“You are wrong.”
Of all things, this was not what he was expecting to hear. “I am not,” he responded, steadily.
Alys shook her head, her gaze also fixed on the fire. “Callum, there is something you must know.”
He forced a laugh, rubbing at his tired eyes. “Many things, I am sure.”
“Nay.” She fixed him once more with her impossibly bright eyes. “One thing of the greatest import.” She took a breath. “The man who is working secretly for peace between England and Scotland is Lord Tristan de Neville.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
Callum sat asstill as stone, his meal entirely forgotten. For a long while, the only sound in the little cottage was the crackling of logs in the fire.
Greatly daring, Gil raised his great head and delicately lifted a heel of bread from the table. He chewed quietly, but the thumping of his tail against the floor slowly brought Callum back to his senses.
Tristan is secretly working for peace with Scotland.
Nay, that could not be.
Frida’s brother had told him how he had given the order to raze Kielder Castle. Callum’s blood pounded in his ears every time he recalled that conversation. And the beating that had gone along with it.
He cleared his throat, not wishing to contradict Alys who had treated him with such kindness, but knowing that he couldn’t let her hold such a false belief.
He opened his mouth to speak but she got there before him.
“Do not tell me I am mistaken,” she said, eyes gleaming.
Callum was nonplussed. He folded his hands in his lap and looked down upon them.
“’Tis a great secret,” she added in a whisper. “I would not have told you had I not faith that you would keep it to yourself.”
He shook his head. “I will not repeat it.”
For I do not believe it.
Alys nodded, although she looked sad, as if she could see that he was unconvinced. “I will fetch a basin of water for you to wash. I can also clean your tunic, though I have naught for you to wear in its stead but a rug over your shoulders,” she smiled impishly.
Callum stood, wincing only a little. “I will fetch the water,” he decreed. He would not allow an old woman to fetch and carry for him.
Sometime later, he had splashed warmed water over his face and body, scrubbing dried blood from his neck and hair. In the dim light of the bedchamber, he saw the mottling of purple bruises stretch all about his body and again, and his pulse raced with the instinctive urge to take revenge on the man who had beaten him.
Still, it was a relief to scrub the memory of the cellar from his skin. He felt somewhat more himself, until the moment when Alys took up his tunic with nimble hands.
“There is no need to launder my clothes,” he insisted, clad only in his hose. “I am not going before gentry.” He intended it as a joke, but Alys was not amused.
“You are Lady Elizabeth’s son,” she insisted. “I always made sure her clothes were cared for. I cannot allow you to leave my house covered in blood and filth.”
And she showed Callum the back of his tunic, which was indeed splattered with a combination of dark mud and red blood.
He inclined his head. “Thank you.”
“Come and sit before the fire,” she commanded. “You will catch a chill otherwise.”
Meek as a child, Callum followed her through to the main room of the cottage and sank down upon the settle as Alys took a stiff brush and set about removing the worst of the stains fromhis tunic. He felt her eyes upon his body and sensed, rather than saw, her shock at his bruises.
She sat back on her haunches, her work forgotten. “Who did this to you?”
He would not upset her, but nor would he lie. “’Tis better I do not say.”
