“He is.”
“Rory Baine?”
Callum kept his expression neutral. “The same.” Damp air settled upon him like an unwanted blanket and for a moment, he felt smothered.
“A fine warrior.” Gregor took a swig of ale.
“Aye.” Callum had no wish to speak of his father either. Why had he urged them to stop and dismount? Why had he allowed this conversation to begin? When would this infernal mist pass and allow him to see clearly?
Gregor slapped him on the shoulder. It was a friendly gesture, but the force of it still made Callum stagger forward. “I’m happy to ride alongside any son of Rory Baine.”
Callum’s inner beast raged at this. It was not Gregor’s place to decide if he was happy with his orders or who he shared them with; it was only for him to follow them without question. But aloud he said, “I am glad to hear it.”
Andrew had clearly been following this exchange closely, even as he pretended to check over his horse. He now guffawed loudly and came forward to join them, his booted feet crunching through an early fall of leaves.
“I’ll say any man should be happy to ride behind Callum Baine,” he declared. “I know of no other warrior so skilled with a sword.” He jostled his friend’s arm good-naturedly. “They taught him well in Lindum.”
Callum decided to go along with the joke. “Aye. I heeded my lessons well.”
Gregor folded his muscular arms over his mail shirt. “And what of the men you trained beside? How is it to meet them in battle?”
“It has ne’er happened,” Callum answered truthfully. “But I am sure the day will come. Methinks this is a burden we all must carry in these troubled times. Our friend of one day can become our foe the next.” Callum curled his fingers around the carved hilt of his sword, both reassuring himself that it was still there, and reminding his almost-adversary of the same.
Gregor grunted. “True enough.” But Callum saw that doubt still flickered in his dark eyes.
Andrew pulled off his gauntlet to scratch at his unruly locks of red hair. “Do not doubt the man for the way he speaks. It is an affliction he bears for the good of us all.”
Callum’s flash of displeasure faded as he saw Gregor’s mouth twitch and he spoke up before the moment of levity passed. “’Tis true. I cannot help my English accent. No more than I can help the size of my fist.” He clenched and unclenched his large hands reflexively.
“Or the size of anything else.” Andrew choked on a mouthful of bread whilst laughing at his own witticism. He spat a shower of crumbs on the soft earth as Arlo hurriedly slapped him on the back.
“I have ne’er had any complaints in that area, friend,” Callum grinned. “Are we done here?” It would be best to get going before Gregor could ask any further questions.
The men finished what remained of their food and mounted again; their joviality seeping away as the reality of the task ahead took hold. Callum was pleased to wrap his long legs around his horse’s flanks and trot ahead of the men. Their conversation had unnerved him, stirring up memories he would rather forget.
He had spoken the truth. This was not his first mission as a spy for Robert the Bruce. But what he hadn’t told Gregor was that he had failed his first—and only other—mission.
It was not a fact he wanted known, for the shame of it still nagged at him. But not for the reason anyone might expect.
Callum had willingly accepted those first orders: to infiltrate the mighty de Neville family, headed by the Earl of Wolvesley, one of the richest and most powerful men in England. Callum could see no harm in living the life of luxury for a while.
Plus, the mission had quietened his father.
Recently returned to his ancestral home in the highlands after the death of his English wife, Rory Baine had been growing increasingly vocal in his demands for his only son to prove himself a true Scot.
Wolvesley Castle had seemed like a good place to start.
Callum had remembered Tristan de Neville from the knights’ training academy in Lindum. Although Tristan was two years his junior, tales of his horsemanship, sword skills and accuracy in the joust were impossible to escape. Callum grew to resent Lord Tristan and all he represented about the English aristocracy. The man was entitled and arrogant. Callum would not mind at all being first in line to watch him fall.
At least, that was what he thought at first.
Callum’s mouth pressed into a firm line as he ducked under some low-hanging branches, momentarily lost in the swirl of sorrowful memories.
It was one of the Lindum instructors who had secured Callum’s invitation to Wolvesley. Even then, the Bruce’s connections ran deep. Callum had cared little for the assignment—until the assignment changed from infiltration to assassination. That was the first thing to give him pause. He was not, by nature, a violent man. And Tristan had committed no crime other than to be born a wealthy Englishman.
But worse was still to come. When he arrived at Wolvesley, Callum found a half-starved hound pup shivering in the stable yard. A dog-lover from birth, Callum had determined to hide the hound away and nurse him back to health. But it seemed nothing escaped the eagle eyes of Lord Tristan. And nor was any animal beneath his attention. When next Callum came across the hound, it was being bottle-fed by Tristan himself. The earl’s son had even spread a stall with fresh straw so the pup had somewhere warm to curl up.
Callum knew then that he would fail in his duties. He could not kill Tristan de Neville. His only hope was to satisfy the Bruce with some injurious information about Wolvesley.
