His mother would not approve of him thinking such dark thoughts of vengeance in a place of worship. But he had not known the benefits of her calm counsel since his sixteenth summer. And his father’s guidance ran to a different tune entirely.
An eye for an eye.
Violence answering violence.
Rory Baine had long demanded that his son wreak revenge upon their enemies. And if Callum had answered that demand two years ago, his father may not now be scrambling for coin with which to order the rebuilding of their ancestral home.
Coin that Callum was to provide, in part at least, with this mission.
Callum stilled on the pew as the hairs on the back of his neck prickled. Someone was watching him. Without turning his head, Callum looked as far as he could towards the open door on his left.
A shadowy figure stood within the chapel.
Immediately Callum leapt to his feet. One hand instinctively sought the hilt of his sword before he remembered that he had turned his weapon in as Frida requested. No matter. He had his fists and a knife secreted in his boots.
“Who is there?”
“’Tis only I.” Callum relaxed as he recognised Arlo’s strained voice. The boy walked further into the pink-hued light and bowed his head in apology. “I did not mean to startle you. Nor did I wish to interrupt your prayers.”
Callum snorted. “I was not praying.”
“I came here to find you.”
“Why?”
“’Tis Gregor.” Arlo pressed the palms of his hands together as if in supplication. “He is most unsettled.”
“He and I both.” Callum shook his head in exasperation. Could he not enjoy two minutes of solitude?
Arlo swallowed. “Aye, but Gregor intends mischief. I’m sure of it.”
Now he had Callum’s full attention. “Where is he?”
“He left the barn headed for the loft where we slept.”
Where our stash of weapons is hidden, Callum silently added. He didn’t waste time asking more questions, knowing Arlo to be a sensible youth who not raise any alarm without reason.
“Come,” he said, already striding out of the chapel. Before they emerged into the sunlight he glanced back over his shoulder. “If trouble is brewing, I want you to stay out of it.”
The courtyard was empty, save a clutch of hens scratching in the soft earth. For the first time since arriving at Ember Hall, the uniformed guards were nowhere to be seen. Callum picked up his pace, hoping to intercept Gregor before he left the loft.
Before any showdown between them became a public spectacle.
But as he rounded the corner, he saw the tall highlander crouched low, running towards the stone steps leading to the hall’s entrance. Light glinted off the blade clutched in his hand.
A jolt of alarm brought the scene into sharp relief; pink roses nodding in the breeze, ancient stone basking in sunlight.
A lone figure intent on spilling blood.
“Halt.” Callum infused the command with all the authority of his rank. He was the son of Rory Baine. He was the spy trusted by Robert the Bruce.
He would not stand for insurrection.
His boots trod heavily over the stones as he closed the distance between them. Gregor had paused, as requested, but his dark eyes shone with defiance. He made an unpleasant sight;unwashed and crumpled with a straggling growth of beard and lank hair hanging about his pointed face.
“I have naught to say to you.” The man spat at his feet.
Callum did not flinch, though he wished he had his sword to hand. Gregor’s blade was lowered, for now.
