Page 40

C allum sat as still as stone, his meal entirely forgotten. For a long while, the only sound in the little cottage was the crackling of logs in the fire.

Greatly daring, Gil raised his great head and delicately lifted a heel of bread from the table. He chewed quietly, but the thumping of his tail against the floor slowly brought Callum back to his senses.

Tristan is secretly working for peace with Scotland.

Nay, that could not be.

Frida’s brother had told him how he had given the order to raze Kielder Castle. Callum’s blood pounded in his ears every time he recalled that conversation. And the beating that had gone along with it.

He cleared his throat, not wishing to contradict Alys who had treated him with such kindness, but knowing that he couldn’t let her hold such a false belief.

He opened his mouth to speak but she got there before him.

“Do not tell me I am mistaken,” she said, eyes gleaming.

Callum was nonplussed. He folded his hands in his lap and looked down upon them.

“’Tis a great secret,” she added in a whisper. “I would not have told you had I not faith that you would keep it to yourself.”

He shook his head. “I will not repeat it.”

For I do not believe it.

Alys nodded, although she looked sad, as if she could see that he was unconvinced. “I will fetch a basin of water for you to wash. I can also clean your tunic, though I have naught for you to wear in its stead but a rug over your shoulders,” she smiled impishly.

Callum stood, wincing only a little. “I will fetch the water,” he decreed. He would not allow an old woman to fetch and carry for him.

Sometime later, he had splashed warmed water over his face and body, scrubbing dried blood from his neck and hair.

In the dim light of the bedchamber, he saw the mottling of purple bruises stretch all about his body and again, and his pulse raced with the instinctive urge to take revenge on the man who had beaten him.

Still, it was a relief to scrub the memory of the cellar from his skin. He felt somewhat more himself, until the moment when Alys took up his tunic with nimble hands.

“There is no need to launder my clothes,” he insisted, clad only in his hose. “I am not going before gentry.” He intended it as a joke, but Alys was not amused.

“You are Lady Elizabeth’s son,” she insisted. “I always made sure her clothes were cared for. I cannot allow you to leave my house covered in blood and filth.”

And she showed Callum the back of his tunic, which was indeed splattered with a combination of dark mud and red blood.

He inclined his head. “Thank you.”

“Come and sit before the fire,” she commanded. “You will catch a chill otherwise.”

Meek as a child, Callum followed her through to the main room of the cottage and sank down upon the settle as Alys took a stiff brush and set about removing the worst of the stains from his tunic. He felt her eyes upon his body and sensed, rather than saw, her shock at his bruises.

She sat back on her haunches, her work forgotten. “Who did this to you?”

He would not upset her, but nor would he lie. “’Tis better I do not say.”

Alys grunted, fetching a faded blanket from the cupboard and handing it to him. “The world would be a better place if more people gave honest answers to honest questions.”

Callum shook out the blanket and draped it over his shoulders, grateful for the warmth.

The room was not cold, but the chill of the last few days seemed to have settled deep into his bones.

He leaned back on the settle, breathing in the smell of woodsmoke from the fire and the scent of fresh bread which still lingered in the air.

“Was it the de Nevilles who beat you?” she demanded. “Did the Earl of Wolvesley discover your feelings for his daughter?”

“Nay.” He shook his head. “I have not seen the earl for two winters now.”

Alys’s eyes narrowed. “It was the de Nevilles. I see it in your eyes. Did Tristan find you together with his sister and take against you?” She pointed the dampened brush towards him and Callum thought that he had regarded the tips of swords with less trepidation.

“Tristan does not know of my feelings for Frida.” It hurt to say those names out loud.

“But it was he that did this to you.” She nodded sagely, pre-empting his denial. “God’s bones, you must have angered him. Tristan is a man of honour. He does not chase violence.”

Her words floored him. They were worlds away from the man who had beaten him so callously, and yet they evoked the young man he had known briefly at Wolvesley in that long-gone yuletide celebration when all things seemed possible.

They also hinted at a personal acquaintance between the old serving maid and the future Earl of Wolvesley. Was it possible her proclamation about Tristan working for peace was more than the misguided mutterings of local gossip?

Callum shifted uncomfortably under his blanket.

“Tristan discovered that I was at Ember Hall under false pretences.”

“Working for the Bruce?” Alys chipped in.

“Aye.” He sighed. “With orders to assassinate Tristan himself. But Tristan was not in residence when I arrived,” he went on hurriedly, seeing the shock in the older woman’s face.

“Forsooth, I did not even know the name of the man I was ordered to kill. ’Twas not until we arrived that I learned Ember Hall belonged to the de Nevilles.

” He looked down at his hands until his rising emotions were more under control.

“I once counted Tristan as a friend. And as for his sister, she has held a special place in my heart these last years.”

He spoke with frankness and honesty, because nothing else would explain his actions.

“You never raised your sword against him?”

“I could not have brought myself to do so, even if I had the opportunity.”

Alys sighed and put down her brush. “’Tis a tangled mess you have woven for yourself. But Tristan allowed you to go free. That means he must have forgiven you.”

“Nay. Tristan planned to kill me. His sister set me free.” He could not help a tremble in his voice as he recalled Frida’s bravery.

Alys put her hands to either side of her face, her eyes wide. “But I am a sworn ally of Tristan de Neville.”

Numbly, Callum rose from the settle. He took the blanket from his shoulders and folded it. “Then I shall leave. I would not put you in a difficult position.”

“Sit down,” she flapped her hand at him. “You are Lady Elizabeth’s son. I watched you grow. I will not watch you leave my house with a head wound still vulnerable to infection and naught to cover yourself with.”

Awkwardly, Callum did as she asked. He could not, after all, stride out into the day bare-chested. He watched as she finished working on his tunic then laid it before the fire to dry. Hundreds of questions chased around his head and in the end, he could not keep himself from asking one of them.

“How came you to be an ally of Tristan de Neville?” His voice rose with curiosity.

Alys turned to give him a thin-lipped smile. “You mean an old woman like me and a grand knight like him?”

Callum nodded. “Aye.”

They both laughed, which helped ease the newly formed tension between them.

“I am not one to gossip.” Alys reached out to pat Gil and the hound shifted so he could sit with his head in her lap. “But then, if I am able to mend this rift between you, it may keep one or both of you alive for longer. E’en open the door to a future between you and Frida de Neville.”

“I am afraid that is impossible.” Callum spoke softly but firmly. “Do not compromise yourself in hope of such a thing.”

She fixed him with her all-seeing green gaze. “You truly love her?”

“I do.”

“Then you could ne’er wreak harm on her brother. They are a close family.”

He pressed his lips together, keeping words and emotions inside. “I did not lay so much as a finger upon him.”

“’Tis all because of the position of my cottage.” Alys spoke in little more than a whisper. “We are right close to the border, but few people ever find me unless they know where to look. I am away from the road, hidden amongst the trees. You will see for yourself when you leave.”

Callum gave a little shake of his head. “I do not understand.”

“Tristan himself came to see me more than two summers since. He was dressed in disguise. I thought him a beggar at first.” She smiled at the memory.

“But Gil trusted him, and that was enough for me. I allowed him inside and gave him a cup of ale. ’Twas then he removed his hood and I saw that thick golden hair of the de Nevilles.

He told me he needed somewhere close to the border.

A bolthole, he said. Somewhere he could hide, if needed.

He said it would be dangerous and I did not have to help him. ”

“Then why did you?” Callum’s voice was gritty. Despite himself, he could well imagine the conversation. His mind’s eye saw Tristan, mayhap sitting on this very settle, charming Alys into following his plan.

“Because there will be no peace for this land until England and Scotland lay down their weapons. If I can do even a little to achieve that, then I will die a contented woman.”

Callum frowned. “And you truly believe that Tristan shares this goal?” Tristan himself had admitted to going into Scottish lands as an English warlord, baying for blood.

Yet now he examined that more closely, the picture did not ring true.

Tristan is a man of honour, Alys said.

That sounded more like the kind and upstanding youth which Callum had once known.

“I know it.” She leaned closer towards him. “This summer last, Tristan went into Fort Dunkeld itself.”

“Fort Dunkeld?” Callum raised his eyebrows, thinking of the mighty Scottish stronghold in the foot of the highlands, kept by the Bruce’s kinsmen. “Why would he do that? Surely he would be torn limb from limb.”

“Aye.” Alys nodded sagely again. “That is what I said. But Tristan knew that some of the family shared his vision of peace. And he thought that if they worked together, they might achieve it.”

Callum sat silently, digesting this.

Tristan de Neville, perchance the most well-recognised of all English knights, venturing deep into Scottish territory in a bid for peace.

“Did he take an army with him?”

“Of course not. How would that have worked to build trust? He went alone.”

Alone.

“That is brave indeed,” he muttered, unable to deny it.

Alys nodded emphatically. “Wait there.” She got to her feet with surprising grace for a woman of her years and disappeared into the bed chamber.

Callum heard a scuffing sound, as if something was being dragged along the floor.

When Alys reappeared, she held a gleaming sword in one hand and a fearful-looking dagger in the other.

Callum could not help jumping up from the settle in shock. “What are those?”

Alys shrugged. “Proof, for I can see that you doubt my tale.” She swung the sword with apparent nonchalance.

“Tristan leaves them here. In part for my protection. In part in case he needs them himself. See?” She held the hilt out towards Callum so he could see the emblem of the de Neville family inscribed into the metal.

He nodded, unable to formulate any response.

“Tristan is working for peace with Scotland,” she insisted. “He did not order the destruction of your family home. He returned to me just as the leaves were turning and spoke with hope that his mission had been a success.”

Callum sank back down, his knees weak. Slowly, Alys’s story was beginning to make sense.

Tristan de Neville had always been a man of honour.

The idea that he had been responsible for the devastation of Kielder Castle had been put in Callum’s head by Jonah’s throwaway comment that his brother had been in Scotland this summer.

Working for peace, at Fort Dunkeld.

Callum’s heart beat hollowly in his chest.

Then why would Tristan have claimed he was present for the siege at Kielder?

He did not , a voice spoke in his head. He merely did not deny it.

Callum thought he might be sick. His stomach churned as his mind raced around in endless circles.

Why would his orders have been to assassinate a man who was no threat to the Scots?

As soon as the question slid into his mind, Callum knew the answer. And this, more than anything else, proved to him the truth of Alys’s words.

He thought of his father’s endless bloodlust—of his father’s friends and their deep-seated hatred of the English.

Some Scots do not want peace.

Forsooth, there were those on both sides of the border who would prolong this war indefinitely in the hope it might bring them land or power or glory—or simply the destruction of their hated foes, with little care for if the battle destroyed them as well.

And if Tristan de Neville was seen as a man who might bring an end to the violence, well, then he was a man who must be taken out of the picture.

Callum’s blood ran cold as he realised the truth.

He had been ordered to assassinate Tristan precisely because he was working for peace between England and Scotland.

He raised stricken eyes to Alys. “I have allowed doubt and hatred into my heart,” he intoned. “And it has killed off all hopes for the future.”