‘May the angels guard your footsteps, my lady.’ He clapped his hands together. ‘You must see my lady wife, Bertana. Get food for your journey. An empty belly never did anyone any good.’
Ceanna’s stomach grumbled obligingly.
‘There, it is all settled. Eat before you faint. I remember your mother’s funeral, my lady.’
Ceanna ground her teeth. She had collapsed at her mother and brother’s funeral, but it had been from the grief which had locked her knees and the knowledge that her father intended to remarry far too quickly.
The last time she’d eaten was yesterday evening and goodness knew how long it would be before she could eat again. She had to be practical. A few words to Bertana who had always been kind would not hinder her journey. ‘Briefly.’
The tavern owner tapped his finger against his nose. ‘I know, my lady, I know.’
No one made a fool of Sandulf Sigurdsson, particularly not a diminutive woman with a haughty tilt to her nose who was dressed more for a day at court eating sweetmeats, exchanging gossip and playing the lyre than tramping through the dust, and who would undoubtedly make unreasonable demands on everyone once the journey began. If the journey to Nrurim ever began. He’d witnessed the look which had passed between her and the tavern owner and he knew that Urist had left instructions for her on where to find him.
Sandulf gritted his teeth. For all her obvious failings, that preciously dressed woman was his best hope of fulfilling his quest and finding the murderous butcher who had slain his sister-in-law. He knew his eldest brother had lost their father’s kingdom and that the new ruler was his aunt’s husband. He also knew nothing he could do would bring the dead back to life, but he could ensure those who had killed Ingrid were punished.
Sandulf struggled to hang on to his temper now that he was out of the tavern. He contented himself with kicking a stick hard and sending it skittering down the road.
A large wolfhound lumbered out of the shadows and returned the stick to his feet with an earnest expression on its face. Sandulf picked up the stick and threw it again, harder this time. The dog chased after it and returned it swiftly, dropping it at his feet. Sigurd smiled wryly. One creature in this benighted place liked him.
‘What do you think, dog? Does she know where my guide is?’
The dog sat on its haunches and pointedly stared at the stick until he threw it again.
‘I will avenge Ingrid’s death. I will fulfil my vow. I will return to my family,’ Sandulf muttered when the dog returned for a third time. In the years since he had left Maerr, he had learned the hard way what to do when his problem required a different approach. He had ceased to be the headstrong warrior who had rushed down the slope to engage the enemy without a thought towards strategy. He knew the value of watching and waiting until the time was right.
A wet nose nudged his hand. Sandulf automatically reached into a pocket and gave the grey wolfhound a morsel of dried meat and hard cheese. The dog gave a soft woof in thanks.
‘At last, a creature who understands I mean no harm here.’
The dog tilted its head to one side and gave another bark, this time pointing her nose towards the tavern and wagging her tail. Sandulf noticed the fine iron collar which was about her neck. There was only one person in that tavern who could own such a creature.
‘Is your lady in some sort of trouble?’ he asked the dog. ‘Is that why she appears to be fleeing Dun Ollaigh?’
The dog tilted its head even more to one side and barked again.
Sandulf laughed. ‘As if you’d know. You see, this is what comes from being on my own—I start speaking to animals as if they’d answer back. My brothers used to say I was touched in the head but they always found a reason to belittle me. The one thing I haven’t missed is their continual ragging.’
He fingered the arm ring he’d wrenched off the scar-faced assassin that fateful day.
Since his arrival on these shores, one of his brothers, Rurik, had forgiven him and Sandulf had begun to feel hope that one day they would believe he was worthy of being their brother and their equal. After some persuasion, Rurik’s new bride, Lady Annis of Glannoventa, had provided him with the name and location of the man who had brutally murdered Ingrid and her unborn child. He was called Lugh and was hiding in a monastery near the town of Nrurim. Sandulf had accepted Rurik’s word that he and Lady Annis had put the past behind them and both wanted to savour their future together.
Regaining one brother’s trust was a start, but it was only the first step on his road to redemption. He still avoided his reflection in ponds or in burnished glass. The prospect of seeing his father’s eyes peering out at him, rebuking him for his many failures, was far too great.
Sandulf shook his head, went further into the shadows and concentrated on the tavern, willing the woman to emerge.
The door opened and an urchin ran out, banging straight into Sandulf. Sandulf allowed the boy to bounce off him while the dog gave a low rumble in the back of her throat.
‘Ugh, what did you have to do that for?’ The lad rubbed the back of his head. ‘Why don’t you watch where you are going?’
‘Maybe you should watch where you’re going,’ Sandulf said menacingly, putting his hand on his sword.
The colour drained from the lad’s face. ‘The Northman.’
‘You are in a hurry to get somewhere.’
‘To Dun Ollaigh. To tell them...to tell them that...’ The boy’s face creased. ‘You ain’t going to harm me, are you? I know what your
