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I should have been more prepared for this.

Callum’s eyes had grown accustomed to the dark of the cellar and he could discern the outline of both Arlo and Andrew nearby.

Arlo was laying on his side, his lean body occasionally shuddering with cold.

Andrew sat beside him, head down. The only sound was their laboured breathing and the occasional dripping of melting snow outside.

Callum wanted to reach out to both his friends and apologise, but his hands and feet were bound and his mouth gagged.

He could neither move nor talk, and the twitching and grunting he could accomplish would achieve nothing.

All he had were his endless thoughts of self-recrimination, which whirled around like the branches of a sapling tree in a strong wind.

I should not have put Arlo and Andrew at risk.

I should not have lied to Frida.

I should not have allowed this to happen.

But despite the direness of their circumstances, he could not berate himself for staying too long at Ember Hall. These last days with Frida had been the most precious of his life. He only wished he had found a way to send his men away before the three of them were discovered to be traitors.

Again, he concluded that he should have known something like this would happen. The de Neville family were among the wealthiest and most powerful in England. Tristan had spies and allies everywhere; he was not a man to cross.

Callum shuffled on his backside until he could lean against the rough stone wall, relieving some of the ache across his shoulders.

Cold had settled deep into his bones from a combination of damp clothing and the chill of the small, underground chamber.

At least the air was fresh. It seemed nothing had been stored down here for some time.

A faint shaft of light filtered through the gap in the double doors above them, through which they had all been unceremoniously shoved some time earlier.

He had lost all sense of how long they had been down here, but the unchanging light told him it was still the same day.

The same day which had dawned with such hope and promise. With Frida by his side. With him daring to dream of a future.

Callum shook the memories away. Dreams had no place here. Survival had become his aim, for his men if not for himself.

Footsteps above his head broke through his reverie and had him sitting up straighter.

Whatever happened next, he willed it would happen to him and not faithful Andrew nor young Arlo.

There was a creak as the horizontal doors were wrenched open, and a flood of sunlight blinded him for a long moment.

The next thing he knew, hands were grasping his upper arms and he was yanked up the wooden stairs to ground level, his shins banging painfully against every step.

He tried to reach Andrew’s eye, to signal to him that he would do all he could to keep him and Arlo safe.

But his long-time friend and comrade did not so much as turn his head in Callum’s direction.

Outside, the world was still impossibly white and soft with snow.

His damp breeches became soaked through as his captors dragged him across the courtyard.

Callum turned his head from right to left, looking for Mirrie or Jonah, for any ally who might show by their expression what awaited him.

But the usually bustling yard was deserted.

He was glad that he did not see Frida. He could not bear the idea of her witnessing his shame.

He winced at the painful banging of stone against the front of his calves as they ascended the steps to the front door. Then they were through into the blissful warmth of the great hall, where a fire crackled in the grate and the scent of lavender from the rushes soothed his senses.

This was where he had imagined telling Frida the truth.

Now it was where he would face the wrath of Tristan de Neville. Callum could see him standing to one side of the fire, deliberately looking away as if the sight of Callum was something low and degrading.

Just behind him stood Frida.

Callum’s heart somersaulted and dived. The mere sight of her reminded him of all he wanted to live for.

His captors threw him onto the floor like yesterday’s rubbish and he lay still, unable to right himself with his wrists so tightly tied behind his back.

No matter, he would remain here, unresisting, until they gave him chance to speak.

They would have to remove his gag for that.

From the corner of his eye, he spied black leather boots walking towards him. And then the pain began.

First it was a kick to his side that had him writhing in agony.

Almost immediately afterwards, a kick to his head made his vision blur.

Every bit of him became a target for what must be several men, all seemingly determined to kick him to his death.

Callum struggled for breath, turning his head towards the floor in an effort to protect his face.

What madness was this? Soldiers gathering en masse to strike a man who was both bound and gagged?

His blood raged at the injustice as the blows rained down.

Then he remembered who his assailants were.

The English.

Men who thought nothing of kicking a man while he was down. Nor of killing innocent women and children in the storming of a castle.

I should expect nothing less.

He would bear it bravely, quietly at least, for he would not give them the satisfaction of seeing him wince, much less sob or beg for mercy.

Nor would he show weakness in front of Frida.

When he was beginning to think he would die right here on the floor of the great hall, the kicking ceased.

Through a haze of pain, he heard the trample of footsteps moving away from him, into the entrance hall and out of the door.

He heard sobbing and worried for a moment that it was his own.

Then he realised the truth was even worse.

It was Frida.

She came to him with cool hands and a tender touch, urging him to sit up, steadying him when the room started to spin. Her blue eyes were red with sorrow and he could not bring himself to meet her gaze.

“I will remove this gag,” she stated, in the direction of her brother.

Tristan had taken a seat in one of the tapestried chairs which usually sat before the fire. At the moment, they had both been shoved backwards. Callum now slumped in their usual place, unable to take any comfort from the warmth of the fire.

Tristan watched on idly, as if only mildly diverted by the evening’s entertainment. He inclined his head, blond like his sister had once been, although Tristan was a bigger-boned, bigger proportioned member of the de Neville family. He resembled his father, Callum recalled. A giant of a man.

“As you wish,” he said.

If Callum had the power of speech, he would have said no.

No to Frida removing the one thing that guaranteed his silence.

For silence was far preferable to the admission of deceit that Tristan was surely about to extract from him.

But it was still a relief to have the cloth pulled free from his mouth and feel closer to human again.

“I’m sorry,” were the first words he said, aimed at Frida, who winced almost as if he had struck her.

She turned away from him and rose slowly to her feet, her ankle clearly paining her as she staggered back to her brother.

Tristan’s gaze was as cold as the cellar floor.

“Callum Baine?”

Callum ran his tongue against his teeth, checking all were still present. His body felt bruised and raw, but he had taken many a battering before, and he could tell that this was no worse than what he’d previously endured. He would survive.

He kept his answer brief. Tristan knew who he was well enough. “Aye.”

“Callum Baine, fellow of Lindum, knight of the realm. Or Callum Baine, Scottish rebel, servant of Robert the Bruce?”

Tristan’s voice was low and mocking. Deliberately so, no doubt, as to provoke a reaction in Callum.

A reaction that was even now brewing inside his belly.

Callum raised his bloodshot eyes to the handsome man, so impeccably attired in spotless breeches and a dark green tunic shot through with gold thread.

He had once counted this man amongst his friends; had risked his own safety to spare his life.

But Tristan’s finely-drawn face showed no recognition of their past friendship.

He was every inch the English lord, looking down at a Scot with derision.

Callum wanted to spit at his leather boots, but he would not be uncouth before Frida. Instead he forced his chapped lips into a smile. “Take your pick.”

Tristan threw him half a smile in return. “A faithless man, then? A man who will fight for whichever side is winning?”

“Nay, never that.” Callum’s blood boiled, even as he told himself that Tristan was doing his best to provoke him.

“What then?” Tristan leaned forward, his hands clasped on his knees, looking for all the world as if he was interested in the state of Callum’s soul.

“My sister here thinks I should show mercy to you and your men. Whereas I am minded to string you all up.” He shrugged lightly, as if he didn’t care very much either way.

“This is your chance to speak, Callum Baine.”

I will plead for the life of my men.

“What do you want to know?” His voice came out as a growl. A growl which made Frida press the heels of her hands to her eyes.

Callum looked away from the woman he loved. If he had one wish, he would not use it for his freedom. He would use it to send Frida far from this conversation.

She stood restlessly behind Tristan’s chair, sometimes turning as if she would walk from the room, other times looking for all the world as if she might drop to her knees and release Callum’s bonds. Her eyes were titchy and her movements as jumpy as a young colt.

Callum’s heart ached for her.