The Call of the Sea Read online

  Rhiannon obediently rose from the stool where she’d been sitting. In this instance, Heledd was surely right. It would not do to disappoint her father again so soon after he’d been forced to come searching for her.

  “Has there been any sighting of Cadwgan ap Gronw and his men?” she asked.

  “Not that I’ve heard.” Heledd chuckled. “Your father sent Eifion to watch for them. With how fleet of foot that lad is, he’ll be back here long before the nobleman and his retinue ride into the yard.”

  Rhiannon nodded. Eifion was their stableboy. He was small and wiry, and at twelve years of age, he could outrun every one of her father’s retainers—including men with far longer legs. Not only that, but he would take his responsibility as lookout very seriously and would return to report the moment he spotted the travelers.

  Running her hands down her green gown, Rhiannon squared her narrow shoulders. The sky was clear this evening. If Eifion positioned himself on the bluff above the house, the moonlight would enable him to see a good stretch of the coast road. Since he had not yet returned, she surely had a few moments to compose herself.

  “All will be well, bach,” Heledd said. “Cadwgan ap Gronw will be mesmerized by you.”

  “Is that how it was for Dai?” she asked, referring to Heledd’s husband who worked as her father’s head groom. “Did you mesmerize him at first sight?”

  “I hardly think my appearance would mesmerize anyone. I’m far too plain.”

  Rhiannon considered the older lady critically. Her skin was wrinkled, her fingers workworn, and her hips wide, but until now, Rhiannon had never noticed any of those things. “Whatever plainness you claim to possess is not seen by others,” Rhiannon said.

  “You have known me long enough to look beyond those things, bach. And I believe the same can be said for Dai.”

  “But what of his first glance?”

  Heledd’s brown eyes crinkled. “I believe he had eyes only for my fish pie. That was what won him over.”

  Rhiannon sighed. “I cannot make fish pie.”

  “A lady of your standing and beauty has no need to make fish pie.”

  “Perhaps not. But whether it is how well I make fish pie or something else entirely, I should like to have a gentleman come to know my likes and dislikes, my strengths and weaknesses, rather than to make assumptions based merely on what he sees.”

  Giving her an understanding look, Heledd crossed the room and picked up a small wooden box. She carried it back to Rhiannon. “There’s no cause for you to feel any less than your mother, bach. If she were here, she would have stood beside you tonight, exceptionally proud of the young lady you have become.” She opened the lid. “Here. Take something of hers with you and let it bring you an extra measure of courage.”

  Rhiannon gazed into the box. A silver brooch and a gold bracelet lay beside a ringed cross hanging from a silver chain. Reaching for the necklace, she fastened the clasp around her neck. The ornately carved silver cross rested against her chest. She pressed her hand against it and closed her eyes, picturing her mother standing in the great hall, wearing her burgundy gown and this necklace as she welcomed a party from Owain Gwynedd’s court to her home. She swallowed the lump in her throat and opened her eyes. “I thank you, Heledd. I should have thought to wear Mam’s necklace.”

  “It’s a small thing, but mayhap it will make her feel nearer.”

  Rhiannon released an unsteady breath. “I must go to my father.”

  “Yes.” Setting the jewelry box back on the table, Heledd gave her an encouraging smile. “It is time.”

  Leaving her bedchamber, Rhiannon walked the short distance to the great hall. Colorful tapestries hung on the walls, and fresh straw lay on the wooden floor. Three long tables had been positioned in a horseshoe-shaped configuration. Wooden trenchers and goblets lined each table along with flagons of mead, baskets of bread, and platters of fruit.

  In the center of the room, meat sizzled on a spit above a blazing fire. The firelight was augmented by candles burning at the center of each table and in the windows.

  Myfanwy, the young maid who helped in the kitchen, entered the room, another basket in her hands. The smell of baking bread followed her, coming from the oven across the yard. Bobbing a curtsy to Rhiannon, she began taking knives out of the basket and setting them on the table.

  Rhiannon crossed the room to join her father, who stood near the head table, talking to Dai. The groom had likely come to update her father on the state of the two foals born to her father’s prize mare in the early hours of the morning. If it weren’t for the pending arrival of his guests, her father would have undoubtedly spent all evening in the stable.

  “Good evening, Father. Dai.” She summoned a smile.

  Both men turned to face her. Dai inclined his head politely.

  “Good evening, Miss Rhiannon.”

  Her father took a little longer to respond, his gaze softening as he met her eyes. “You look lovely, bach.”

  “Thanks largely to Heledd,” Rhiannon admitted.

  Dai chuckled. “She knows what she’s about, does Heledd.”

  “She tells me that she makes a rather memorable fish pie,” Rhiannon said.

  Dai’s grin widened. “That she does, miss. If Nest would ever let her into the kitchen, I daresay she’d make one for you and the master if you asked.”

  “Well now,” Rhiannon’s father said. “We shall have to remember that the next time Nest decides to take a few days to visit her sister.”

  “Indeed,” Rhiannon said. “Mayhap we could even go as far as to persuade Nest that another such trip should be made very soon.”

  Dai looked so pleased that Rhiannon’s natural smile emerged. “It must be some time since—”

  The front door swung open so far that it crashed against the wall. The resounding thud was immediately followed by the clatter of running feet. Everyone swung around in time to see Eifion stumble to a halt in the center of the room. His hair was windblown and his expression stricken.

  He took a deep, ragged breath, then cried, “Vikings! Two boatloads of ’em. They just landed on the beach.”

  Rhiannon’s father stiffened. “Are you sure, lad?”

  “Yes, Master Iorwerth. I saw the shields along the length of their longboats shinin’ in the moonlight. There’s no mistakin’ their craft, an’ there’s no mistakin’ they’re carryin’ a lot of men.”

  “How many?”

  “Too many to count, Master.”

  “Rally the men, Dai,” Rhiannon’s father barked the order, and Dai took off at a run. Her father turned to her. “Find Heledd. The two of you must leave immediately. Hide in the trees on the hill behind the house until you see the infidels’ boats put out to sea. God willing, they will find nothing here worth stealing and will leave as quickly as they have come.”

  “But, Father—” Horror clogged her throat. Even if Dai were to round up every man and boy who lived and worked at Bryn Eithin, he would muster only five. Five farm laborers against a horde of pillaging Vikings.

  “Now, Rhiannon.” His tone brooked no argument. He withdrew his dagger from the small scabbard at his waist and pointed to the back of the house. “Go!”

  Rhiannon fled the room. She ran directly to her chamber and pushed open the door. Heledd was laying Rhiannon’s seawater-stained gown across the back of a chair to dry.

  “Heledd! We must leave.”

  The older woman looked at her in alarm. “Whatever is the matter?”

  “Vikings.” Rhiannon could barely say the word without fear capturing her voice. Gwynedd’s children were raised on stories of the devastating destruction the marauding Norsemen reaped. Vikings had no reverence for churches, monasteries, or holy relics. Gwynedd’s men were considered no obstacle to their looting; Gwynedd’s women were too often their prize.

  Gripping Heledd’s hand in hers, Rhiannon pulled her out of the room. Which way? They could reach the hill by running the length of the longhouse and going through the stable attached to the other end of the building, but the fastest route was through the front door and directly across the yard. Once they were beyond the yard, they could remain in the shadows until they reached the trees.

  “How close are they?” Heledd asked. Her ruddy complexion had paled, but her tone remained calm.

  “Eifion saw them on the beach.”

  The older woman nodded, her expression grim. “Then we have no time to lose.”

  Heledd’s words propelled Rhiannon to the front door. She pulled it open and stepped outside. An eerie silence hung over the yard. No seagulls cried. No voices called.

  A shadow crossed the open space, melding into the darkness beside the stable doors. Seconds later, two more shadows flitted across the yard. Rhiannon tightened her grip on Heledd’s hand. Were the moving figures friends or foes? Where was her father?

  “Hurry, bach.”

  Heledd’s whispered warning drew Rhiannon’s attention back to the distant trees. That was their goal. And they must reach it while it was yet attainable.

  Turning away from the stable, they hurried along the length of the longhouse, staying in the darkest shadows beneath the eaves. Across the yard, a crack of light appeared, widening as the door to the kitchen opened. A narrow silhouette appeared.

  “Myfanwy,” Rhiannon gasped. “She must have returned to the kitchen before Eifion arrived back. She knows nothing of the Vikings on the beach.”

  “What of Nest?” Heledd asked.

  Rhiannon released her hand. “Remain here. I will send Myfanwy to you. As soon as she reaches you, go to the trees. I will fetch Nest, and we shall follow.”

  “No, Rhiannon. Let me—”

  “I am faster on my feet than you,” she interrupted. “I shall join you again in no time.” And then, before Heledd could argue further, Rhiannon left the protection of the wall and darted across the yard.

  “Myfanwy!”

  At Rhiannon’s urgent whisper, the young maid stumbled to a halt. The mead in the pitcher she was carrying sloshed loudly. “Miss Rhiannon?”

  “Yes.” Rhiannon was close enough now that she could see Myfanwy’s face. “Quickly. Put down the pitcher.”

  “Here, miss? In the yard?”

  Myfanwy could not have sounded more mystified had Rhiannon asked her to place the pitcher on the moon.

  “Vikings have come.”

  Significantly more mead spilled to the ground.

  “V-vikings, miss?”

  “Yes. And we have no time to lose.” Rhiannon worked to curb her impatience as Myfanwy set the jug on the ground. “Run to the far corner of the longhouse. You’ll find Heledd there. Go with her to hide in the trees. I must fetch Nest.”

  Now that she was free of the pitcher, Myfanwy took off running toward the spot where Heledd waited. Rhiannon did not watch her go. She picked up her skirts and crossed the remaining distance to the kitchen at a sprint.

  Chapter 3

  Leif could not rid himself of the discomforting feeling that all was not well. He reached the scrub grass and paused to look back at the two longboats lying side by side on the sand. They were far enough up the beach to prevent the tide from reclaiming them but close enough to the water’s edge for a speedy departure. With half a dozen men standing guard, the craft would be well protected. Three more men had been sent up the nearby hill to act as lookouts. But neither of those precautions fully offset the risk of storming the unknown longhouse.

  He shifted to his right so that he was within arm’s reach of his brother. “Are you sure this is wise, Bjorn?” Leif kept his voice low. He had no qualms about expressing his concerns privately, but it would not do for the other men to hear him questioning his brother’s leadership.

  “The men are hungry,” Bjorn said. “They will row better with their bellies full.”

  Leif refrained from pointing out that if the wind were in their sails, there would be plenty of time for the men to rest. Bjorn knew that as well as he did.

  “Do you truly believe that a single longhouse will have sufficient food to satisfy forty hungry men?”

  “We will take whatever they have,” Bjorn said, his eyes trained on the flickering lights ahead.

  Leif frowned into the darkness. There was no reasoning with Bjorn when he was like this. He’d set his sights on the Cymry’s longhouse, and like a hawk circling a field mouse in the grass, he was preparing to pounce.

  “We go in as one,” Bjorn said, raising his voice just enough for the waiting men to hear. “All food is to be brought out to the boats.” He raised his arm and eyed the shadowed men sternly. “Is that understood?”

  “Are you listening, Knud?” Rune’s whispered taunts had yet to abate. “I am to share whatever spoils you remove from the pantry, but anything I discover in the bedchambers shall be mine to keep.”

  Moonlight glinted off Bjorn’s silver armband as he dropped his arm, and Knud’s growled curse was lost beneath the Vikings’ chilling war cry. In a ferocious wave, they rushed toward the longhouse. Crossing the stretch of grass that separated them from the main structure, the men entered the yard and fanned out.

  As far as Leif was concerned, they were there for one reason: to find food. Clutching his dagger, he made directly for the small building adjacent to the larger structure. If the aroma of baking bread emanating from the half-open door was any indication, it was the kitchen.

  He was within a stone’s throw of the structure when the door opened wider and two figures exited. Indistinguishable in the darkness, the rustle of fabric told him they were women.

  “Make haste, Nest.”

  The female voice confirmed his guess, and Leif adjusted his thinking from his native Norse to Gaelic. His frequent interaction with the Irish people living around the Viking settlement of Dyflin had given him a good grasp of their language. There was enough similarity between the Gaelic dialects to enable him to follow a rudimentary conversation in the language of the Cymry.

  The women ran toward the far corner of the longhouse. A dog barked, the frantic warning sounding uncomfortably close. Turning to gauge the canine’s proximity, Leif saw four men burst out of the stables. Starlight caught the blades in their hands. Instantly, his forward momentum stalled. These men had not been caught unawares; they were wielding weapons.

  Several Vikings veered to meet them, their shouts preceding the thuds of impact and the clash of metal.

  Leif scoured the yard in search of Bjorn. Most of the men had already entered the longhouse. The clatter and rumble of voices now coming from the small building at his rear suggested that others had beaten him to the kitchen.

  Another crash sounded as the shutters on one of the longhouse’s windows flew open. By the light of a single candle flickering on the windowsill, Leif saw a man leap out and land catlike on the ground, not more than an arm’s length from the fleeing women.

  One of the women screamed.

  The man came to his feet, towering over them. “Well, well, what have we here?”

  Leif’s stomach curdled at the tone in Rune’s voice. With the Cymry at the stables outnumbered and the men in the kitchen having no need of his assistance, he crossed the short distance between him and Rune at a run.

  The candlelight illuminated the pale faces of two women. The older one, whose brown gown was partially covered by a white apron, was pressed against the wall. The other was facing Rune with clenched hands. Her elegant gown indicated her elevated status in the household, and her stance spoke of anger rather than fear.

  “Give me that,” she demanded, pointing at a small wooden box in Rune’s hand.

  Rune grinned and took another step toward the young woman. “I daresay you are fair enough to make me wish that I understood your tongue.” He raised his free hand and reached for the necklace around the young woman’s neck. She slapped his hand away, and he laughed, grabbing her arm and yanking her closer. “Ah, there is some fire in this one.”

  “You are despicable,” she said, her voice shaking with emotion. “First you ransack my home, and then you wish to steal all that I have left of my mother.”

  Leif could not tell whether Rune grasped the meaning of her words, but Leif had heard enough. He stepped out of the shadows. The older woman whimpered, but the young one instantly swung her head around to face him.

  Her dark eyes met his, and she wrapped her hand around the circled cross at her neck. “You shall not have it,” she cried.

  “Let her go, Rune,” Leif said, reverting to his Norse tongue.

  Rune’s grip on the girl remained firm. “I am not finished with her yet.”

  The shouts and clanks associated with deadly combat continued on the other side of the yard.

  Leif met the man’s eyes with a chilling stare. “We came for food—not women or trinkets.”

  Rune gave a derogatory snort. “To ignore such things when they are here for the taking is foolishness.”

  “I disagree,” Leif said through gritted teeth. “True foolishness is to disrespect the captain of one’s boat.”

  Rune’s narrowed eyes told of his simmering anger. The man was five years Leif’s senior. His broad shoulders hinted at his formidable strength, but Leif was a hand’s width taller than him and had the advantage of rank. He stood completely still, waiting.

  With a grunt of disgust, Rune released the young woman and pushed her away. She stumbled, righted herself, and then lunged for the wooden box in Rune’s other hand. The Viking anticipated her move, raising the box out of her reach and hitting her across the head with the back of his other hand. She cried out in pain and staggered backward.

  “Miss Rhiannon!” The older woman’s shriek cut through the night and was answered by a roar of fury.

  Leif pivoted. One of the Cymry had broken free of the melee at the stable doors and was running toward them, his sword raised. The muscles in Leif’s arms tensed. Gripping his knife more securely, he shifted to the right. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Rune step behind the young woman and reach for the axe at his hip.