Now a grown woman, Ceanna knew they were simply stories to soothe a restless child to sleep.
Heroes on white horses coming to save maidens from all manner of disagreeable tasks did not exist, but evil men, monsters with human faces, did. She could control her destiny, if she took action.
She refused to be married off to a leering monster simply to aid her stepmother’s quest for power, while the dawn of each new day saw her father grow weaker and weaker until he had become incapable of standing or stringing together a coherent sentence.
Her father had barely recognised her when she whispered goodbye that morning. She feared he’d be dead before the month was out. Then everyone in Dun Ollaigh would be without their protector and the entire fortress, as well as the village which nestled at its base, would be at the mercy of Feradach, her father’s captain of the guards, the man her stepmother had picked to be Ceanna’s husband. And he was far worse in her opinion than the heathen horde who had nearly overrun Alba last summer.
She’d laid her escape plans to perfection, pretending to go along with the proposed marriage until they stopped watching her. At this moment, her stepmother and Feradach would be at the church, waiting in vain for the promised sacrificial bride. Instead, the bride was on her way east to her aunt’s double monastery—or she would be once she had discovered where the guide she’d hired had disappeared off to.
Ceanna wrapped her cloak tighter about her body, wishing she’d changed out of her wedding finery with its gold-embroidered form-fitting red gown and the intricate hairstyle, but every little delay risked an unceremonious march to the altar.
Unfortunately, her guide had failed to wait where they’d agreed and she’d been forced to go into the tavern which she knew he often frequented. At Ceanna’s signal, her solitary form of protection—her wolfhound—slunk into the shadows and settled her head on her paws.
‘Where is Urist ab Urist?’ she said to the tavern owner who glanced up from filling a tankard. ‘He travels to Nrurim today. I’ve a message for him.’
The man stopped what he was doing, his eyes widening slightly when he recognised her. ‘You do us great honour, my lady.’
Ceanna frowned. So far she had kept her departure quiet, but now she was desperate. She had to hope some loyalty to her father and respect for the family remained.
She kept her chin up and ignored the curious glances she was receiving from the customers.
At the tavern keeper’s studied blank look, she tried again. ‘Urist ab Urist. He drinks here regularly so don’t go pretending you have never heard his name before.’
‘He departed. Won’t be back for weeks. After Nrurim, he intends to go to St Andrews, my lady. There is more to it than delivering messages to members of the late King’s court, if you ask me.’ The tavern keeper gave a deliberate wink. ‘He is hoping that by the time he returns his troubles will have vanished. He should’ve known better than to try to manage several women at the same time. Perhaps his visits to St Fillans and St Andrews will teach him the error of his ways.’
The entire tavern burst out in knowing laughter. Ceanna rapidly examined the dirty rushes which littered the inn’s floor.
It was obvious that her erstwhile guide had a complicated private life of which she’d been ignorant. A dishonest man who juggled several women. Not the ideal person to guide her to her aunt and her new occupation as a holy maid, but he’d been the only person willing to undertake the journey...
A great pit opened in her stomach. In all of her many calculations, she’d never anticipated that he would leave without her. Urist had taken her gold and vanished, leaving her vulnerable to her stepmother’s band of murderous thieves and ne’er-do-wells. She should have known him for a rogue and a scoundrel.
Ceanna firmed her jaw. She had not come this far simply to submit. In theory, she knew the way. She’d visited her aunt three times before; she was the abbess at St Fillans, which was located on the outskirts of the royal vicus of Nrurim. But a woman travelling that distance on her own was unthinkable and Ceanna refused to take any risks that she didn’t have to. When she was younger, her father had often praised her caution and her conduct as being proper for a Pictish lady.
‘Departed? Where? When?’
‘At first light today, apparently,’ came a voice from the shadows. The accent was foreign but there was a certain ease to the way he spoke, as if the speaker possessed an intimate familiarity with Gaelic. ‘Waiting for stragglers and any who have paid for his services in gold appears to have been beyond him. I wish you better luck than I have had in discovering his precise whereabouts or indeed his direction of travel.’
Ceanna narrowed her gaze. The speaker’s tone had a smooth honey-like quality to it, as if he wanted to lull her into doing whatever he desired. There was something untamed in the way the man moved out of the shadows. He wore travelling clothes, finer than she had seen before except on the late King. The faint light made his hair shine a brownish gold. He was taller than the average Pict, or even a Gael.
She blinked and belatedly realised that she was staring.
‘Are you one of those stragglers?’ she asked, hastily smoothing the folds in her gown and concentrating on the dirty rushes. Staring at someone like him could get you killed. Everyone had heard the stories about the Northmen and their murderous ways.
A thin smile played on his lips. ‘Let us say I have urgent business in Nrurim which I’ve no intention of delaying.’
Urgent business? The double monastery which her aunt ruled over dominated the town. St Fillans of Nrurim was one of the few establishments which still catered to both men and women under one head, a privilege reserved for women of royal lineage since the time of her aunt’s namesake, St Abbe, two centuries before. Her aunt never allowed anyone to forget her heritage.
Ceanna doubted one such as this man could have business there. Men from the North were not Christians; they were heathens who entered monasteries to sack and burn. But maybe they were just stories. And hadn’t she had enough of those? She needed to fear her actual enemies, not random men she encountered in taverns.
Her mouth went dry. Had he been sent to follow her and ensure her return to Dun Ollaigh? Was this why her escape had been straightforward so far?
‘What sort of business?’ she asked, ensuring the cloak was wrapped tightly about her. ‘Why would one such as you need to travel there?’
He shrugged. His fine wool cloak moved, revealing a broad sword with an intricately carved handle. She’d be willing to wager that this man had secreted several other weapons on his person. He was dangerous, beyond a shadow of a doubt.
‘My own business and no less urgent for being personal.’ He raised his brow and his look appeared to take in every detail of her wedding finery. ‘And you? I assume you’ve business there as well if you wish to send a message with Urist.’
She lifted her chin and tried to pretend a confidence she did not have while the knots in her stomach grew painful. ‘My own business, too.’
‘So were you also intending to travel there? On your own, without companions? Dressed in that manner?’
His gaze travelled down her form again. She was painfully aware of her deficiencies, as her stepmother had called them—from her short stature to her overly generous figure. She wished she had bound her breasts and dressed as a beardless youth or put on something loose and tatty. The man appeared to see her for what she was—an unattractive, expensively dressed woman massively out of her depth for the task she was about to undertake.
‘Urist has my trunk which contains my travelling clothes.’ She gulped, belatedly remembering that no one was supposed to know her business. ‘My trunk is what my message is about. It goes to my aunt.’
He lifted a brow. ‘Indeed. I rarely enquire into a lady’s dress requirements.’
Ceanna’s cheeks burnt. No one need know more than was absolutely necessary.
No stranger required her life’s history. She made a mental note to redouble her efforts to live up to the promises she made in her prayers which she recited each night before she went to bed—ways in which she could improve.
She cleared her throat and attempted an icy stare. ‘I’d assumed he’d wait until I arrived...with my final message...before heading out. Obviously not.’
‘Are people normally required to wait for your messages? The real world is rarely that accommodating, even for delicate ladies.’
His tone implied that he considered she wouldn’t go five steps before breaking down in tears or worse. Ceanna gritted her teeth. She’d wept her last tears at her mother and younger brother’s gravesides. She was finished with being the meek and mild daughter who obeyed her father’s wishes—or what her stepmother claimed were his wishes. Her father in his right mind would never wish her married to a coarse brute like Feradach with his wandering fingers and vulgar jokes.
She firmed her mouth. ‘Delicacy is a matter of opinion. The fact remains—my plans must alter if I’m to...to complete my business. Most vexing.’
His smile grew broader and transformed the chiselled planes of his face to something which caused her throat to hitch. She rapidly examined the ground and attempted to keep her heart steady. ‘I’d use a harsher word than vexing, but I agree with you. Urist’s early departure has caused my plans to alter as well, but I maintain my resolve.’
Ceanna belatedly remembered that she had decided to meet people’s eyes instead of looking away. She forced her gaze upwards. ‘I didn’t ask for your agreement or your approval.’
‘Understood.’ A distinct twinkle lit up his deep blue eyes. ‘Any particular reason for choosing our missing guide?’
She cleared her throat and began the speech she’d run through a hundred times in her head. ‘His reputation for reliability is held in high regard among people I trust.’
Other points sprang into her mind: Urist had been the only one planning to travel and the only one whom she’d considered would remain silent about her intentions. He had every reason to love her father, no reason to be loyal to her stepmother—or indeed Ceanna’s intended—and a tendency not to ask penetrating questions. Also, gossip had it that Urist and her erstwhile bridegroom had nearly come to blows earlier in the year over some matter involving mouldy grain. She’d felt like the stars had finally aligned for her when she had learnt of his proposed departure.
She might be able to make it to her aunt on her own, but she wasn’t foolish enough to think it would be an easy task.
She’d been there before, but danger always lurked, particularly now that the countryside was so unsettled with King Aed having been recently killed. It was one of the reasons her stepmother gave for marrying her off so quickly—to safeguard the estate. But these were points of which she felt both her aunt and the stranger in front of her should remain in ignorance.
‘Very reliable,’ she repeated in a louder tone in case he’d failed to hear her. Several of the regulars glanced up from their beer.
‘I fear you were misled.’ He shrugged. ‘We both were.’
‘He will have had his reasons. He may have left word.’ Ceanna forced her lips to turn upwards. ‘I intend to enquire. I suggest you do as well.’
‘You do that. I suspect you will get the same answer I did. No one knows anything. A conspiracy of silence.’
‘I’m not you.’
‘True enough.’ He saluted her with his tankard. ‘I wish you better fortune than I had.’
Ceanna gritted her teeth. By now someone would have noticed her disappearance. They would comb the hall first, then the woods, then finally the town and this tavern. She had to be well away from here before that happened.
‘People are wary of strangers who ask other people’s business while keeping their own a secret.’ She glanced about the tavern. Except for the old gentlemen at the back who were playing a game of dice, everyone was studiously examining their ale, pretending not to have spotted her.
He shrugged. ‘How difficult is it to get to the fabled Nrurim—that is the question.’
‘Surely, everyone knows how to get there,’ she said, wrapping the cloak tighter about her.
A shadowy dimple played in the corner of his mouth. ‘It is to the north-east in Strathallan, but beyond that I require a guide. Are you also in need of guidance?’ He stroked his chin. ‘My guess is that you are. Therefore, I’m afraid I can’t be of assistance.’
She ignored him and turned towards the tavern owner. ‘How long since Urist ab Urist departed?’
‘Before first light. They were going to go slowly up to the ford.’ He lowered his voice and turned away from the stranger, ensuring the other villagers also couldn’t hear him. ‘I was to tell any lady who asked, but no one else, particularly no warrior. Urist was nine kinds of jumpy last night. He kept talking about unexpected developments and the need for secrecy. He paid his bills in full, something he rarely does.’
Ceanna nodded. He was going slowly to give time for the stragglers—most likely her—to catch up if they knew where to head. Or at least she hoped she’d interpreted the cryptic message correctly. Urist did not head towards the ford, but away from it towards the loch.
‘I thank you kindly, then. I’ll find another to...to deliver my message.’ She briefly nodded and started to back towards the door. Catching up would be possible if she hurried.
‘Not so fast.’ The stranger’s hard fingers gripped her arm. ‘We have not finished our discussion.’
‘Yes, we have. You have your business to attend to and I’ve mine.’ She glared at him. ‘Our short acquaintance has ended. Release me.’
‘I’ve no wish to alarm you, but my need to get to Nrurim as soon as possible drives me.’ He slowly released his fingers, but continued to stand far too close. Ceanna retreated a step and put a hand over the place where his fingers had been. ‘If you know where he is, take pity on me, I beseech you.’
At the end of his speech he fell to his knees like a supplicant. She stared at him for a long breath without speaking. With a sigh, he rose. ‘I’m in no mood for tricks which Pictish guides play on unwary travellers.’
‘I’ve as much idea as you where Urist could be,’ she said, secretly crossing her fingers. A small stretching of the truth, but did a man from the North deserve the full truth, considering what he and his countrymen had put her land through? Considering how he had grabbed her arm and demanded she tell him what she knew? Urist clearly didn’t trust him. Why should she?
He put his face closer to hers. ‘I paid gold in advance. Do you think it right to cheat a man?’
She twisted the folds of her gown over and over between her fingers. ‘You will have to take the matter up with Urist. I cannot help you in that.’
‘You must!’
The entire tavern went still at his raised voice.
The tavern owner jerked his head towards the door. ‘Out, Northman scum. You’ve finished your drink. We don’t need your sort nosing around here, bothering people. Go now.’
The remainder of the tavern stamped their feet and thumped their fists on the tables in agreement.
The stranger seemed to sense the mood of the drinkers had altered and departed without a backward glance or another word.
Ceanna forced the air into her lungs. She was safe here. The tavern owner was a sworn liegeman of her father’s. She had little doubt that he’d counsel her to remain here and wait for the next guide, that he’d tell her there was always another guide. But if she did that, she’d be discovered and dragged back to the unwelcome marriage while the people here were punished. It was better that they knew nothing about her plans.
‘My lady...’
She gave what she hoped was an imperious nod, but greatly suspected that the effect was ruined by the way one of her braids suddenly developed a life of its own and fell over her
forehead. ‘I will bid you good day as well. You delivered your message as Urist hoped you would.’
‘That one. The Northman. He has killed many times before. I am certain of it. It is in the deadness of the eyes.’ The tavern owner shook his head. ‘I should have refused him food and drink. Return to Dun Ollaigh and send word to your aunt instead. Stop this foolishness about finding Urist. I wouldn’t trust him further than I could toss him.’
Return to Dun Olliagh only to die from an unfortunate but well-timed accident? She knew what she’d overheard two nights ago and the plans her stepmother had. Ceanna swallowed the rising indignation in her throat.
‘It’s no crime to drink or eat peacefully. I presume he paid you in advance,’ she said when she trusted her voice.
‘Aye, he did. Handsomely. Far better than this lot.’ The tavern keeper laughed, but then sobered. ‘Will you be safe, my lady? I can provide an escort back to Dun Ollaigh and your father.’
‘Your offer is kind, but I make my own way.’ She measured the distance to the door. Running would simply alert people to the fact that she wanted her freedom. She would advance slowly and then run.
‘Whatever trouble ails you, my lady, you’ll be safe here under my roof.’
Ceanna covered his rough hand with hers. Safe under his roof, but for how long? A true counterweight to her stepmother in the long term had to be the church as she was fresh out of heroes riding to her rescue. ‘I know how my father values you and your service to him.’
His cheeks went pink and he ran his hand through his hair. ‘I don’t know what the world is coming to. Your father gravely ill and that woman—’
‘Neither do I, but I have to keep on.’ She took a deep breath and attempted to remember the speech she’d practised, the one in case anyone misguidedly tried to halt her progress. ‘I’ve been blessed with a profound vision: that my future lies in Nrurim with my aunt. Ignoring such a vision would be against God’s will since it came to me when I knelt at evening prayer.’
The words sounded hollow to her ears, but the tavern keeper looked at her with a kind of awe. Inwardly Ceanna smiled. Maybe her idea of posing as some sort of holy maid had merit. If she tried hard enough, one day it might become true.
Conveniently Wed to the Viking Page 2
