And Warren sat in silence, berating himself. Not just for missing the moment, but forcaringthat he had.
Portchester Castle came into view after a few hours, a stone sentinel in the grey-blue sky, ancient walls weathered by salt and centuries. The grounds stretched wide and green, flanked by crumbling Roman fortifications and overlooking the still, silvery reach of Portsmouth Harbour.
The group spilled off the coach in a blur of zippers, backpacks, and teenage chatter fizzing with too much energy and not enough sleep. Jude divided them into two groups of fifteen. Warren took his half towards the old keep, trailing behind the castle guide and a trail of muddy trainers. Jude led the rest along the curtain wall, already pointing out arrow loops and centuries-old stonework, his voice carrying with quiet confidence. Warren watched him for a moment. How animated he was. How history came alive in his hands and words. He was sharp with dates, precise with detail, and somehow still made it sound like storytelling rather than lecture. There was a light in him, something Warren hadn’t seen before. It was magnetic.
How did a man who used to sleep with a knife under his pillow, who used to be acquainted with a nasty bastard like Callum Reid, become a walking history nerd?
Warren couldn’t ask. Not when he was dragged into ghost tour trivia and stuck fielding questions from Lily and Lucas, who were now holding hands as if they’d invented the concept, poor Amelia trailing behind with a pout.
He didn’t see Jude again until lunch.
They regrouped on the grass in the main courtyard, the students scattering across the green to chat, lounge under the low trees, or wander as far as the staff’s supervision perimeter would allow. A few headed towards the moat, clutching phones and whispering about ghost sightings; others climbed the grassy mound near the chapel ruins for a better view of the water.
Warren lowered himself onto the grass beside Jude as they handed out paper bag lunches, the trip pack-ups already going cold in their laps. Jude opened his, peeked inside, and grimaced.
Warren caught the look. “Tuna?”
Jude huffed a quiet laugh. “Should’ve claimed to be vegan. Swear they get better sandwiches.”
Warren dug into his own bag and pulled out a plain cheese. “Here. Swap.”
Jude glanced over, suspicious. “You’re trading cheese fortuna?”
“For you? Yeah.”
That earned Warren a look. Not quite a smile, but close. His cheeks flushed faintly pink, and Warren felt it land solidly in his chest.
So he grinned, waggled the wrapped sandwich at him. “Would it help if I said I really like tuna?”
Jude raised an eyebrow. “Do you?”
Warren shrugged. “Sure.”
Jude rolled his eyes but made the trade, the tiniest smirk tugging his lips as he unwrapped the sandwich and took a bite. Warren watched him chew, then forced himself to take a bite of the tuna. It was aggressively soggy. He swallowed with effort, trying not to show it.
Still, worth it.
Totally worth it.
After lunch, the group spilled back into the castle grounds for the afternoon’s activities. The sky had darkened a little, low clouds pressing in from the harbour, casting a blue-grey hue over the ancient stone. Seagulls circled overhead. The wind picked up near the high walls, carrying the scent of brine and age and something faintly metallic, like wet iron.
The students rotated between interactive stations set up by the castle’s education team. Archery practice, a miniarchaeology dig in a cordoned-off trench near the east wall, and a short interactive reenactment where volunteers were dressed in period garb and marched around the bailey like fourteenth-century foot soldiers. Warren, to his horror and the kids’ absolute delight, was roped into a live demonstration of medieval justice and was dragged into the wooden stocks outside the old hall, handed a floppy felt hat doing nothing to protect him from the barrage of damp sponge balls hurled in his direction.
Jude’s laughter was louder than most.
Warren caught his grin before a suspiciously ripe tomato hit him square in the chest.
“Thought we were friends,” he called, voice muffled by mock indignation.
Jude smirked. “History favours the cruel.”
But later, when the group descended into the remains of the prisoner camp and its low, echoing stone corridors, the air colder and heavier with every step, everything changed. The chatter faded. The kids grew quiet.
There was something about the place. The walls whispered. The ground seemed to hold onto suffering, the cold seeping into bones. Shadows clung to the corners. The guide spoke in hushed tones about the prisoners who’d been kept there, some barely older than the students themselves. And Warren stood at the back, watching the group move through the narrow space. Jude stood near the front and wiped his cheek.
A tear? Or dust?
Warren wasn’t sure.
