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As soon as his proclamation landed, he knew it had failed. Even Arlo sucked in his breath as the narrow room seemed to palpate with tension.

“How so?” Gregor was the first to voice his challenge. “You may speak like the King himself, but we dinnae. It will take just one suspicious servant to work out where we’re truly from.” He sneered. “And ’tis not Egremont House, where’er that is.”

Callum held his gaze. “You will have to stay quiet, all of you.” He avoided looking towards Andrew.

“As if we are mute?” Arlo’s eyebrows disappeared beneath his untidy thatch of hair.

“Or dumb,” Gregor sneered. The big highlander rocked on his chair until the spindly legs creaked with protest.

Callum leaned forwards, meeting his challenge. “Naught so extreme. Just keep your words few and far between. Is it not the basic task of a spy to avoid suspicion?”

“I am nae spy, man. I am a warrior.”

“Then just keep yer big mouth shut.”

Callum was gratified to hear Andrew speak up in his stead, but one glance upwards told him that his old comrade was far from convinced. Andrew’s green eyes were wide with worry.

“This is nae the job we came here to do,” he appealed to Callum.

“You are right.” Callum reached up to clap him on his shoulder, knowing that he was asking too much.

For the sake of a woman he barely knew.

But she was the woman he had ne’er been able to forget.

“I ask only for a couple of days. No more, I promise. When Tristan de Neville arrives here, I will do what needs to be done.” He quelled his inner turbulence and gazed steadily at Gregor until the man caved and met his eyes.

“I will fulfil the Bruce’s orders, to the very letter.

” He smiled, bringing Arlo and Andrew back into the fold. “And we can all go home.”

Fresh tension reverberated through the chill air as they considered his words.

“And until then, what?” Andrew raised his hands, palm up. “We till English fields for wealthy English nobles?”

Gregor deliberately spat on the wooden floor. Callum did not react.

“We do what we need to,” he answered mildly. “As every man must.” He scratched at the growth of stubble on his cheeks. “As the Bruce expects.”

This was his winning line.

Arlo nodded, his face serious. “We blend in, so as not to attract attention.”

Callum could have hugged him. “Exactly that.” But a muscle twitched in Callum’s jaw.

He had not yet told them the worst of it.

“We must surrender our weapons.” He saw immediately how this would go.

Gregor’s expression became thunderous. Even Arlo looked discomfited.

“At least, we must appear to,” Callum amended, thinking quickly.

“What madness is this?” Gregor looked ready to rise and walk from the room.

“Think on it, man, there is no good reason for us to be so heavily armed.” He indicated the gleaming swords each man carried at his hip. Knives, he knew, were secreted elsewhere on their persons. Along with heaven knew what else.

“I will nae walk about as defenceless as a bairn,” Gregor stated.

“And nor do I ask it of you.” Callum leaned over the sticky table, ignoring the sickly-sweet scent of spilled ale. “Let us surrender just half our weapons. The rest we shall hide, until we have need of them.”

“I am not leaving this place without my sword.” This from Andrew, who had lowered his brow.

A warrior’s bond with his sword was near sacred.

“Again, I’ll not ask it of you.” Callum opened his arms to indicate his sincerity. “Every last blade shall be recovered before we depart Ember Hall.”

“Right ye are,” Andrew sighed. “I can spend two days of what’s left of my life here.” He rubbed at his beard. “I suppose on a good day, if we squint, we can see Scotland.”

“Thank you, all of you.” Callum nodded at each of them. “I am sorry for this unexpected turn. But our mission will come good. I will make sure of it.”

Arlo and Andrew both smiled. Gregor did not, but the friction in the room had eased slightly.

Callum resisted the urge to put his head in his hands. He had won this first battle, but he had no idea how he might make good on his promise.

How could any good come out of this?

*

Callum spent a restless night and was relieved to hear the cock crow as the first pink rays of dawn spilled over the horizon.

He and his men had slept in a low, boarded chamber above the stables, just a thin row of slatted wood separating them from the guards.

There was no opportunity for even hushed conversation, for which Callum was grateful.

His threadbare reasoning had withstood enough scrutiny.

At the other side of the wooden partition, he heard heavy footsteps and murmured exchanges as the guards returned from the night shift.

Callum lay still and silent, his ears straining to catch any reference to the small band of men who had ridden through the gates yesterday.

He could make nothing out, which meant either that their arrival had caused no suspicion, or that the guards were as aware as he was about the flimsiness of the wall.

Most probably the latter.

But if it wasn’t for the turmoil of his thoughts, he might have spent a restful night, for they had been provided with warm rugs and straw pellets thick enough to hide those weapons too large to conceal within their saddlebags.

The building was weatherproof and, oddly enough, a feeling of calm had settled upon him as soon as he laid down.

Mayhap it was the distance he had travelled from Kielder Castle that allowed some of the horrors to recede from his mind?

A brusque knock on the door broke his reverie.

Callum rose from his pallet, careful not to bang his head against the low-hanging beams, and picked his way across the narrow chamber. Andrew and Arlo slept on, but Gregor’s eyes followed him in the half light.

He unbolted the door and pulled it open. “What is it?”

A tall guard stood at the top of the outer steps, smothering a yawn. “Miss Mirabel is here to see you.”

Callum blanched with surprise. “Here?”

The guard jerked his head backwards. Behind him, thick, uneven stone steps had been built into the wall of the barn. “In the yard.”

“Thank you.”

The guard swivelled on his heel and trampled back down. Callum rubbed his eyes.

This was unexpected.

Last night, he had removed his chain mail and slept in his hose and tunic. He glanced downwards, taking in his crumpled appearance. It could not be helped, for they had not come to Ember Hall equipped to stay for any length of time.

But the morning air carried a chill. He would need his cloak.

Callum walked back to his pallet at the end of the room and rummaged through the items he had piled on the floor. Dust motes rose around him, making him blink. In times past this room had clearly been used to store hay, for the sweet smell still lingered.

“What is happening?” Gregor’s voice was rough, either with sleep or displeasure.

Callum tied the strings of his cloak. “As soon as I find out, I will tell you.”

Before further questions could be asked, Callum strode away, closing the door behind him.

It was something of a relief to hurry down the stone steps and breathe the fresh, clean air of the morn.

Yesterday’s mist had cleared away and the faint early sunshine held the promise of warmth.

In the centre of the yard he spied a lone female figure, clad in a long grey cloak with the hood pulled over her hair.

Mirabel Duval was ward of the Earl of Wolvesley. Callum could remember her clearly. When last he saw her, she had worn a dress of shimmering green which matched the holly and pine decorations for the Twelfth Tide Ball. What brought her to this remote outpost , he wondered.

He bowed smartly and walked to her side.

“Miss Mirabel.”

She gave an answering curtsy. “Sir Callum. I trust you passed a comfortable night?” Her hazel eyes looked up at him, something shining in their depths that he could not read.

“Most comfortable, thank you.” He gave her a quick smile. “I am afraid that two of my men slumber still.”

“It is no matter. I came only to speak to you.” Her eyes darted about the courtyard as if to confirm they were alone.

He was half intrigued, half wary. “How can I help you, Miss Mirabel?”

“Oh please, call me Mirrie. Everyone does.” She folded her hands demurely in front of her. “I came to ask a favour.”

Callum’s attention was caught by a small parade of guards making their way from their sleeping quarters to their day-time stations. He counted six of them, before turning back to Mirrie.

“I will be pleased to hear it.”

“How gallant you are.” She turned, indicating he should walk with her across the courtyard. A soft wind blew, rustling the folds of their cloaks. “Are you always willing to help a lady in distress?”

Callum’s mouth twitched. Miss Mirabel was teasing him. Under the circumstances, it was not what he had expected. Banter and light-hearted conversation had been in short supply recently.

“I should hope so,” he answered lightly. Their exchange put him in mind of the last time he had exchanged pleasantries with well-dressed English ladies: at the Twelfth tide ball in Wolvesley.

She flicked him a glance from beneath her hood. “The favour concerns my good friend, Lady Frida.” She paused. “Frida, I should say. We are not formal here. There is no cause to be.”

At the mention of her name, Callum’s pulse sped up. It did not slow in any way when he realised that Mirabel was watching his reaction closely.

“You must tell me more,” he declared. “Before anticipation proves my undoing.”

Her laugh was like a peal of bells. “I remember your wit from Wolvesley.”

He bowed his head. “And I remember you, most especially your grace on the dance floor.”

She looked away. “You are too kind, sir. But you are right. I did so love to dance.”

This was his moment. Callum took the plunge. “I am pleased to know that you recall our earlier meeting. I fear that Lady Frida—Frida,” he corrected himself, “does not.”

Mirrie came to a halt. They had reached the corner of the courtyard formed by the outer walls of the hall itself. She leaned one hand against the stone. “May I speak candidly?”

“I always favour candour.”

But Mirrie’s expression had grown serious. She tucked a wilful strand of hair behind her ears and met his eyes boldly. “You know that Frida had a terrible fall?”

He nodded. “I saw it myself.” A chill went through him at the memory.

Mirrie inclined her head. “Frida was unconscious for three days. When she awoke, much had changed.”

Callum spoke without thinking. “Her hair.” He had wondered at its shimmering whiteness yesterday.

“Her hair,” Mirrie agreed. “Although mayhap that is not the most important thing.” She broke his gaze, an expression of doubt dancing across her heart-shaped face.

“Tell me, pray. I will help if I can,” Callum said quickly. A chicken pecked about his booted feet but he hardly noticed it.

Mirrie pursed her lips. “There are some things that Frida has,” she paused, “forgotten.”

He looked at her, not understanding. “Forgotten?”

“Aye.” She nodded. “I should like your help in getting her to remember them.”

Callum dragged a hand through his own hair, which was tousled and tangled, having not seen a comb this morn. “What things might those be?”

Mirrie fixed her gaze at some point over his shoulder. “I have always admired Frida’s self-discipline, but in times past, this was softened by a sense of hope and joy.” She sighed. “I sound whimsical, I am sure, but ’tis this softer side that she has put aside. Forgotten, I would say.”

He had to draw on all his training as both a warrior and a spy to disguise the jolt of emotion he felt at her words. “I am not sure I am the right person to help Frida recover her sense of hope and joy.”

Perchance I am the last man who should try.

She gave him a smile like sunshine after rain. “On the contrary, Sir Callum Baine, you are mayhap the only person who can do so.” She stepped closer and took his arm, the sincerity of her gaze impossible to escape. “If you are willing to try?”

His heart threatened to jump through his ribs. He could not prevaricate beneath her all-seeing eyes. “Then I will do all I can.”

“That is exactly as I’d hoped.” Mirrie’s manner became playful again as she turned them towards the arched front door, but Callum still held back.

“What would you have me do?”

Mirrie shrugged, her eyes dancing. “Speak with her. Spend time with her.” She nudged him with her elbow. “I cannot prescribe every detail. But I have dragged you from your bed and not offered you any refreshment. Forgive me. You and your men are welcome to break your fast in the great hall.”

“I am not hungry.” His mind raced too fervently to allow hunger. “But my men will be.” He glanced back towards the outbuildings. “I will fetch them.”

“Nay, do not trouble yourself. I will show them to the hall when I give them their tasks for the day.”

A day when Gregor, Andrew and Arlo would act as labourers for those they saw as their enemies. Despite his excitement over the chance to spend more time with Frida, a new clutch of anxiety made him pause.

He cleared his throat. “What will those tasks be?”

“Frida is keen that the barn roof be repaired before the onset of winter.” Mirrie drew the folds of her cloak together. “Which is near enough upon us.” She met his eye again. “Frida is already at work in the orchard, gathering in the fruit crop. We are late in doing so.”

Callum realised what she was trying to say. Immediately, all thoughts of his men were forgotten. “You would like me to go and help her?”

Mirrie nodded, a smile playing about her lips. “There are apples at the top of the trees that she will not be able to reach without assistance.” She leaned closer, her eyes dancing. “If she tries to send you away, do not let her succeed.”