Callum thought he might be sick. His stomach churned as his mind raced around in endless circles.
Why would his orders have been to assassinate a man who was no threat to the Scots?
As soon as the question slid into his mind, Callum knew the answer. And this, more than anything else, proved to him the truth of Alys’s words.
He thought of his father’s endless bloodlust—of his father’s friends and their deep-seated hatred of the English.
Some Scots do not want peace.
Forsooth, there were those on both sides of the border who would prolong this war indefinitely in the hope it might bring them land or power or glory—or simply the destruction of their hated foes, with little care for if the battle destroyed them as well.
And if Tristan de Neville was seen as a man who might bring an end to the violence, well, then he was a man who must be taken out of the picture.
Callum’s blood ran cold as he realised the truth.
He had been ordered to assassinate Tristan preciselybecausehe was working for peace between England and Scotland.
He raised stricken eyes to Alys. “I have allowed doubt and hatred into my heart,” he intoned. “And it has killed off all hopes for the future.”
Chapter Twenty-Three
Three days later
Frida and Tristanhad reached an uneasy truce, helped in part by Mirrie, who could not bear tension between two of the people she loved the most in the world. Loathe to cause her more distress, they had once again started to dine together in the evenings and talk with the civility expected of the eldest de Neville siblings.
Another factor in their rapprochement was Frida’s quick thinking. She’d realised that, much as her father would be disappointed with her actions, he would be equally aggrieved to learn that his eldest son had linked their family name with the lawless slaughter of innocent women and children. She wrote as much in a scribbled note to Tristan, which she slid under his bedchamber door.
Her brother never openly acknowledged receiving her missive, but nor did he talk further about her returning to Wolvesley.
The snow had melted away entirely now, leaving the lands around Ember Hall to enjoy the last gasp of autumn. Mornings were white with frost but although many leaves had fallen, the woodlands still retained a hint of fiery colour. Frida loved this time of year, but every time she stopped to admire a display of flame-red holly berries, she thought of the men trapped in a dark cellar who could not enjoy it.
It did not take long for her to find a solution.
Jonah was the first to mention it.
“You have arranged for the prisoners to be moved,” he commented as they broke their fast before a roaring fire in the great hall. The temperature at night had dropped heavily and the heat of the morning fire had yet to permeate the vast chamber. The two siblings had pulled their chairs as close to the hearth as they could manage, their knees all but knocking together.
Frida kept her response short. “Aye.” She spread a cut of bread thickly with home-churned butter.
“Did Tristan give his approval?” His blue eyes watched her closely.
Frida did not look up from her trencher. “He did not need to. Tristan is not in charge here.”
“I think he will have an opinion.”
“He usually does.” Frida raised her eyebrows and they chuckled together conspiratorially.
“I still say, take care, sister.” Jonah’s hand dropped to her wrist and held it for the smallest moment, whilst Frida all but froze with surprise at the unprompted show of affection. “I would not see you hurt,” he added.
“The prisoners will not hurt me,” she declared boldly.
But she was extra aware of her every move when she went to see them later. Following the paved path to the bakehouse, she pushed all thoughts of her last journey there out of her mind. She could not hope to converse with anyone if she was forever blinking tears from her eyes.
She missed Callum with a force that was almost painful and her only comfort was that it seemed he had got clean away from Ember Hall.
She nodded to the guard, one of her own men, who shot back the newly added bolts on the thick door and stood aside to let her pass.
Andrew and Arlo did not smell very sweet and both were disguised by a thick growth of beard. Their hair was mattered and their clothes dirty. Frida was concerned that infection may have set into Arlo’s wound, even after her days of careful tending, but she could not discern the unhealthy tang of putrefaction amidst the general fug of unwashed bodies.
