Page 35

D espite his bold words to Frida, Callum had no real idea how he might leave Ember Hall without being caught.

Much less, where he would go afterwards.

Home was the obvious choice. But it was a long ride back over the border, and he dare not steal a horse from the stables.

With Frida gone and all prospects of their shared future gone with her, he had to dig deep beneath the pain and weariness that filled him to find the drive to escape.

But Callum was a warrior, well used to summoning steely resilience in times of need.

Yet this time he was not galvanised by the bloody memories of Kielder Castle, nor by the hope of a better life waiting just around the corner.

It was only a deep-seated desire to survive that made him find the strength to flee from the bakehouse, noting the icy paths and the freezing temperatures that would surely prove his undoing.

Tristan’s sword might even be a preferable death, he thought grimly, gathering his cloak around him.

But he had told Frida he would be gone from this place by dawn.

And he could still see the pain in her eyes when she spoke of her brother’s intentions.

It would devastate her if she had to witness his execution.

This, at least, he would do for her.

The guard still snored at his post. Callum thought briefly that he might take the wall torch for purposes of heat and light.

Then he lowered his hands, shaking his head at his lunacy.

What better way to illuminate his escape than to carry a flaming torch through the dark night?

The bang on his head had mayhap done worse damage than he had thought.

With every jolting step, his vision blurred.

He must make it beyond the boundary walls of Ember Hall before losing consciousness.

Perhaps once he was away, he would find the comfort of a roaring fire and a warm bed, he thought, moving stealthily forwards. He had no coin for an inn, but a man could dream.

He reached the outer edge of the courtyard without incident, cloaked in darkness and keeping close to the walls of the outbuildings as shelter from the wind.

He did not need to watch the main gates for long to realise that he would never make it through.

Tristan had ordered the guard be doubled.

Flaming torches illuminated at least a dozen men atop the fortified wall. All of them upright and alert.

He shook his aching head and slunk back into the shadows.

His only option was to take the eastern gate.

But that did not lead to the road and the possibility of a fast escape—only to rolling fields and rearing cliffs.

Progress would be slow over such terrain in these conditions.

But he would have kept his promise to Frida.

Right now, Callum couldn’t think much beyond that.

Taking in a gulp of cold air in the hope it might steady his thoughts, Callum turned around and retraced his steps until he reached the barn.

Here he had to close his mind to memories of the day he and Frida had rescued the flock of sheep.

He also pushed away the temptation to sneak inside, amidst the straw and animal warmth, to rest his aching limbs.

Nay, warmth and rest were not on offer for him this cold night.

But one thing he could take to ease his journey was the shepherd’s crook which Frida had abandoned by the barn wall.

Callum closed his fingers over the smooth handle, thinking of Frida’s slender hand gripping the very same wood.

He flinched as an icy gust of wind whistled through his damp cloak, adding to the myriad pains racing up and down his bruised body.

He must keep going else his very bones may freeze.

Made reckless by cold and circumstance, Callum strode directly across the courtyard, his eyes trained on the orange glow of the brazier by which the lone guard of the eastern gate would be keeping warm.

The crook made it easier to walk on his bad ankle.

Perchance he would make it, after all—but only if the guard was not very diligent.

There were no buildings or trees to cloak his progress.

Nor was it possible to proceed quietly when his boots alternately slid on ice or crunched through snow.

Speed and surprise were his only allies.

Together with the shepherd’s crook, which delivered a clean blow directly across the back of the guard’s head when Callum was able to sneak up behind him.

Callum knew a flicker of guilt as the man slumped on the slushy ground. But the brazier was close enough to stop him from freezing to death. And he would be found soon enough when the watch changed, surely.

Without looking back, Callum strode through the arched gate, his boots plunging into snow.

He trudged onwards, listening out for the crashing of waves which would give some signal as to the proximity of the cliff edge.

All he could hear was the howling wind and the occasional screech of an owl.

At any moment, he feared he might slip and plunge over the edge of the white world to his death on the shingle beach far below, but there was no alternative but to persevere.

I am brought low , he thought, his habitual strength and fortitude much diminished by the beating he had endured.

It was near enough three days since he had tasted food, and it took every ounce of energy to place one foot in front of another and carry on up the hill.

When he walked bodily into something cold, hard and tall, it was almost a relief to have the excuse to stop.

His heart raced as he waited for a blow from an opponent, but everything around him remained still and calm. Even the wind had eased a little. Greatly daring, Callum reached out again, running his hands over a rough level surface.

Granite stone.

He blinked to better focus his vision, leaning back to take in the outline of a large, rectangular stone jutting out of the earth to the height of his shoulders.

What monolith was this? His racing mind recalled his mother’s tales of witchcraft and superstition in these parts, but he was too tired to be much afraid.

When the moon slid out from behind a cloud, he made out an oddly-shaped circle of similarly shaped stones.

He rested his arms and forehead against the cold granite as he caught his breath.

If this was a place where witches met and cast their magic, then so be it. They could do with him what they wanted. ’Twould be a more interesting fate, at least, than the one awaiting him at the point of Tristan’s sword.

Slumped against the stone, Callum felt the last reserves of his strength drain away.

He was chilled to the bone, bruised, battered and bereft of hope.

He turned his head to the side, wishing for a glimpse of Ember Hall, where Frida slept safely in her bed.

Only then did he realise the enormity of his error.

His footsteps were clearly visible in the snow.

Footsteps that would lead Tristan’s men, e’en Tristan himself, directly from the felled guard to Callum’s current position.

It did not matter if he found the strength to run or the luck to stay from the edge of the cliff—they would find him.

If he wished to live, he would need to take action—erase the footsteps, lead a false trail, do something to protect himself.

But he could not find the energy to move at all.

He had no strength left. And his luck had clearly run out.

Callum allowed his knees to buckle and he sank to the cold, slushy ground thinking that at least he had kept his word to Frida.

Much good it would do him.

*

When Frida crept back inside the hall, she did not think she would sleep. How could she, when her mind still raced with all that had passed? When her body still hummed from his touch and her heart grieved his departure?

She was weighed down by such grief as she was sure would never leave her. But she could bear it better by far than the overwhelming despair of seeing her lover executed by her brother.

Frida crawled beneath her covers, still dressed, and pulled the blanket over her head. She could not allow those terrible thoughts to stay inside her mind, for they would drive her to a form of insanity. She had done all she could.

And she had known what it was to be loved. By a man she loved in return.

Holding onto that, she drifted into a deep, dreamless sleep.

Mirrie woke her soon after dawn. Frida opened her gritty eyes to find her friend kneeling beside her bed, shaking her urgently.

“You must get up,” she was saying, her hand gripping Frida’s shoulder.

Frida blinked. Her bedchamber was still half in shadows, for the sun was not fully up. Pale pinkish light was all that filtered through the shutters.

“You must prepare your story,” Mirrie urged. “Tristan is already up and raging. If he sees you like this, he will know.”

She struggled to sit up. “Know what?”

“That you were the one to free the prisoner,” Mirrie whispered.

The memory flooded back to her. Last night, she had cut Callum’s bonds and urged him to leave Ember Hall. And now, she must face Tristan’s inevitable outrage over the loss of his prisoner.

Tristan would be determined to find him.

Frida must put him off the scent.

Fully awake now, she flung back her covers. “Help me to dress,” she gasped. “I must change into something clean.”

“And dry,” supplied Mirrie, already rooting through the wooden chest at the foot of Frida’s bed.

“Aye.” Frida made no attempt to argue, standing passively as Mirrie wrestled her damp and crumpled gown away from her.

“Oh.” Mirrie paused, her arms full of fabric.

“What is it?”

Mirrie pursed her lips, perchance hiding a smile. “Your shift tells a tale.”

Frida’s cheeks grew pink at the memory of what had happened whilst she was wearing her shift. “’Tis not a tale for anyone’s ears but your own.”