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She was small and wizened, mayhap with age. Her hair was long and grey, pinned loosely at the back of her head. She wore a plain woollen dress, ornamented with neither broaches nor ribbons. But her green eyes were bright as they followed his every move.

He cleared his throat “I should ask your name, dear lady, and thank you again for your kindness.”

She shook her head. “Me first.” She took a sharp intake of breath. “You are Callum, aren’t you? Son of Elizabeth?”

It was so long since Callum had been called the son of anyone but Rory Baine that it took him several seconds to answer. “My mother’s name was Elizabeth, aye.”

She nodded, her eyes gleaming like a bird’s. “Lady Elizabeth. I knew it, as soon as I saw you properly.”

He lowered his spoon, his hunger momentarily forgotten. “You knew my mother?”

She nodded again. “And you too, Callum Baine, though you were still in short trousers when I left your mother’s service.” She sat up straighter on the settle. “Do you remember Alys, your mother’s maid?”

“Alys.” He rolled the name around in his mouth. It did sound familiar. He had a sense of small kindnesses, singing songs, honey cakes. “You served my mother at Egremont House?”

She looked pleased. “Indeed I did. And saddened I was to learn of her passing, God rest her soul.” She made the sign of the cross over her chest and clasped her hands together as if in prayer.

Callum gave a small nod of thanks. “Alys,” he said again, hoping to strengthen the memories. “And this is your home?”

“A small home but a happy one.” She took a neat spoonful of soup.

“And this is your hound?” He nodded towards the dog.

Alys tightened her lips. “I’m sorry if Gil frightened you. But these are troubled lands and troubled times we are living in. I am an old woman living alone and must take whatever the good Lord provides me for my protection.”

Callum finished the last of his stew. “And the lord gave you Gil?”

“When he was but a pup.” Alys stroked the dog’s head. “Gil keeps intruders away. When he howled, I knew someone was approaching. I’m only sorry I didn’t recognise you straight away.”

Callum’s hand gravitated to the new lump on his head. “’Twas not your dog that inflicted harm on me,” he said, wincing a little. “Did you see the man that struck me?”

Alys hid her smile. “’Twas no man, Callum. I swung the pan myself.” She nodded towards the cooking pot, which had made the meal he had just eaten.

“You hit me?” His eyebrows shot up with such force that a new wave of dizziness came over him.

“We must err on the side of caution, Gil and I.” Alys placed her spoon inside her bowl.

“But as soon as I had a good look at your face, I saw the young boy who would hide behind his mother’s skirts and steal honey cakes when he thought no one was looking.

” She smiled fondly. “So I brought you here to recover.”

Callum took a breath. It was something of a relief to discover he was not obliged to hide away from any new knight or warrior.

“You brought me all the way in here, from all the way out there?” He indicated the shuttered window, through which narrow glimpses of the farm track could be seen.

Alys inclined her head. “I tend my own garden and manage my own firewood. I am stronger than I look. Though I am afraid your cloak is torn in many places and near good for nothing by now. I used it as a stretcher to drag you on.”

Callum opened his mouth to say it was nothing, but then shut it again with the words unsaid. He had grown up with cloaks aplenty, but right now he had naught but the clothes on his back and the loss of his good cloak would be keenly felt.

Still, without food and drink, perchance he would not have lived through many more days. With or without his good cloak.

He glanced down at his heavily crumpled tunic, then reached up to scratch at his many days’ growth of beard.

“Forgive me, I have not bathed nor changed my clothes in many days.”

Alys nodded. “Come the morn when the sun has regained some warmth, we can see to all of that. For now, Callum, take your rest. Then mayhap you can tell me who or what you are running from?”

*

He refused to take her bed, but the settle proved far more comfortable than the hard floors he had been obliged to lay upon these last days.

Callum slept deeply by the dying embers of the fire, the only disturbance being occasional snores from Gil the dog.

When he awoke, the small house was bright with sunlight and Gil was nowhere to be seen.

Callum laid still for a moment, making a mental inventory of his injuries.

His ankle still throbbed, though less insistently now.

The rest of him was recovering. For certain, nothing was broken.

Even his head seemed clearer. He could swivel his neck and look about him without any dizziness or nausea.

I will live.

Though what he might achieve with the life left to him, he could not yet imagine.

A murmur of conversation reached him through the open doorway.

Callum stood and stretched his arms over his head, his fingertips brushing against the rafters of the roof.

He could make out the chirping tone of Alys, and the other speaker seemed to be a young boy.

Outside, the air smelled sweet, washed clean by the melted snow.

Alys turned a smiling face in Callum’s direction and then bade farewell to the boy, pressing something into his hand first.

“For your troubles,” she said. “God bless you, Matthew.”

“God bless you, Missus Alys,” the boy replied in a high piping voice. Then he set off running down the narrow path as fast as his little legs would carry him.

Callum rotated his shoulders, pleased to feel his body coming back to something approaching its usual strength.

“Who was that?” he asked, as Alys stepped back inside.

“The gardener’s grandson from Egremont House.

I worked with his father for many years.

Now he sends the lad to check on me and bring me treats along with bits of news.

” She lifted a small wicker basket, from which came a most entrancing aroma of freshly-baked bread.

“Today we have a gift of food from the kitchens; much appreciated if little needed.” She sniffed.

“I try not to take offence at the implication that I cannot fend for myself.”

“’Tis human kindness,” Callum commented, reaching to relieve her of the basket and place it carefully on the scrubbed table.

“Aye, and human need for connection which I value just as high.” Alys pulled a shawl about her shoulders, her eyes dancing. “You cannot imagine what news Matthew brought with him this morn.”

“I cannot.” Callum could think of little save the bread in the basket.

Alys smiled as if divining his thoughts. “Let us sit together and break our fast, then I will tell you what I have learned.”

This time Alys perched on the wooden chair and Callum returned to the settle.

The fire had been restocked with logs and was blazing merrily.

Gil trotted in and took his usual place with a deep sigh of contentment.

For a long while, all was well. Callum filled his mouth with soft, sweet-tasting bread, washed it down with another cup of ale.

When Alys produced a small package of nuts and berries from the bottom of the basket, Callum closed his eyes at the explosion of flavour against his tongue.

He had tasted naught like this for many days.

“There is better colour in your cheeks,” Alys commented.

“I am better by far,” Callum declared, brushing crumbs from his tunic. “Well enough to deliver to you the explanation you are owed.”

She held up her hand. “Let me tell you this first of all. Matthew brought news from o’er the border.”

Callum could not help his spine instinctively stiffening. “From Scotland?” Alys nodded and his mind immediately conjured images of battles and bloodshed. “God’s bones, what has happened there now?”

“’Tis good news.” The old woman’s green eyes danced. “Your man, Robert the Bruce, has been recognised as king of an independent Scotland.”

Her words echoed in his mind without him grasping their meaning. “An independent Scotland?” Just the idea would be heresy in some households, although it was the very thing that his father lived for. “By whom?”

“By the pope himself,” Alys breathed.

Callum leaned back on the settle, looking at her curiously. “Are you a Scot, Alys?”

“Nay.” Wisps of grey hair escaped their pins as she shook her head. “I am a true-blooded English woman, the same as your mother.”

“But I am not,” he interjected.

“You are Scottish on your father’s side, English on your mother’s,” Alys said, as if this fact had not haunted so many of his days. “So that means you are both English and Scottish yourself. To that end, I am sure this news has special significance for you, Callum dear.”

Callum took another mouthful of ale. His father indeed would be celebrating hard, amongst the ruins of Kielder Castle. “How does this bear special import for me?” He sighed. “I do not see it, myself.”

“Is it not another step towards peace?” she suggested gently.

“I have abandoned all hopes of peace,” he replied, his tone almost savage.

He bowed his head at the shocked expression on Alys’s face.

“Forgive my anger. But I have watched friends and family on both sides of the border come to harm. I am a man of faith, but I do not see what words the Pope can say that will remedy such decades of animosity.”

A shadow crossed over her face. “There has been much bloodshed.”

“Aye.” He placed down the empty cup, his fingers shaking. “And whilst there is such hatred and mistrust on both sides, I do not think there can e’er be peace between England and Scotland.”

Alys nodded. “There are people working actively for peace,” she whispered, looking over her shoulder as if fearful of being overheard. “One man in particular. A brave man in whom I place all my hopes for a peaceful future.”

“What man?” He looked at her curiously.

“I should not say.” She pressed her lips together, as if keeping the words inside. “Tell me your tale, Callum. What turn of events brought you to my door in such a sorry state?”

He smiled grimly. “’Tis the oldest, sorriest tale of all.”

“Love?” she whispered, tilting her lined face upwards.

“Love.” His throat closed over the word and he cleared his throat roughly. “I am in love with an English woman, even though I was tasked by the Bruce to move against her family.”

A moment passed. Gil raised his head, ears pricked, as if aware something momentous had been said. Callum knew his words were shocking, but he was determined to tell no more lies about his true identity.

“You work for the Bruce?” Alys sat on the very edge of her chair as if she might fly away.

“My father insists upon it.”

“Aye, he was always a man of strong emotion.” Alys leaned back, though her eyes remained wary.

“I have been sent on two commissions by the Bruce. I have failed them both.” Callum rubbed at his beard distractedly. “I will not be welcomed back at my father’s house. Although little of my father’s house remains. It was razed by the English at midsummer.”

Razed by Tristan de Neville , he thought but did not say.

Alys bit down on her lip. “’Tis a sorry tale indeed, Callum. I am saddened by your troubles. Your poor mother would be beside herself with grief for it all.”

He nodded, unwilling to invite more self-pity.

“But what of this English woman? Does she know you love her?”

He nodded, thinking of their last embrace. “She knows it.”

“And does she love you in return?”

A small smile broke through. “I believe she does.”

“Then naught should stand in your way.” Alys folded her hands together as if that was all there was to say.

Callum gazed into the orange flames of the fire, wishing they could burn away everything that made this situation so impossible. “We cannot have a future, because she is English and I am Scottish.”

“Half Scottish,” Alys corrected.

Callum shook his head. “’Tis all the same to them. They are one of England’s most noble families.”

Alys’s green eyes caught him in a snare. “Which one?”

He sighed. “The woman I love is Frida de Neville.” Her sharp exclamation of surprise almost silenced him, but he spoke on. “The man who ordered the destruction of my family home is her brother, Tristan de Neville.”

A long moment passed between them. Callum thought he had said too much.

“You are wrong.”

Of all things, this was not what he was expecting to hear. “I am not,” he responded, steadily.

Alys shook her head, her gaze also fixed on the fire. “Callum, there is something you must know.”

He forced a laugh, rubbing at his tired eyes. “Many things, I am sure.”

“Nay.” She fixed him once more with her impossibly bright eyes. “One thing of the greatest import.” She took a breath. “The man who is working secretly for peace between England and Scotland is Lord Tristan de Neville.”