He expected to meet with resistance at the gatehouse, remembering how first Mirrie and then Frida had come out to meet him last time. But the guards swung open the gate and stood back to let him through without a murmur of dissent.
Callum would almost have preferred a confrontation. His heart hammered beneath the cloak of rough-spun wool that Alys had somehow procured for him and his horse skittered sideways, scattering chickens. As soon as they turned the corner to the courtyard, Callum got his wish.
Here was his opposition.
An impenetrable line of twenty armed men faced him, swords drawn. At the centre, standing slightly ahead of his army, stood Tristan.
Callum had ne’er been more aware of the differences between them. Tristan’s plate armour gleamed in the pale sunlight. His horse was one of the finest and largest in the land. Opposite him, Callum felt as ill-equipped for conflict as a farmer sat astride a plough horse. He would have pulled the animal to a halt, but the horse had ground to a stop anyway, snorting gently in growing distress.
He dropped the reins and held up both his bare palms. “I am unarmed.”
Tristan gave a little shake of his head, as if this fact was of little consequence. “Turn around, Callum, and go back to where you came from.”
Callum held his horse still with his calves. “I cannot. Not until I have said what I came to say.” He scanned the courtyard, desperate for a glimpse of Frida.
“And I cannot grant you safe passage through de Neville property.”
This was a standoff that could continue for some time, and Callum did not have the appetite for it. He swung one leg over his horse’s hindquarters and dropped to the ground, his swiftactions causing a couple of Tristan’s soldiers to break ranks and step towards him, ready to strike. Tristan held them back with his arm half-outstretched.
Callum sank to his knees, right there on the damp earth, and bowed his head.
“I cast myself on your mercy. You can do with me what you will. I ask only two things in return.” His heart pounded, knowing that he had placed himself in a position of extreme vulnerability. If Tristan came at him now, he would have no way to defend himself. He was relying entirely on the future earl’s integrity.
Integrity which days earlier, Callum would have disputed the existence of.
The polished black boots, which he recalled striding towards him as he laid on the floor of the great hall, did not move.
“I will not show mercy to an enemy of my family,” Tristan gritted out.
“That is your choice.” Long seconds passed and Callum’s hopes began to wane. There was no point in saying he was a long-admirer of the de Nevilles, nor that he would willingly lay down his life for Frida. Tristan would always see him as the man hired to assassinate him.
Tristan’s command, when it finally came, was loud and clear. “Stand down.”
Callum felt weak with relief as he heard the guards shuffling backwards and marching away. Now just one pair of boots stood before him.
“And you, stand up. I will not speak to a man prostrate on the ground before me.”
Callum stood up, unsteadily. His body was healing, but his ease of movement had not yet returned.
“Thank you, Tristan,” he said, with feeling.
“Do not presume to thank me.” Tristan’s face was white with anger. “Or to address me as if we are friends. You have seconds to tell me why you are here.”
“I am here to apologise.”
He knew a thrill of gratification when Tristan’s jaw dropped. But England’s most renowned knight recovered quickly.
“You said you wanted two things from me. What are they?”
Callum longed to put a hand out to steady himself, but the only thing to lean on was his horse, who was so on edge he might well shy away from him.
“I ask that you release my men,” he said, breathing hard.
“Impossible.”
“And I ask that you convey a message to Frida.” He swallowed down the swell of emotion caused by the feel of her name on his lips. “Unless, of course, you will allow me to speak to her myself.”
Tristan laughed. “It is miracle enough that I allow you to stand here and speak tome.”
