And then he met Tristan’s sister.
Callum closed his eyes at the clutch of pain that still assaulted him whenever he thought of Frida de Neville.
For little more than a sennight he had lived entirely for those moments when he glimpsed her feasting in the great hall, or taking a turn in the gardens, wrapped in a cherry-red cloak. Her golden blonde hair and beautiful smile began to haunt his dreams, until he doubted his ability to take any tales to Scotland that might prove her family’s undoing.
Then came the time their eyes met over the banqueting table. And the glorious evening he dared to ask her to dance at the yuletide ball. When their hands first touched, he knew that he could never betray her. And when they withdrew to the fireside for a conversation that flowed more readily than the wine, his heart brimmed with the possibility of something he had rarely known.
Love.
Beneath him, his horse stumbled and Callum came back to himself, shortening the reins and adjusting his seat in the saddle. Gregor would never accept his leadership if he fell from his horse before they even reached their destination.
Andrew rode up alongside him. “Are ye all right?”
“Aye,” Callum answered shortly, part of him still grieving for the past.
“Yer not vexed at me for what I said back there?” Andrew jerked his head backwards. “I was only trying to lighten the mood.”
“And I thank you for it.” Callum flashed his old comrade a genuine smile.
“Ye seem lost in thought.”
Callum sighed, too weary to prevaricate. “Two winters past, I left this land vowing to work only for peace between England and Scotland. The lass I loved was dead. Her family in mourning. The last thing I wanted was to move against them. Your man back there, he had a point about facing men in battle that you once trained with.” Now it was Callum’s turn to jerk his head back towards Gregor.
“I recall you came back to Kielder ready to lay down your sword.” Andrew’s eyes were solemn. “I could understand it. Though it made your father furious.”
“Aye.” Callum thought of the scar across his ribs, placed there by his own father’s blade.
“But the English cannot be allowed to raze our lands as they please.” Andrew’s voice became agitated.
“Exactly that. They have all but destroyed my home. Killed many I hold dear.” He glanced back towards Arlo, who had watched both his mother and father die in the most recent raid. Callum steadied his breathing. “And so here we are. Ready to wreak our revenge.”
As he spoke the words, they emerged out of the woodland into a small clearing. Beyond them, he could discern smoking chimneys and a great wall built of local granite stone. Diminutive figures cloaked in green strode along the top of the wall, making Callum’s heart sink.
“Ember Hall is both fortified and guarded,” he said in surprise, remembering too late that he had claimed to be unfamiliar with these lands.
“It changes naught,” declared Gregor. “I am ready to take down any number of English guards.”
“And I have no intention of turning this into a massacre,” retorted Callum. His mind’s eye conjured the pile of bloodied and broken bodies piled beside the curtain wall of Kielder Castle. Pushing the memory away, he ploughed on before the challenge in Gregor’s eyes could be articulated. “As Andrew said earlier, my English accent is an asset to us in times like this.” He paused for emphasis. “Leave the talking to me.”
“So we continue with our plan to assassinate the English lord?” Arlo chewed nervously on his bottom lip.
“To the last. But stay behind me and follow my lead.”
In a single line, they trotted down a winding track which skirted the perimeter of Ember Hall. Glancing up, Callum saw an elegant stone-built manor, four-square and strong. Mullioned windows looked out onto sweeping fields. Aside from the guards, it looked to be a place of peace and welcome. His heart lurched at the devastation they were about to bring upon it; but he could not allow recent events to go unpunished. The English would pay for what they had done to his home and his people.
Hardening his heart, Callum held out a hand to slow his men to a walk as they rounded the corner and approached the main gate. A liveried guard stood waiting for them beneath the archway, one hand on the hilt of his sword. Callum’s eyes lingered on the golden standard emblazoned on the man’s tunic. Something snagged at his memory, but there was no time for him to consider it.
“Halt,” the guard commanded. “Who goes there?”
Callum dismounted and tossed his horse’s reins to Andrew, who caught them neatly.
“Stay there,” he muttered, not waiting to see if his men agreed.
Straightening his own cloak, he walked the few paces to the gate and bowed his head. “I wish to see the lord of the house.”
“State your business to me first.” The guard stood firm, hooded eyes boring straight into Callum’s.
Callum remained calm. “My business is with the lord of the house.”
