Chapter 3

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.

"Touch her again and I shall run you through!"

The Cymry's shout had barely left his lips before Rune let his axe fly. The deadly weapon sailed through the air, penetrating the older man's chest with a sickening thud. Their assailant staggered sideways before doubling over and dropping to the ground.

"Father!" The young woman's cry of anguish reached deep into Leif's heart. She bolted to the fallen man's side, dropping to her knees in the dirt. "No. No, Father."

Leif crossed the short distance between them. The young woman had taken hold of her father's hand and was frantically smoothing back the gray hair from his face. The older man moaned.

"Forgive me, bach." His voice was barely above a whisper. "I . . . I failed you."

"No, Father. You have never failed me. And you never shall." Tears were streaming down the young woman's face.

Rune approached. With a curled lip, he looked down at the injured man. "One day the Cymry will learn that they are no match for a Viking," he said. And then he reached down and pulled his axe from the man's chest.

His victim moaned and gave one last faltering breath before falling silent.

"Father!" the young woman sobbed.

Rune turned his back on them, and from the hillside, a piercing whistle sounded a warning.

"To the boats!" Bjorn's voice rang across the yard.

The sounds of combat were replaced with shouts of urgency. In ones and twos, the Vikings exited the buildings at a run. Some carried bulging sacks. Two hauled a roasted pig, and four more held flagons of mead or ale.

As the yard emptied, the older woman left the protection of the wall and dropped to the ground beside the young woman. She began to wail, and Leif backed away. The lookouts had issued their warning. He must go.

As though she had only now realized that he was still there, the young woman looked up. Cradling her father's head on her knee, her tear-filled eyes met his.

"May God have mercy on your souls for what you have done," she cried.

Her tortured words penetrated his chest like a knife, and Leif took another unsteady step away from her.

"Leif!" Bjorn shouted. "The lookouts report mounted riders."

The young woman likely did not know what had caused the Vikings' sudden departure. Her grief was undoubtedly too great to truly care who came, but she deserved some measure of hope.

"Help is coming," he said.

A flicker of shock entered her eyes. She had understood.

"What good will that do now?" She swiped her hand across her damp cheek. "It is everlastingly too late." She covered her mouth to muffle a sob. "Go! And may you never set foot on Gwynedd's soil again."