Sickened, Callum resumed his aimless journey. It mattered not, he realised, whether it was the Scots or the English who had razed that village. Blood had been spilled either way. Acts of violence had led these humble villagers to ruin.
His feet dragged behind him now. He was so weary, it was an effort to keep his eyes open. If only he had a little ale to soothe his thirst.
The sharp howl of a wolf chased away all thoughts of ale. He stopped still, hoping the chilling sound had come from some dark hole in his imagination, but the howl came again. High and mournful, it cut through the cold air and caused all the hairs on Callum’s neck to stand on end.
Slowly, he raised his eyes. Sure enough, there was the animal, standing atop a small incline just ahead of him. Tall and lean, the wolf had gleaming amber eyes which were fixed on Callum.
Any wolf venturing out in the light of day must be hungry indeed.
Callum assessed his options. He had not the strength to run. Nor had he a blade with which to defend himself. He could no more climb a tree than he could take flight into the sky. Dimly, he wondered if the ruined village might still contain some tool or weapon he could use against a wolf, but it was close behind him. It could easily catch him before he reached the first crumbling walls.
His heart thudded against his ribs. Of all possible endings, Callum had never imagined his last moments would be spent facing a wolf.
He was a trained knight, a feared warrior, but now he had become no more than prey. His lips twisted into a smile as he considered the irony.
The wolf had not moved, but neither had it shifted its focus from Callum’s face.
Callum swallowed, knowing that animals could sense fear. ’Twas lucky then that he was too fatigued to feel much of anything.
He took a hesitant step forward, then another. If he ran away, the wolf would give chase. If he walked to meet it, the wolf might observe his height and strength and reconsider attacking him.
As he grew closer, Callum thought with relief that the animal may not be a wolf after all. It seemed not quite tall enough. And it stood all alone whereas wolves traditionally hunted in packs.
He could not prevail against a pack of wolves, but if this turned out to be merely a lone hound, then that was a different proposition.
Callum straightened his back, drawing himself up to his full height. If only he had a stick to wave. His eyes skittered left and right, looking for a fallen branch.
The hound/wolf pricked his ears. Was he about to bound forward? A thrill of fear chased down Callum’s spine. Then something hit his head, his knees buckled and he slumped down onto the rutted track, slushy earth filling his nostrils.
*
When he awokesome hours later, it was to the sound of domesticity. Logs crackling in a fire, someone stirring a cooking pot, the ladle scraping against the sides of the pan. He heard a woman’s voice and tried to decipher the words, but he was too far away to make them out.
Callum half expected to find his wrists and ankles once against bound, but when he cautiously stretched out his fingers and wiggled his toes, he realised this was not the case. Nor was he housed in some dark cellar. On the contrary, he was laid on a soft straw mattress with warm rugs heaped atop him. Cautiously, he turned his head to take in more of hissurroundings. A small shuttered window to his left allowed bars of fading sunlight into a square chamber holding little more than a bed and a wooden trunk. He sat up, wincing at the pain in his head. Tentative probing revealed that the head wound Tristan had given him had been bandaged and, going by the sharp aroma emanating from the rough cloth, it had first been packed with mint.
His fingers encountered a new, painful swelling at the other side of his head. This was where he had been struck after seeing the wolf.
He scanned the chamber once more, looking for any sign of the fierce beast, but there was none. His eyes were gritty and his tongue felt stuck to the roof of his mouth with thirst. Fighting a wave of dizziness, Callum lowered his feet to the floor. He must discover where he was and why he had been brought here.
Two steps took him to the door and he opened it cautiously. Immediately, the smells of cooking enveloped him. Herbs, roasted meat, woodsmoke from the fire. His belly rumbled and he stepped back into the shadows of the chamber, not wanting to be spotted so soon.
But it was too late, for the grey-haired woman stood by the cooking pot called over to him without altering her position.
“Come, Callum. Let us make ourselves known to one another.”
The voice was high and quavering, as if the woman was unused to conversation.
How does she know my name?
Callum squared his shoulders and stepped into the outer room. The first thing his eyes alighted on was the hound he had mistaken for a wolf, stretched out by the fire. Callum paused, but the hound merely opened one eye and wagged his tail lazily against the hard floor.
“That’s just Gil. He won’t hurt you.” The woman bent low and tasted something off the ladle. Smacking her lips together, she walked over to a narrow cabinet and fetched out two roughly hewn wooden bowls. “Come,” she repeated.
Callum thought he may have willingly walked into hell itself if it smelled as good as this. He limped forwards, aiming for a rickety wooden chair pulled as far away from the hound as possible.
“There’s ale in the jug,” the woman said. “Help yourself.”
He did not need asking twice. His desperate gaze found the stone jug tucked into a crevice in the stone wall. Hands trembling with need, he poured a stream of thin brown ale into a small cup and drained it in one gulp.
