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.
