting tone. “Is it rowing all night on an empty stomach or the lack of gold beneath your seat?”

  Knud’s stroke did not waver, but his square jaw tightened. “You know full well that those goblets should have been mine.”

  Rune sniggered. “Not so. We each took a cupboard. You could have gathered more of the candles you found in yours had you wished to.”

  Knud growled his displeasure, but before he could speak further, a low bird whistle sounded from the other boat. A warning call. Other than the gentle splash of oars, all sound on the boat instantly ceased. Every man knew how readily voices carried on the water.

  “A light. Over there, just above the bay,” Rune whispered.

  Leif spotted the flicker even as Rune spoke.

  “Is it a traveler?” Knud kept his voice as low as Rune’s.

  “I think not,” Leif said. “I see the outline of a building.”

  “Aye,” Rune said. “Not tall enough to be a monastery or castle but no humble dwelling, to be sure.”

  Knud’s teeth flashed in the gloaming. “What think you, Leif? Is it large enough to provide a meal for forty hungry Vikings?”

  Leif glanced at the darkening water. If the decision were left to him, they would make use of the outgoing tide to put out to sea. Leaving the Kingdom of Gwynedd as stealthily as they had arrived was always his preference. Unfortunately, the choice was not his to make.

  He kept his eyes on the other longboat, waiting for a signal. The birdcall came again, and with it came the unmistakable grind of oars lifting. Bjorn was turning his longboat toward the shore.

  “Looks like you shall fill your belly after all, Knud,” Rune said, satisfaction tingeing his low voice.

  Smothering his frustration, Leif raised his oar. The men seated behind him raised theirs as well. Those on the other side of the boat lowered theirs and pulled. The dragonhead carved on the prow of Leif’s boat swung right to follow the serpent tail carved on the
rear of Bjorn’s.

  Leif gauged the direction of the wind. Already, it had shifted since they had begun their journey. Going ashore for another raid would delay their crossing of the Irish Sea significantly. They would need the wind behind their sails if they were to reach Ireland by morning. He frowned. With two monasteries and a church already looted along this stretch of coastline, news of the Vikings’ uninvited presence on Gwynedd’s soil would have reached the king by now. It was only a matter of time before Owain Gwynedd would send soldiers to oust them from his land.

  “You may take the cupboards in the bedchambers, Rune,” Knud said, his eyes on the outline of a substantial longhouse perched above the low cliff. “I am for the great hall. At this time of day, the evening meal should be ready for the taking.”

  Leif remained silent. His brother had opted to attempt one more raid. Whether Bjorn had oarsmen complaining of hunger, Leif could not tell. He only hoped that they would not pay too heavy a price for satisfying their appetites.

  Chapter 2

  “There now.” Heledd stepped back to survey the plaited crown she’d pinned around Rhiannon’s head and gave a satisfied smile. “That did not take long, did it?”

  “No.” Rhiannon spoke through stiff lips. “Not long.” In an effort to prevent any cries from escaping, she had clamped her mouth closed some time ago. Giving Heledd a comb had been a risk, but with limited time to prepare for the banquet, it was one Rhiannon had been forced to take.

  Somehow, she managed to resist the urge to touch her stinging scalp. Her tangles were gone, and her hair was dressed, so there was no point in looking for sympathy for her throbbing head.

  “Well then,” the older woman said, “you’d best join your father. I daresay he’s waited long enough.”

  In the years that had passed since Rhiannon’s mother’s death, Heledd had become more of a companion to Rhiannon than a maid, and she was not beyond giving Rhiannon directions.