Callum took another mouthful of ale. His father indeed would be celebrating hard, amongst the ruins of Kielder Castle. “How does this bear special import for me?” He sighed. “I do not see it, myself.”
“Is it not another step towards peace?” she suggested gently.
“I have abandoned all hopes of peace,” he replied, his tone almost savage. He bowed his head at the shocked expression on Alys’s face. “Forgive my anger. But I have watched friends and family on both sides of the border come to harm. I am a man of faith, but I do not see what words the Pope can say that will remedy such decades of animosity.”
A shadow crossed over her face. “There has been much bloodshed.”
“Aye.” He placed down the empty cup, his fingers shaking. “And whilst there is such hatred and mistrust on both sides, I do not think there can e’er be peace between England and Scotland.”
Alys nodded. “There are people working actively for peace,” she whispered, looking over her shoulder as if fearful of being overheard. “One man in particular. A brave man in whom I place all my hopes for a peaceful future.”
“What man?” He looked at her curiously.
“I should not say.” She pressed her lips together, as if keeping the words inside. “Tell me your tale, Callum. What turn of events brought you to my door in such a sorry state?”
He smiled grimly. “’Tis the oldest, sorriest tale of all.”
“Love?” she whispered, tilting her lined face upwards.
“Love.” His throat closed over the word and he cleared his throat roughly. “I am in love with an English woman, even though I was tasked by the Bruce to move against her family.”
A moment passed. Gil raised his head, ears pricked, as if aware something momentous had been said. Callum knew his words were shocking, but he was determined to tell no more lies about his true identity.
“You work for the Bruce?” Alys sat on the very edge of her chair as if she might fly away.
“My father insists upon it.”
“Aye, he was always a man of strong emotion.” Alys leaned back, though her eyes remained wary.
“I have been sent on two commissions by the Bruce. I have failed them both.” Callum rubbed at his beard distractedly. “I will not be welcomed back at my father’s house. Although little of my father’s house remains. It was razed by the English at midsummer.”
Razed by Tristan de Neville, he thought but did not say.
Alys bit down on her lip. “’Tis a sorry tale indeed, Callum. I am saddened by your troubles. Your poor mother would be beside herself with grief for it all.”
He nodded, unwilling to invite more self-pity.
“But what of this English woman? Does she know you love her?”
He nodded, thinking of their last embrace. “She knows it.”
“And does she love you in return?”
A small smile broke through. “I believe she does.”
“Then naught should stand in your way.” Alys folded her hands together as if that was all there was to say.
Callum gazed into the orange flames of the fire, wishing they could burn away everything that made this situation so impossible. “We cannot have a future, because she is English and I am Scottish.”
“Half Scottish,” Alys corrected.
Callum shook his head. “’Tis all the same to them. They are one of England’s most noble families.”
Alys’s green eyes caught him in a snare. “Which one?”
He sighed. “The woman I love is Frida de Neville.” Her sharp exclamation of surprise almost silenced him, but he spoke on. “The man who ordered the destruction of my family home is her brother, Tristan de Neville.”
A long moment passed between them. Callum thought he had said too much.
