When he was beginning to think he would die right here on the floor of the great hall, the kicking ceased. Through a haze of pain, he heard the trample of footsteps moving away from him, into the entrance hall and out of the door. He heard sobbing and worried for a moment that it was his own. Then he realised the truth was even worse.
It was Frida.
She came to him with cool hands and a tender touch, urging him to sit up, steadying him when the room started to spin. Her blue eyes were red with sorrow and he could not bring himself to meet her gaze.
“I will remove this gag,” she stated, in the direction of her brother.
Tristan had taken a seat in one of the tapestried chairs which usually sat before the fire. At the moment, they had both been shoved backwards. Callum now slumped in their usual place, unable to take any comfort from the warmth of the fire.
Tristan watched on idly, as if only mildly diverted by the evening’s entertainment. He inclined his head, blond like his sister had once been, although Tristan was a bigger-boned, bigger proportioned member of the de Neville family. He resembled his father, Callum recalled. A giant of a man.
“As you wish,” he said.
If Callum had the power of speech, he would have said no. No to Frida removing the one thing that guaranteed his silence. Forsilence was far preferable to the admission of deceit that Tristan was surely about to extract from him. But it was still a relief to have the cloth pulled free from his mouth and feel closer to human again.
“I’m sorry,” were the first words he said, aimed at Frida, who winced almost as if he had struck her.
She turned away from him and rose slowly to her feet, her ankle clearly paining her as she staggered back to her brother.
Tristan’s gaze was as cold as the cellar floor.
“Callum Baine?”
Callum ran his tongue against his teeth, checking all were still present. His body felt bruised and raw, but he had taken many a battering before, and he could tell that this was no worse than what he’d previously endured. He would survive.
He kept his answer brief. Tristan knew who he was well enough. “Aye.”
“Callum Baine, fellow of Lindum, knight of the realm. Or Callum Baine, Scottish rebel, servant of Robert the Bruce?”
Tristan’s voice was low and mocking. Deliberately so, no doubt, as to provoke a reaction in Callum. A reaction that was even now brewing inside his belly. Callum raised his bloodshot eyes to the handsome man, so impeccably attired in spotless breeches and a dark green tunic shot through with gold thread. He had once counted this man amongst his friends; had risked his own safety to spare his life. But Tristan’s finely-drawn face showed no recognition of their past friendship. He was every inch the English lord, looking down at a Scot with derision.
Callum wanted to spit at his leather boots, but he would not be uncouth before Frida. Instead he forced his chapped lips into a smile. “Take your pick.”
Tristan threw him half a smile in return. “A faithless man, then? A man who will fight for whichever side is winning?”
“Nay, never that.” Callum’s blood boiled, even as he told himself that Tristan was doing his best to provoke him.
“What then?” Tristan leaned forward, his hands clasped on his knees, looking for all the world as if he was interested in the state of Callum’s soul. “My sister here thinks I should show mercy to you and your men. Whereas I am minded to string you all up.” He shrugged lightly, as if he didn’t care very much either way. “This is your chance to speak, Callum Baine.”
I will plead for the life of my men.
“What do you want to know?” His voice came out as a growl. A growl which made Frida press the heels of her hands to her eyes.
Callum looked away from the woman he loved. If he had one wish, he would not use it for his freedom. He would use it to send Frida far from this conversation.
She stood restlessly behind Tristan’s chair, sometimes turning as if she would walk from the room, other times looking for all the world as if she might drop to her knees and release Callum’s bonds. Her eyes were titchy and her movements as jumpy as a young colt.
Callum’s heart ached for her.
But the ache in his heart was accompanied by stabbing pains in his ribs and lower back, constant reminders of the beating he had endured at her brother’s command.
Tristan put his head to one side, as if considering the question. “Do not make the mistake of thinking I don’t already know every part of your sorry tale,” he answered softly.
“What can I add to it then?” For the sake of his men, Callum chased the sneer from his face.
“That is my question to you, Callum Baine. I once thought you a man of wit and learning. Was I wrong about that as well?”
Callum kept his temper in check as his mind attempted to process the facts. Tristan had come to Ember Hall with an armyof soldiers. He had acted swiftly and decisively. The actions of a man who already knew he had been crossed.
