Page 32

S ome hours later, Frida stood in the dying light of the day in the deserted western corner of the courtyard, beside the old bakehouse.

Behind that locked wooden door lay Callum.

Though in what state, she hardly dared imagine.

She had packed her basket with herbs and salves to treat a variety of ailments, unable to rest without at least alleviating some discomfort for the man she loved.

Aye. Still loved, despite all she had learned. So Callum had ridden to Ember Hall intent on killing an English lord. What did that matter, when to him the lord was nameless?

When he had learned who he faced, he had lowered his weapons. Surrendered some, hidden some. So be it. The important thing was he had not inflicted any harm on anyone.

Nay, the truly important thing was that he made her heart soar and dance. That his arms felt like home. That she still dreamed of a future with him.

But was it doomed to be an impossible dream?

Sniffing away her tears, Frida motioned to the guard to stand aside. Thankfully, he did not question her authority, despite Tristan’s arrival.

She rapped on the door to give Callum fair warning, and then pushed it open.

It took a second for her eyes to adjust to the late-afternoon gloom.

Weak light filtered in through the shutters, illuminating a large, rectangular room with an earth floor.

It was empty of everything save a rug, a candle and Callum.

Callum.

Just the sight of him soothed her troubled soul, e’en though he was bloodied and bound. His brown eyes opened wider when she lowered her hood and he recognised her face.

“Frida,” he said, his voice thick with pain. “You came.”

“Of course I came.” She hurried forwards, the healer in her troubled by the deep gash at the side of his head which she had seen inflicted by her own brother’s boot. “How do you feel?”

“I’m grand.” His answer was swift, accompanied by the smallest smile.

She tutted, hiding the wave of relief that threatened to take strength from her limbs. He had recognised her, so his sight was not compromised. And he had joked, so his reasoning must be intact.

“Let me light the candle.” She fished in her basket for a tinderbox.

He cleared his throat. “I would prefer it if you didn’t.”

She paused in surprise, one hand still in her basket. “How so?”

His brown eyes held her gaze, like she was the prisoner instead of him.

“For one, I would not have you see me like this. For another, I know you are a skilled healer. But on this occasion, there would be no point to your ministrations when I shall be dead long before any remedy could have time enough to heal me.”

She choked back a sob. “Don’t say that.”

“Frida.” His voice was as soft as honey. “I am glad in my heart to see you. But I am guessing your brother does not know you are here?”

Frustration rippled down her spine. “I do not need his permission to go where I please. I am mistress at Ember Hall.”

“Aye, and a right good one at that. But your brother Tristan intends to kill me on the morrow, whether you are mistress here or not.”

The last of her strength deserted her and Frida found herself on the earth floor beside him, curling her body against the hardness of his chest. His hands were still bound so he could not reach to hold her, but he lowered his head until his chin rested upon her hair.

“Do not speak like that,” she whispered, “I cannot bear it.”

“’Tis the truth.” Came his reply. “And there is no escaping it.”

“Nay.” She shook her head vigorously, breathing him in. But his usual scent was obscured by blood and cold. “I will speak to Tristan in the morn. I will reason with him.”

His warm breath against her scalp offered scant comfort. “You have already tried your hardest. Already done more than I deserve.”

“I shall set you free.” She sat upright, her eyes gazing into his. “Right now, I shall cut your bonds and you shall go free.”

For a moment, hope flickered across his face, but then a sad smile took its place. “You must not. For your own sake and for the sake of my love for you, you must not.”

Tears stung her eyes and she reached out to grasp his hand, entwining her fingers with his, despite the cloth that bound his hands uncomfortably behind his back.

“How so?”

Callum gave her fingers one last squeeze and then released them.

“Because your brother has stated that he was responsible for the razing of my ancestral home in Scotland.” She frowned her incomprehension and he continued, his voice rough with emotion.

“My father is the laird of Kielder Castle. I fought on the battlements during the siege and saw women and children slaughtered as they ran for their freedom.”

“Nay,” she gasped.

“If you let me go free, I will take my revenge upon Tristan de Neville for what he has done.” He looked her fully in the face, ensuring his meaning was clear. “I will kill him, the first opportunity I get.”

Frida reared backwards in distress. “You cannot make such threats.” She scrambled to her feet, heart pounding beneath her cloak. “He is my brother.” She clenched and unclenched her hands, hoping desperately that she might have misunderstood.

“Aye. And you are the woman I would lay down my life for. Which is why I beg of you, leave me now.”

There was no ambiguity here.

“Then there is no hope for us,” she whispered, the words burning her throat.

“None,” Callum agreed, already turning his face away from her. “I know you to be a merciful woman. Please leave and do not come back. The sight of you causes more pain than I can endure.”

Part of Frida wanted to argue, but a larger part still reeled from Callum’s declaration of violent intent towards her brother. She had heard with her own ears Tristan admitting to ordering the siege on Kielder Castle, though she hadn’t known in that moment what Kielder Castle meant to Callum.

Forsooth, just one day ago she had thought him a true-blooded Englishman.

Stifling her sobs, she walked unsteadily from the dim room, scarcely remembering to acknowledge the guard when he bowed. The door slammed shut behind her and the guard shot the bolt home.

She would never see Callum again.

*

Frida kept a tight hold of her composure until she was safely inside her bedchamber, then she sank down onto her mattress and let her tears flow unchecked. She didn’t know how much time had passed when Mirrie tentatively opened the door, her face creased up with compassion for her friend.

“Oh Frida,” she said simply, walking towards her with her arms outstretched.

Frida had no words. She rested her head on Mirrie’s shoulder and continued to sob.

“You could go and see him,” Mirrie suggested quietly, smoothing Frida’s hair away from her eyes.

“I already did.”

“In the cellar?” Mirrie’s eyebrows shot up in surprise.

“In the bakehouse.” Frida straightened up and dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. “It’s where I had the guards take him after Tristan stormed out, leaving him unconscious on the floor.”

“Tristan is all of a dither,” Mirrie said, conversationally. “I sat with him at dinner, but he hardly ate a thing.”

Frida shook her head, unwilling to speak of her brother.

She was still unable to unsee the moment when he aimed that final kick at Callum’s head.

But she noted Mirrie’s best blue dress and the way she had pinned back her wayward curls with extra care, and she hoped that Tristan would not break Mirrie’s heart as well as her own.

“I forgot to come down.” Frida crumpled the sodden handkerchief in her hand. “I did not mean to…” she paused. What did I not mean to do?

She had been about to say that she had not meant to make matters worse. But the man she loved was about to be executed by her own brother. How could missing a meal make that any worse?

Mirrie could read the secrets of her heart like an open book.

“Tristan knows you are upset.”

Frida lifted her eyes to meet Mirrie’s. “Does he know why?”

“I don’t think so,” Mirrie whispered. She reached out and grasped Frida’s hand. “What are you going to do?”

“I don’t believe there’s anything I can do,” Frida answered numbly.

Mirrie’s light brown curls danced in the candlelight as she shook her head. “There is always something.”

“Not this time.”

“Frida.” Mirrie’s reprimand was as sharp as a slap in the face. “If Tristan kills Callum, you will never recover from it. Nor will you ever forgive him.”

Frida tried to swallow the lump that was forming in her throat. She could not deny the truth of Mirrie’s words, but they changed nothing.

“If I set Callum free, he will take his revenge on Tristan.”

Now Mirrie’s eyes grew wide with fear. “For what?”

“For razing his ancestral home, killing unarmed women and children in the process.”

“Egremont House?”

“A place called Kielder Castle.” Frida sniffed again. “In Scotland.”

“Oh.” Mirrie sat back on the bed and digested this for a moment.

Shadows flickered across her face from the spluttering candle, making her expression hard to read.

After a while, she walked across the room to light a fresh candle, commenting carefully, “that doesn’t sound like something Tristan would do. ”

Frida could not spare a thought for this. “Who knows what men might do when their blood is up in battle?”

“But still,” Mirrie persisted. She came to sit beside Frida again, taking hold of her hands. “Are you sure there is no mistake?”

Frida shook her head. “I was witness to the interrogation.” She held up her hand when Mirrie went to speak again. “I cannot say more on this.”

“Of course.” Mirrie was contrite. “Forgive me.”

“There is naught to forgive. But you are right. I will ne’er forgive my brother after he draws his sword against Callum.” Her throat closed against her saying anything further.

“And that is a rift that will destroy the de Nevilles,” Mirrie prophesied gravely.

Frida nodded, her heart heavy. “You are right.”

“You must ensure it does not happen.” Mirrie was insistent once again.

“How can I do that?” Frida opened her arms. “Tell me how, and I will do it.”

Mirrie jumped up from the bed and began pacing up and down the chamber, her goat-skin slippers making no sound against the heavy rugs.

“There is no bargaining with Tristan.” She flung out her hand, dismissing the idea.

“Your only hope is to persuade Callum to leave Ember Hall and never come back.” She spun around to the window, as if the twinkling stars still visible through the shutters might provide an answer.

“Callum will not gain entry at Wolvesley,” she said emphatically.

“The only danger to Tristan is here and now.”

Frida wished she could share in Mirrie’s determination, but despair had already made a home in her heart. “Or the next time Tristan rides out with the hunt or journeys some place on the road.” She pressed her lips together. “Callum has told me he will kill Tristan, the first opportunity he gets.”

“Then you must hold his retaliation in check by balancing it against something he holds dear.”

“There is nothing.” She choked on a sob.

“Oh yes there is.” Mirrie’s eyes glittered with triumph. “You can bargain for Tristan’s life with the lives of Callum’s men.”