Frida’s blood ran cold. “Nay.” She rose up from her chair, ignoring the stab of complaint from her ankle. “You will not hurt him.”
But Tristan’s eyes were hard. “This man lied to you whilst plotting to kill me. You cannot expect leniency?”
Her legs threatened to give way beneath her and she was forced to lean on the arm of his chair for support. Coming closer to her brother, she saw again the determined set of his jaw and the anger flickering in his blue eyes. “I expect you to give him a fair trial.”
He held her gaze. “I will give him a trial, aye. In front of witnesses at that. But no one threatens the de Neville family and gets away with it.”
Chapter Sixteen
Ishould havebeen more prepared for this.
Callum’s eyes had grown accustomed to the dark of the cellar and he could discern the outline of both Arlo and Andrew nearby. Arlo was laying on his side, his lean body occasionally shuddering with cold. Andrew sat beside him, head down. The only sound was their laboured breathing and the occasional dripping of melting snow outside.
Callum wanted to reach out to both his friends and apologise, but his hands and feet were bound and his mouth gagged. He could neither move nor talk, and the twitching and grunting hecouldaccomplish would achieve nothing. All he had were his endless thoughts of self-recrimination, which whirled around like the branches of a sapling tree in a strong wind.
I should not have put Arlo and Andrew at risk.
I should not have lied to Frida.
I should not have allowed this to happen.
But despite the direness of their circumstances, he could not berate himself for staying too long at Ember Hall. These last days with Frida had been the most precious of his life. He only wished he had found a way to send his men away before the three of them were discovered to be traitors.
Again, he concluded that he should have known something like this would happen. The de Neville family were among the wealthiest and most powerful in England. Tristan had spies and allies everywhere; he was not a man to cross.
Callum shuffled on his backside until he could lean against the rough stone wall, relieving some of the ache across his shoulders. Cold had settled deep into his bones from a combination of damp clothing and the chill of the small, underground chamber. At least the air was fresh. It seemed nothing had been stored down here for some time. A faint shaft of light filtered through the gap in the double doors above them, through which they had all been unceremoniously shoved some time earlier. He had lost all sense of how long they had been down here, but the unchanging light told him it was still the same day.
The same day which had dawned with such hope and promise. With Frida by his side. With him daring to dream of a future.
Callum shook the memories away. Dreams had no place here. Survival had become his aim, for his men if not for himself.
Footsteps above his head broke through his reverie and had him sitting up straighter. Whatever happened next, he willed it would happen to him and not faithful Andrew nor young Arlo. There was a creak as the horizontal doors were wrenched open, and a flood of sunlight blinded him for a long moment. The next thing he knew, hands were grasping his upper arms and he was yanked up the wooden stairs to ground level, his shins banging painfully against every step. He tried to reach Andrew’s eye, to signal to him that he would do all he could to keep him and Arlo safe. But his long-time friend and comrade did not so much as turn his head in Callum’s direction.
Outside, the world was still impossibly white and soft with snow. His damp breeches became soaked through as his captors dragged him across the courtyard. Callum turned his head from right to left, looking for Mirrie or Jonah, for any ally who might show by their expression what awaited him. But the usually bustling yard was deserted.
He was glad that he did not see Frida. He could not bear the idea of her witnessing his shame.
He winced at the painful banging of stone against the front of his calves as they ascended the steps to the front door. Then they were through into the blissful warmth of the great hall, where a fire crackled in the grate and the scent of lavender from the rushes soothed his senses.
This was where he had imagined telling Frida the truth.
Now it was where he would face the wrath of Tristan de Neville. Callum could see him standing to one side of the fire, deliberately looking away as if the sight of Callum was something low and degrading.
Just behind him stood Frida.
Callum’s heart somersaulted and dived. The mere sight of her reminded him of all he wanted to live for. His captors threw him onto the floor like yesterday’s rubbish and he lay still, unable to right himself with his wrists so tightly tied behind his back. No matter, he would remain here, unresisting, until they gave him chance to speak. They would have to remove his gag for that. From the corner of his eye, he spied black leather boots walking towards him. And then the pain began.
First it was a kick to his side that had him writhing in agony. Almost immediately afterwards, a kick to his head made his vision blur. Every bit of him became a target for what must be several men, all seemingly determined to kick him to his death. Callum struggled for breath, turning his head towards the floor in an effort to protect his face. What madness was this? Soldiers gathering en masse to strike a man who was both bound and gagged? His blood raged at the injustice as the blows rained down. Then he remembered who his assailants were.
The English.
Men who thought nothing of kicking a man while he was down. Nor of killing innocent women and children in the storming of a castle.
I should expect nothing less.
He would bear it bravely, quietly at least, for he would not give them the satisfaction of seeing him wince, much less sob or beg for mercy.
Nor would he show weakness in front of Frida.
