What if...? He turned and ran back towards where Lady Ceanna waited with her dog. She sat on a rock, but rose the instant she saw him.
Her brow knitted. ‘What is it? Overly active imagination?’
Sandulf pointed towards the scene of carnage he’d left behind. ‘Someone else knew our guide was coming here and they made plans.’
‘Plans?’
‘They were attacked. Bodies are strewn everywhere. No one lives. We will have to find another way.’
He waited for her to meekly agree or dissolve into horrified sobs, but instead she stood straighter. There was an innate elegance in the way she moved.
‘No, I have to see it. I assume the attackers have gone as you’ve returned safely.’
He stared at her. ‘Why?’
‘Because the dead need to be honoured. Whoever they are.’
Chapter Four
Ceanna stuffed her hand into her mouth and willed the scream which was welling up inside her to be gone. She refused to disgrace herself. She kept her head erect and walked up to each body, looking at it while the ache inside her grew.
Screaming would make matters worse. Though how this could be worse she wasn’t sure. But the destruction which lay before her sent violent shivers down her spine. She should have been here. She should have been one of the dead. Sandulf’s insistence they stop for the night had saved her life. Just as his detaining the lad from the tavern had allowed her to escape. She owed him a life debt.
Could the dead hear when you screamed?
Beside her, Vanora gave a soft whimper and clung to her side. Ceanna grasped a handful of her fur and nodded towards Sandulf, who raised his sword in a salute. The simple act restored a small measure of calm and the urge to scream evaporated like the summer mist under the sun.
‘Dead, all dead,’ she whispered and then cleared her throat. ‘Urist’s travelling group. Urist lies over there. It was supposed to be a large group travelling. He worried about bandits.’
Her voice sounded amazingly calm and forthright to her ears, revealing none of the awful churning which occupied her gut.
‘You confirmed what I thought. Thank you.’ He inclined his head before putting a hand on her elbow. It took all of her strength not to lean against him. He gave a little squeeze and then moved away. ‘You’re doing well.’
‘Well for a lady? You expected me to faint, or worse?’
‘Well for someone who has not encountered these things before. I was violently ill my first time after a battle. My brothers never allowed me to forget it. Always joking and teasing. It is not easy.’
‘Your brothers are less than kind.’
‘They’d die for me. And I for them. It is part of the training—they want to make sure I know where I come from, that I stay humble as the youngest son.’
‘They should be better.’
He gave a harsh laugh. ‘When I see them, I’ll inform them that Lady Ceanna, the new holy maid of St Fillans at Nrurim, has decreed they must treat me with respect.’
‘It might do the trick.’ She stared again at the carnage which was spread out in front of her, trying to be dispassionate. Urist’s body lay next to a woman whom she did not recognise, but who appeared to be wearing Ceanna’s best cloak, the one she’d carefully packed in her trunk.
A swift anger went through her. Ceanna clenched her fists and tried to hang on to her temper. Proof if she needed it that Urist had actually intended to rob her. He had already sold her clothes to another. ‘That was my cloak, the one the woman is wearing. She could have been me.’ A sudden realisation sent shock racing through her body. ‘Maybe they thought she was me, if they attacked in the night.’
Sandulf tilted his head to one side. ‘Could she be mistaken for you?’
Ceanna started to shake. If everything had gone as planned, she would have been the one lying there, the dead body instead of the breathing woman looking at the scene. ‘I don’t know. She could have been, or she could have been too afraid to run. She didn’t stand a chance.’
A great lump developed in her throat. That woman might have stolen her clothes, but she had been a person with a family. It was not right how she died.
Ceanna wanted to be more than a tool to be used by everyone else who sought power or riches. She wanted to matter in her own right. She firmed her mouth and pushed the unworthy thought away. Crying over something was not going to change it and she certainly was not about to show the Northman that Urist’s betrayal bothered her.
The carthorses had been brutally slaughtered and a sickly-sweet stench hung in the air. Rifled belongings lay on the ground. Ceanna spotted two more of her cloaks and one of her gowns festooned a branch.
Sandulf motioned to her to remain still. Ceanna nodded and tightened her grip on Vanora. Standing upright was about all she could manage.
Sandulf silently patrolled the perimeter, moving with a stealthy swiftness which reminded Ceanna of a sleek tomcat getting ready to pounce on his prey.
‘They could return. We need to put some distance between us and this,’ he said, returning to her side and speaking in a hushed tone. He watched her with wary eyes, as if he still expected her to panic. ‘We don’t know how big the travelling party was, but hopefully most escaped.’
Ceanna wrapped her arms about her middle and stuffed the scream back down her throat. ‘Is that supposed to be comforting?’
Sandulf’s mouth twitched downwards. ‘Honesty saves time.’
‘Thank you for your brutal honesty, then.’ Ceanna concentrated on where the woman lay, face down. The cloak was now heavy with rain. She hated to think that someone had confused that woman for her. ‘Do you think it was a gang of thieves who prey on travellers? Urist was supposed to be an experienced guide. He was supposed to travel with guards. Men with
