They eyed him with no idea of what he meant. Frustrated, Callum dismounted from his horse. With effort, he tried to speak, but it felt as if his throat were blocked, the words trapped inside. Nothing came forth, not even a single sound. It was as if the harder he tried, the more his voice refused to cooperate.
“If you’ve nothing to say, then be gone,” the first soldier ordered.
Callum stared at the man. They believed he was witless, didn’t they? Good for nothing at all. His anger gained a foothold, rising higher. The idea of simply shoving the men aside sounded better than trying to make them guess what he wanted.
He gripped his horse’s bridle, and forced himself to calm down. There had to be another way. Callum lifted his eyes just beyond the guards and spied a man approaching. From the stranger’s appearance, he appeared to be a fellow Scot.
The man’s gaze narrowed as he drew nearer, just behind the guards. When he was within view, the stranger eyed Callum and turned back his sleeves. Upon his wrists were reddened scars like his own.
The man interrupted the guards and offered, “He means no harm, lads. It’s only my cousin, come from the north.”
Callum kept his face blank, not knowing why the man was helping him. His suspicions went on edge, but he made no effort to deny the man’s words.
“Your cousin, is he?” the guard remarked. “Why is he here?”
“After all the raids, I suppose he’s looking for a new place to live. Am I right?” He stared at Callum, who gave a single nod.
Reluctantly, the guards let him through, and the man brought him toward the stables. “You can put your horse with the others, for now.” With a sidelong glance, he murmured under his breath, “You’re a MacKinloch, aren’t you?”
Callum inclined his head, and the man smiled. “I thought so. I knew your brother Bram. You were just a boy when I saw you last. Colin, is it?”
There was no way to correct the man, so he shrugged. It was close enough.
“I am Iagar Campbell.” The name was unfamiliar to him, but the scars upon the man’s wrist gave the clearest indication that he wasn’t lying. Iagar seemed to notice his stare, and he added quietly, “I was at Cairnross.”
When they reached the stables, the stable master began speaking in French, so rapidly that Callum couldn’t follow any of it. Iagar answered on his behalf, and after a time, the stable master grumbled and brought his horse Goliath to a stall.
“If you’re looking for a place, this is the best you’ll get. The others think we’re good for nothing except shoveling dung.” Iagar winked at him. “But there are ways to get what you want if you know how to ask.” He passed Callum a shovel and led him into one of the stalls. In Gaelic, he added, “Go on and start. We’ll talk later when there aren’t any ears to overhear our conversation.” With a light slap to his back, Iagar left the stable.
Callum eyed the horse in front of him and recognized her as Marguerite’s horse. She was a light gray mare with delicate features. When he touched her nose, letting her learn his scent, she gave a whuff and then lowered her head to drink from a trench of water.
Over the next few hours, he worked until nightfall. The stable master Jean never took his eyes off him, but after he realized Callum had done well enough cleaning the stalls, there was a noticeable difference in his demeanor.
“You don’t speak, do you?” Jean asked, using English at last. Callum shook his head, touching a finger to his lips. The stable master studied him. “You’ve earned a meal, after the work you did. You’re hungry, I suppose?” At his nod, Jean led him outside.
Torches lined the walls, the orange flames flickering against the twilight. Callum kept his face lowered, so as not to attract attention. He didn’t doubt that the guards he’d attacked on the night he freed Marguerite, would recognize him if he showed himself.
He followed Jean to the kitchen, where he saw a few other men and women gathering outside. “You can get some table scraps here,” the stable master offered. “And you can sleep in the Hall, as your cousin does.” From the emphasis he placed on the word, Jean had guessed they weren’t related.
After he left, Callum found a barrel of rainwater and splashed his face, thoroughly scrubbing his hands until he was clean. He didn’t suppose anyone would want to give him food, smelling the way he did.
He waited for over an hour among the others, his stomach raging for something to eat. Though he was accustomed to hunting for his own meat, he didn’t have the choice of returning to the forest. The idea of begging for leftover food didn’t sit well with him.
The cook was still busy preparing a light meal of sliced meat, baked salmon, cheese, and assorted breads for the Duc’s family. Seeing so many exotic foods made his mouth water. He noticed the cook struggling with a heavy iron pot of water, and without asking, Callum took it from the older woman and hung it over the fire.
She stared at him, her round face narrowed. “Merci.” Then, she took a crust of bread and placed bit of the salmon on it, ladling a thick sauce over it. Callum’s stomach roared with hunger at the sight, and he accepted the food, nodding his thanks. When he bit into the warm fish, the succulent flavor was like nothing he’d ever tasted. He caught the cook’s gaze and sent her a smile.
She spoke in French again, but he shook his head to indicate he didn’t understand. Then she asked in English, “Do you like it?”
Callum devoured the food and stood, coming close to her. The older woman’s hair was gray, and wrinkles rimmed the edges of her eyes. He took her hand and kissed it in thanks.
“Scottish devil,” she chided, snatching her hand back. “If you think you will get more food out of me by flirting . . .”
She turned her back to him and began rummaging through another part of the kitchen. Callum waited and she handed him a tart the size of his palm, dripping with cherries.
“You’d be right.” The cook’s face cracked into a smile, and Callum bit into the tart, the cherries oozing into his mouth. Never in his life had he tasted food like this. When he’d finished licking his fingers, he kissed the cook on the cheek.
“Make yourself useful by taking one of these trays to the Hall,” she ordered. “Follow the others and if you value your life, don’t spill a crumb. Or if you eat it before it gets there, I’ll have you flogged.” She pointed to the heavy tray of herbed salmon, and he followed the other kitchen servants to the Hall, being careful not to spill the sauce.
