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C allum stood in the cobbled courtyard, his gaze fixed on the patchwork vista of rolling hills visible beyond the outer wall.

The afternoon sun had finally burned away the last of the mist, bringing the beauty of his surroundings into sharp relief.

Birdsong floated up from the trees nearby, but there was no other sound save the slight whisper of wind.

What on earth should I do now?

Callum’s instincts usually served him well, but right now he had no clear sense which path he should take through the maze that had sprung up before him.

Holy hell, he was not even certain which direction to face.

Just hours earlier, he had thought himself the commander of a tangible mission.

Now he saw that the mission was as unclear as his ability to execute it.

“I’m damned whatever I do,” he muttered to himself.

Marching footsteps broke him out of his reverie, and he straightened up in time to nod to two guards changing shift on the wall. They barely acknowledged him as they passed, green cloaks swaying around their booted legs. But he knew how they watched him. Him and his men.

Ember Hall was better defended than they had anticipated. But the presence of so many trained guards was by far the least of his problems. His head reeled with what he had learned.

Firstly, that Ember Hall was owned by the de Nevilles, the family he had baulked at betraying two years earlier.

Secondly, and most importantly, that Frida de Neville lived.

When he first beheld her, he had believed her to be an apparition, come mayhap to reprimand him for his planned assault. Come to haunt him for his past misdeeds. Either way, he wanted only to gaze at her familiar, beautiful face.

And then came the tumult of realisation. Frida was not only alive, she was also well. And she was standing right in front of him.

This had been enough to blow all other thoughts from his mind. For long minutes, he had forgotten the reason he was here.

He’d wanted to kneel at her feet. Nay, he’d wanted to take her in his arms and follow on from where they had left off, over two years ago in Wolvesley Castle, when he had felt the possibility of happiness come so tantalisingly close.

And yet, the lady herself seemed not to recognise him.

If anything could dull the joy of the moment, it was the polite disinterest in her expression.

Callum allowed himself a short, guttural shout of frustration which reverberated around the empty courtyard. It mattered not if Frida recognised him. Forsooth, it was better if she did not. What mattered was this; Frida was mistress of Ember Hall.

And she ruled alone, with no lord by her side.

He put a hand to his forehead, rubbing at the ache within his temples and doing his best to recall the exact wording of the Bruce’s orders. They had been scant, but the instruction was clear. Callum was to assassinate the lord recently returned to Ember Hall: a man considered a danger to Scotland.

One name now reverberated through his head.

Tristan de Neville.

The man he had once thought of as a friend.

Callum closed his mind to this. Again, it mattered not. Tristan, the revered knight, was not in residence.

Surely his orders were not to strike down Jonah? He was little more than a youngster; more at home with a quill than in combat. Jonah was no threat to peace and stability in Scotland.

There must be some mistake.

Callum wrapped his fingers around the hilt of his sword and drew it partially from its scabbard. The polished metal shone brightly in the sunlight. His sword was a prized possession. He would not use it against a young man who was ne’er likely to ride into battle.

What then? He could leave. Ride away and pretend all this had never been. But that would mean walking away from Frida.

Callum’s gut twisted. He simply could not do that; not when he had so recently found her again.

Time is what I need.

One fact shone clearly through the mists of his confusion; he could not bring violence to Ember Hall—to Frida’s home. Though his men may see things differently. The English were their enemies. And the de Nevilles were a powerful English family.

Callum closed his eyes against the vivid reel of violent images playing through his mind.

The siege of Kielder Castle had left its mark, with memories rising unbidden to torment him.

He saw again the pale and lifeless bodies piled against the curtain wall; the steep grassy embankment soaked red with blood.

The stench of death and the sorrow of so much needless destruction.

Aye, the English must be punished for what they had done. But still, he baulked at bringing retribution to Frida’s door, or that of any of her kin.

Even if Tristan was involved in the siege of Kielder Castle?

Had Jonah not admitted that Tristan had recently been in Scotland?

The prospect made beads of perspiration spring out on Callum’s forehead. He struggled to reconcile the friend he once knew with the monster who had ordered the deaths of women and children. But who knew how the passage of time might change a man?

Callum returned to the same conclusion. Time was what he needed. Time to talk to Frida. Time to discover Tristan’s likely whereabouts. Forsooth, he might be on his way here even now. They were a close family. ’Twas not beyond the bounds of possibility that he might visit his sister’s home.

Mayhap we just arrived too early. He had been right to agree to Frida’s conditions, however belittling they might be.

Now all he had to do was explain it to his men.

Stifling a sigh, Callum turned towards the back door of the house. Mirabel had shown him where his men waited, ensconced in a small chamber above the kitchen. But he had begged a breath of air before facing them.

Before facing Gregor, at least. That man could start an argument with a priest.

He climbed the narrow stairs like a man approaching the gallows, but by the time he had reached the waiting guard, Callum’s face was set with determination. He nodded to dismiss the guard, as arranged with Mirabel, and shouldered open the wooden door.

Andrew was the first to greet him, jumping to his feet and striding forwards. His bright eyes and fiery red hair seemed subdued in the shadows.

“What news?” he demanded.

Callum held up a hand, bidding his friend to pause while he scanned his surroundings.

The room was small and square, lit with two flickering candles as well as the dim light filtering through the tall window.

He took in a wide window seat, upon which Andrew had been reclining, and an array of wooden furniture.

Arlo and Gregor faced one another across a round table, upon which a pitcher of ale sat beside an empty trencher.

Refreshments had been brought up, as promised.

There was no hardship here, save the stuffiness of the small chamber.

“We are to stay,” he told them, shortly.

His announcement was greeted with silence. Arlo’s pale blue eyes flickered between Gregor and Andrew, as if gauging their reaction.

“As guests?” Gregor’s voice was incredulous.

“Speak softer, man,” Callum warned him. “We do not know who might be listening.” Moving with deliberate slowness, he pulled out a chair and sat down at the table, stretching out his long legs with a sigh. “Nay, not as guests,” he finally answered. “We are to help work the land.”

Not a muscle moved in Gregor’s face, but his eyes remained fixed on Callum’s.

It was vital to bring him on side.

Callum leaned forwards, placing his elbows on the table and realising too late that he had chosen to sit by a puddle of ale.

“This house is owned by the de Nevilles,” he said, in little more than a whisper. Andrew crossed the room to stand closer, his shoulders hunched against the low ceiling. “They are a powerful family.”

“I know right well who they are.” Gregor’s voice carried a warning.

“We must tread carefully,” Callum continued.

“We must strike now, when they least expect it.” Gregor banged his fist on the table for emphasis, caring little for keeping their plans quiet.

“We cannot kill the lord when he is not here.” Callum tried hard to keep his tone reasonable.

“We can kill those that are.” Gregor’s eyes flashed with fire as he glared across the table. “’Tis no more than the English did to our own women.”

Callum snatched a deep breath, knowing he must disguise the cold fear flooding his veins. His mind conjured an image of Gregor stalking toward Frida, his sword outstretched and ready to strike. “That would be going against our orders.”

“Is the lord expected back?” Andrew asked. A lone voice of sanity.

Amidst his growing panic, Callum glimpsed a way forward. “Aye. He visits regularly. They expect him any day.”

He looked from one to the other in the dim candlelight, his heart racing. He had not intended to tell an outright lie, but the words were out now. There was no going back.

He cleared his throat. “Given these circumstances, ’tis clear enough to me there has been some mistake with our orders.

If we stay a while, we may yet rectify the situation.

I have the trust of the family. If all else fails, we can question them to discover the whereabouts of Tristan de Neville and intercept him on the road.

” He lowered his voice further. “But we cannot take this fight to his father’s seat at Wolvesley Castle.

’Tis too well-defended. Our best bet is to bide our time here and await his arrival.

” Arlo’s question was hesitant. “Is it safe for us to stay?” He glanced towards the window, through which the regular trampling of booted feet could be heard.

The guards of Ember Hall remained ever vigilant.

“Nay. I cannae think it is.” Andrew looked towards Callum, confusion clouding his brow.

Callum poured himself a cup of ale, hoping that the tremors in his hand would not betray him. He took a mouthful and smacked his lips. “Aye, it is safe,” he declared.