Page 4

T he air smelled different in England.

Mayhap because it was not laced with the scent of blood and despair.

Not yet anyway , Callum reflected, giving his tiring horse a loose rein as they trotted up yet another hill.

The landscape here was all rolling hills and woodland.

On a different day, the view might have lifted his heart.

But he had not yet become so immune to violence that he could approach this particular mission with anything other than gravitas.

Besides which, the fog was so heavy it was difficult to see any further than the brown tips of his horse’s ears. But as they approached the summit, the mist thinned, allowing him to take stock of the whereabouts of his small band of men.

Up ahead was Gregor. Thick-necked, strong-headed and silent.

They had met just days earlier; Gregor delivering the encoded parchment to Callum at what remained of Kielder Castle, a twitch in his jaw indicating his displeasure at having to wait for Callum to break the seal.

It was clear from the off that Gregor wanted sole charge of this mission—to be the man giving the orders and the man swinging the sword.

Beside him, riding so close that occasionally their knees knocked together, was young Arlo; a farmer’s lad he had known since birth. Arlo had seen fewer than seventeen summers. He was brave and honest, but not yet as strong as he would one day become.

God willing he would live that long.

Bringing up the rear was Andrew. His friend. A warrior. A lover of women. A teller of tales.

Callum would trust Andrew with his life.

He would not, however, trust him to stay quiet for any length of time. Right now, Andrew was singing a bawdy song about an inn-keeper’s wife that made even Callum’s reluctant lips twitch into a smile. They had been riding long and hard. Mayhap they needed some cheer.

Callum flicked his eyes down to the youthful face of his companion. Fair-skinned Arlo was turning the colour of beetroot as Andrew’s lyrics floated through the wispy mist towards them.

He cleared his throat. “If you’ve changed your mind…” he began.

Arlo’s response was swift. “I haven’t.”

“’Tis a bloody business, assassinating a man in his own home.” Callum saw no sense in softening his words.

“He deserves it. They all deserve it.” Arlo’s voice broke and sympathy tugged at Callum’s heavily barricaded heart. The lad had seen both his parents cut down during the siege of Kielder Castle; Callum’s ancestral home on his father’s side.

“You’re not wrong, lad,” he muttered.

Ahead of them, Gregor swivelled in his saddle. “What’s this? Are we to take them all out?”

“Nay.” Callum’s voice came out in a growl. “Then we would be no better than they are.”

Gregor shrugged his muscular shoulders. A warrior through and through, he wore his heavy mail shirt as if it weighed nothing. “The English have taken our lands, our women, our children. Everything. And ye ask me to stay my hand?”

“Not I,” Callum corrected, resisting the urge to trot up alongside him. “Our orders come directly from the Bruce.”

Gregor’s response was unintelligible, but Callum knew that for now, at least, he had won.

Evoking the Bruce’s name usually had that effect.

The party fell into silence as they rode into the trees; the only sound the steady clop of muffled hoofbeats and occasional lowing from cattle in distant fields.

“Will ye make us ride much further before we slake our thirst? My horse is parched.” Andrew pushed his dapple-grey mare into the narrow gap between Callum and Arlo.

“Methinks ’tis you that is parched,” Callum replied drily, ducking his head beneath a low-hanging branch. “And it is not much further. If my sources are accurate, the house we seek is on the other side of this hill.”

“Ye should know, lad. Being half sassenach yourself.”

“My mother was born in England. That does not mean I know every inch of it.” Callum shrugged.

That was not the full truth.

In truth, Callum’s childhood home lay not far from here. But that was not information he wished to divulge at present.

“And ye learned how to swing your sword in Lindum.” Andrew gestured towards the gleaming hilt of Callum’s sword, resting at his hip.

“Alongside those English knights that now lay siege to Scotland.” His horse skittered around a clump of gorse and Andrew gathered up his reins, grinning at Callum to show he spoke in jest.

Andrew and Callum had fought side-by-side in the highlands for more years than Callum cared to count. His friend knew where his loyalties lay. But that wasn’t true for all their party.

“Are you going to recount all of my life story? Mayhap for the benefit of Gregor here, who is the only one that doesn’t know it?” Callum’s voice carried an edge, for he could see by the set of his shoulders that the man ahead was listening.

Callum’s parentage was no secret. If anything, the opposite was true. His English birth and education meant he could mix seamlessly with the most important noble families in the realm. He was the perfect spy for Robert the Bruce.

“All that matters is we take our revenge,” Arlo spoke up fervently. His calm cob was plodding steadily along the farm track, but every inch of the youth’s body was braced for battle.

An ice-cold warning trickled down Callum’s spine.

“What matters is that my heart beats for Scotland,” he proclaimed, kicking his warhorse into a canter so he could go ahead of Gregor then swivel round to face all three men.

“All our hearts beat for Scotland, am I right?” His horse shied, uncertain of the woodland shadows, but Callum kept his seat easily.

“Aye,” shouted Andrew.

“Our orders are to assassinate the English lord who has recently returned to this place. ’Tis a blessing for us we have not had to travel far from the border. And a further blessing that we are not tasked with taking innocent lives.”

His men silently nodded, not yet convinced.

“This man is powerful. A danger to Scotland. If we take him out, our people will be able to sleep easier in their beds. Is that not what we all want?”

“Aye,” they muttered.

“Who is he?” demanded Gregor.

“The house is Ember Hall.” Callum spoke from memory, keeping his voice level.

The parchment containing their scant orders had been burned as soon as he digested its contents.

Upon seeing the scribbled words some days earlier, his heart had leapt in his chest, for Ember Hall was situated not many miles distant from his childhood home.

He recalled an attractive manor house, slowly falling to ruin.

It had stood empty for as long as he was a boy, and was likely to remain so given its unfortunate position so close to the turbulent borderlands.

Some minor noble must have purchased it for little more than a song.

Or been gifted it by the King in thanks for services rendered in Scotland.

“I mean, what is the man’s name?” Gregor’s horse pawed at the ground as if sensing his impatience.

Callum shook his head. “We do not have it.” Even Andrew looked aggrieved with that answer, but Callum shrugged again.

“There is nothing of note in that. You all know the situation we are in. The less we know, the less we can tell if captured.” He paused to allow them to think this over.

“We have been riding since before dawn. What say you to resting here awhile? We know not what will be waiting at the other side of the hill.”

“Aye.” Andrew agreed immediately, swinging one leg over his saddle and landing heavily on the ground. “Ye dinnae need to ask me twice.”

Hiding a relieved smile, Callum also dismounted and led his horse over to a small clearing.

Rummaging in his saddlebags, he found bread, dried meat and two skins of ale which he passed around.

The tension that had been rising between them started to abate as they ate and drank, although Callum could still feel Gregor’s eyes boring into him.

It was no surprise when the older man edged closer and spoke up.

“Is this your first mission for the Bruce?”

Callum wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Nay,” he answered shortly, unwilling to speak more on the subject.

And even less willing to tilt his head upwards in recognition of Gregor’s height.

Gregor stood half a head taller than he, but Callum fancied that youth would be on his side in a fight, should the man turn nasty.

Callum’s hair was thick and dark, his tanned face largely unlined.

While Gregor’s forehead was creased with frown lines and his thinning hair threaded through with grey.

“I have served him since he was little more than a lad.” Gregor stated this as a challenge, his sharply articulated words given emphasis by the dense walls of fog all around them.

Callum nodded mildly. “My father’s family has long been closely allied to him.”

Gregor’s face relaxed a little. “Yer father is the Laird of Kielder?”

“He is.”

“Rory Baine?”

Callum kept his expression neutral. “The same.” Damp air settled upon him like an unwanted blanket and for a moment, he felt smothered.

“A fine warrior.” Gregor took a swig of ale.

“Aye.” Callum had no wish to speak of his father either. Why had he urged them to stop and dismount? Why had he allowed this conversation to begin? When would this infernal mist pass and allow him to see clearly?

Gregor slapped him on the shoulder. It was a friendly gesture, but the force of it still made Callum stagger forward. “I’m happy to ride alongside any son of Rory Baine.”

Callum’s inner beast raged at this. It was not Gregor’s place to decide if he was happy with his orders or who he shared them with; it was only for him to follow them without question. But aloud he said, “I am glad to hear it.”

Andrew had clearly been following this exchange closely, even as he pretended to check over his horse. He now guffawed loudly and came forward to join them, his booted feet crunching through an early fall of leaves.