Page 14

C allum kept his temper in check until he had made it out of the house and across the courtyard. Listening hard, he could discern Andrew’s ribald singing coming between bursts of hammering, and he used this as a cue to find the damaged barn where his men were working.

Here, just inside the shady entrance, he allowed his rage to surface in a guttural bellow. At the same time, he swung his fist so that an ancient, blackened beam by the door caught the full force of the blow.

Holy hell, that hurt.

He shook out his fingers, wincing from the pain. It was a foolish thing to do, given that a broken hand would not aid him in any way. But his temper was brewing inside him so fiercely that he needed a release.

Both the hammering and the singing ceased, the sound replaced by lowered voices. Within moments, his men would appear and questions would be asked of him.

Callum was in no mood to answer questions.

He should not have come here. Not yet.

Quickly he slunk away, running lightly away from the open barn towards a low building where a slatted door stood ajar. All he wanted was to be alone so he might think.

Callum paused at the door, nudging it gently so that it swung open and revealed an empty chamber.

It was not until he had walked through the door that he realised he was inside a modest chapel.

Modest in its size—it would not hold a congregation of more than twenty—but far from modest in its execution.

Painted glass softened the light and cast rainbow-hued patterns onto plastered walls which were adorned with frescoes so intricate he could not help but gaze at them, his breathing becoming more even as he made out a glorious pattern of intertwined stems and leaves twisting about the mullioned windows.

Callum sank onto the nearest pew and rested his elbows on his knees. Silence pressed upon him heavily.

So Tristan had been in Scotland. There was no doubting that fact now.

Callum’s anger was so intense he thought he might weep. Albeit, there was still no proof that Frida’s brother had played a part in the storming of Kielder Castle. But the probability was rising.

Why else would Callum have been dispatched to this very place if it were not to assassinate a man who had brought death and destruction to his homeland?

He clutched his hands together, wondering if he might send up prayers asking the almighty for a sign as to how he should proceed.

It was then that the irony of the situation fell upon him like a rug thrown from on high. He was momentarily smothered, gasping for breath in the quiet chapel.

Callum had done exactly this in Wolvesley Castle. He had asked for help from on high when his feelings for Frida grew stronger than his will to serve his master.

His subsequent decision to leave England and abandon his quest meant that Tristan de Neville was left alive and free. Free to attack Scottish lands.

Free, perchance, to attack Kielder Castle.

A groan ripped from him as he realised the weight of these implications. The razing of Kielder Castle, the killing of the innocent, the destruction of his father’s lands; the blame for all of this and more could easily belong to him. For he had spared the man who had likely led the attack.

The strength drained from his body into the wooden pew. He felt as weak as a child.

He should have listened to his father. Obeyed his orders. Abandoned any fanciful notions of kinship with an English noble sworn to an English King.

Fanciful notions of connection. Nay, of romance, with the daughter of an English earl.

Callum rubbed the heel of his hands into his eyes. He had lived long enough on this earth to know that regret was baked into the very fabric of existence. One could never second-guess the future and there was little to be gained by reimagining the past.

What mattered was the present.

A present in which he vowed to take his revenge upon Tristan de Neville. God’s bones, if he must bide here a year or scour the earth to track the man down, so be it. He would do whatever it took to look the man in the eye and demand if he had led the raid on Kielder Castle.

If he saw, by the merest flicker of an eyelid, that the answer was yes, then friendship be damned. Tristan de Neville would know punishment for his myriad crimes upon the innocent.

In fact, enough time had been wasted. He would talk to Jonah on the morrow and establish Tristan’s present whereabouts. What he’d said to his men was true: Wolvesley Castle was far too well-defended to attempt an attack. But Tristan must travel on the roads at some time.

Breathing deeply, Callum straightened his back and fixed his gaze on the soft swirls of light emanating from the painted glass.

His mother would not approve of him thinking such dark thoughts of vengeance in a place of worship. But he had not known the benefits of her calm counsel since his sixteenth summer. And his father’s guidance ran to a different tune entirely.

An eye for an eye.

Violence answering violence.

Rory Baine had long demanded that his son wreak revenge upon their enemies. And if Callum had answered that demand two years ago, his father may not now be scrambling for coin with which to order the rebuilding of their ancestral home.

Coin that Callum was to provide, in part at least, with this mission.

Callum stilled on the pew as the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Someone was watching him. Without turning his head, Callum looked as far as he could towards the open door on his left.

A shadowy figure stood within the chapel.

Immediately Callum leapt to his feet. One hand instinctively sought the hilt of his sword before he remembered that he had turned his weapon in as Frida requested. No matter. He had his fists and a knife secreted in his boots.

“Who is there?”

“’Tis only I.” Callum relaxed as he recognised Arlo’s strained voice. The boy walked further into the pink-hued light and bowed his head in apology. “I did not mean to startle you. Nor did I wish to interrupt your prayers.”

Callum snorted. “I was not praying.”

“I came here to find you.”

“Why?”

“’Tis Gregor.” Arlo pressed the palms of his hands together as if in supplication. “He is most unsettled.”

“He and I both.” Callum shook his head in exasperation. Could he not enjoy two minutes of solitude?

Arlo swallowed. “Aye, but Gregor intends mischief. I’m sure of it.”

Now he had Callum’s full attention. “Where is he?”

“He left the barn headed for the loft where we slept.”

Where our stash of weapons is hidden , Callum silently added. He didn’t waste time asking more questions, knowing Arlo to be a sensible youth who not raise any alarm without reason.

“Come,” he said, already striding out of the chapel. Before they emerged into the sunlight he glanced back over his shoulder. “If trouble is brewing, I want you to stay out of it.”

The courtyard was empty, save a clutch of hens scratching in the soft earth. For the first time since arriving at Ember Hall, the uniformed guards were nowhere to be seen. Callum picked up his pace, hoping to intercept Gregor before he left the loft.

Before any showdown between them became a public spectacle.

But as he rounded the corner, he saw the tall highlander crouched low, running towards the stone steps leading to the hall’s entrance. Light glinted off the blade clutched in his hand.

A jolt of alarm brought the scene into sharp relief; pink roses nodding in the breeze, ancient stone basking in sunlight.

A lone figure intent on spilling blood.

“Halt.” Callum infused the command with all the authority of his rank. He was the son of Rory Baine. He was the spy trusted by Robert the Bruce.

He would not stand for insurrection.

His boots trod heavily over the stones as he closed the distance between them. Gregor had paused, as requested, but his dark eyes shone with defiance. He made an unpleasant sight; unwashed and crumpled with a straggling growth of beard and lank hair hanging about his pointed face.

“I have naught to say to you.” The man spat at his feet.

Callum did not flinch, though he wished he had his sword to hand. Gregor’s blade was lowered, for now.

“What is the meaning of this?” He kept his voice low, his words clipped.

Gregor pushed back his shoulders and looked at him scornfully. “I will nae follow a coward.”

“Callum is nae coward,” Arlo spoke from beside him.

Callum fought an urge to tell the lad to go away. Somewhere he would not be harmed by flying fists or blades. Instead, he put his hands on his hips and fixed his gaze on Gregor. “Your orders were to work on the barn. Why are you headed for the house?”

“To do what ye are too afeared to do.”

Cold pinpricks of apprehension washed down his spine. “I am the one in charge of this mission. I will decide what we do and when.”

“Ye are nae in charge of naught.” Gregor spat again. “All day ye have been picking apples and fawning over lady Frida de Neville. Ye are a warrior man, the lady’s enemy. At least, that is who I thought ye were.”

The courtyard still appeared empty, but armed guards could be listening to their exchange even now. This was no place for a discussion. Much less for threats and accusations. If they weren’t careful, all three of them would wind up with swords pointed at their chests.

His heart beat hollowly, but he drew himself up to his full height and ensured his voice carried an edge of menace. “This is not honourable, Gregor. No true Scotsman would launch an attack on defenceless women.”

“Ye dare speak to me of honour?” Gregor snorted. “When ye have lied from the very day we arrived?”

Callum bade his voice be steady. “What is this you accuse me of?”

“Ye lied outright when ye told us that Tristan de Neville was expected here within two days.”

Callum froze. He had not anticipated being caught out so quickly.