His hand wrapped around the smooth wood of the axe handle and he swung it upwards, relishing in the moment of greatest power, when the heavy metal axe head hovered at its highest point. He brought it forcefully down and a log splintered in two, falling in the damp grass at his booted feet.
Damn Tristan de Neville to hell.
Callum grunted with satisfaction. At least he could depend on physical labour to vent his surging frustration. There was no shortage of work to be done. And with Gregor gone, Arlo laid up and Andrew tending to him, Callum was determined to pull enough weight for the four of them—making amends for his deception in the only way he could.
At least Arlo was recovering, he reflected, positioning a new log on the stump and readying his stance. The boy had regained consciousness some hours after Frida had tied off her last careful stitch. Callum was simultaneously overjoyed and over-anxious lest he say something—in pain or delirium—that gave them away.
As soon as he was decently able, Callum had Arlo moved from the solar to a comfortable pallet in their loft above the stables. It was safer for him, for all of them, to be away from the main house. Frida came twice a day to check on his progress and change his dressing. At such times, Callum had given Andrew and Arlo strict orders to hold their tongues and say as little as possible. Andrew was thus far embracing his role as a tongue-tied simple peasant, and Arlo was still too weak for much conversation.
Callum swung his axe again, then piled the newly-cut logs inside a barrow. Physical exertion had begun to warm his limbs and he untied his cloak, relishing the cool breeze that whispered across his skin.
So far, his men remained safe. So far, no one suspected them. But he was playing with fire. At any moment they could be discovered.
If only they had left earlier, before Arlo was so grievously injured. It would be several days more before the lad could feasibly mount a horse. And Callum would not risk his recovery by stealing him away earlier. Nor could he abandon him.
He swallowed a curse, releasing all his energy into the fall of the axe and taking grim satisfaction in the cleanness of the cut.
“You shall have us ready for winter before the bell tolls for chapel,” spoke a voice he knew well.
Callum spun around, newly aware of his crumpled tunic and dishevelled appearance. He had washed his face and hair last night, but with no looking glass in the loft, he had not been able to shave, nor properly tame his unruly dark curls.
Frida stood just feet away beside a low stone wall. She was dressed in a rich gown of dark green covered with a fur-lined cloak in a lighter shade. Her long hair hung in a neat plait over one shoulder; her hood raised against the chill of the day.
He bowed. “Good morn, Frida.” The words came with difficulty, his tongue seemed glued to the roof of his mouth.
She nodded in response. “Callum.” Her blue eyes sought his, but as soon as he met her gaze, she looked past him towards the log store. “I thank you for your efforts here.”
He shrugged awkwardly. “I must earn my keep. Especially with my men unable to do so.”
“All men are entitled to rest on the sabbath.” She smiled, but with more politeness than warmth.
He could not rest. If he sat still, his spiralling thoughts would soon drive him demented.
“’Tis my belief that the good lord knows when there is work to be done. And forgives a man for doing it.” Unable to gaze any longer at her beautiful face, he half-turned and gestured to the grey expanse of sky. “’Tis also my belief that we will have snow before the sennight is out.”
He felt rather than heard her gasp of surprise. “Snow? Before All Saints Day?”
“Have you ne’er wintered this far north?” His tone was glib, but he regretted it when he looked upon her face and saw fear stamped upon it.
“I have not.” She clutched her cloak around her.
“We shall be well prepared.” He nodded towards the log store.
“Aye, thanks to you.” She gave a ghost of a smile, which could not banish the anxiety from her blue gaze.
It occurred to him that he may no longer be at Ember Hall once the foulest of the winter weather arrived. Frida might have to face the frost and snow without him.
“I shall be sure to fix the barn roof before then.” He nodded emphatically, keen to provide all the reassurance he could amidst his sudden sense of loss.
Frida straightened up, wincing a little as she balanced her weight on her injured ankle. Again, Callum had a strong urge to offer her comfort.
An urge he pushed down with all the others.
“As I said, we are grateful for your efforts.” She nodded towards the low wall and he realised she had placed objects upon it. “I have brought you a skin of wine together with bread and cheese.”
He pursed his lips, not liking to think of Frida waiting upon him. Nor of her giving him special treatment.
“That was not necessary.”
