Frida tried to swallow the lump that was forming in her throat. She could not deny the truth of Mirrie’s words, but they changed nothing.
“If I set Callum free, he will take his revenge on Tristan.”
Now Mirrie’s eyes grew wide with fear. “For what?”
“For razing his ancestral home, killing unarmed women and children in the process.”
“Egremont House?”
“A place called Kielder Castle.” Frida sniffed again. “In Scotland.”
“Oh.” Mirrie sat back on the bed and digested this for a moment. Shadows flickered across her face from the spluttering candle, making her expression hard to read. After a while, she walked across the room to light a fresh candle, commenting carefully, “that doesn’t sound like something Tristan would do.”
Frida could not spare a thought for this. “Who knows what men might do when their blood is up in battle?”
“But still,” Mirrie persisted. She came to sit beside Frida again, taking hold of her hands. “Are you sure there is no mistake?”
Frida shook her head. “I was witness to the interrogation.” She held up her hand when Mirrie went to speak again. “I cannot say more on this.”
“Of course.” Mirrie was contrite. “Forgive me.”
“There is naught to forgive. But you are right. I will ne’er forgive my brother after he draws his sword against Callum.” Her throat closed against her saying anything further.
“And that is a rift that will destroy the de Nevilles,” Mirrie prophesied gravely.
Frida nodded, her heart heavy. “You are right.”
“You must ensure it does not happen.” Mirrie was insistent once again.
“How can I do that?” Frida opened her arms. “Tell me how, and I will do it.”
Mirrie jumped up from the bed and began pacing up and down the chamber, her goat-skin slippers making no sound against the heavy rugs. “There is no bargaining with Tristan.” She flung out her hand, dismissing the idea. “Your only hope is to persuade Callum to leave Ember Hall and never come back.” She spun around to the window, as if the twinkling stars still visible through the shutters might provide an answer. “Callum will not gain entry at Wolvesley,” she said emphatically. “The only danger to Tristan is here and now.”
Frida wished she could share in Mirrie’s determination, but despair had already made a home in her heart. “Or the next time Tristan rides out with the hunt or journeys some place on the road.” She pressed her lips together. “Callum has told me he will kill Tristan, the first opportunity he gets.”
“Then you must hold his retaliation in check by balancing it against something he holds dear.”
“There is nothing.” She choked on a sob.
“Oh yes there is.” Mirrie’s eyes glittered with triumph. “You can bargain for Tristan’s life with the lives of Callum’s men.”
Chapter Eighteen
Frida’s heart beatso quickly she thought it might bring armed guards running to the western corner of the courtyard. There were no wall torches to illuminate the way here, only the dimming light from several flaming sconces still visible at the front of the house, and the vast moon above. It was a clear and still night, full of stars. The thaw had set in during the afternoon and much of the snow had melted away into puddles, but those puddles were solidifying into ice on the paved paths and Frida had to pick her way carefully. For many reasons, she could not afford a fall now.
The guard was sitting in a hard chair outside the locked door of the old bakehouse, a torch flickering above his head. He had fallen asleep on duty, his mouth open and his head tilted back. As the first notes of his rippling snores reached her, Frida had started in fright. Then she realised what the source of the noise was and she smiled.
This would make her task easier.
Although she could not rely on a man’s natural sleep being deep enough to suit her purpose this night.
Adrenaline kept her body warm, even as her breath steamed in the freezing air. Frida took a moment to settle her hood and smooth down her cloak; one hand gripping an ornate goblet taken from the great hall. She stepped forward with renewed determination, her wooden pattens ringing on the stone flags beneath her.
“Good evening,” she sang out.
The guard bolted upright, one hand instinctively going to the hilt of his sword. “Who goes there?”
“’Tis I, Lady Frida.” She kept her voice deliberately light.
