Page 1 of Flanders’ Folly (The Curse of Clan Ross #7)

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A FORTUITOUS FOLLY

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N ear Laird Stephan’s fort, Gallabrae, Mabon of 1325…

Flanders chided himself for not pushing his mount faster while the sun was still up. As a result of his lack of haste, he now found himself picking his way home through the trees, far too near the home of his enemy to stay to the road, with less than a quarter moon to light the way. That was, when the moonlight could be seen at all.

He’d been a fool to think the fort might be distracted with Mabon revelry so he could slip by unnoticed. But it occurred to him, too late, that Laird Stephan would never allow his people to celebrate the pagan holiday.

The bitter man had probably held no ill will toward the pagans at all until he learned that Robert the Bruce had asserted his protection over them. And there were few men who walked the earth that Hector Stephan hated worse than the king of Scotland.

Unless it was James Duncan.

James had been gone a full four years now. So, in his stead, Stephan hated Flanders for being the one man standing between him and James Duncan’s expertly constructed stone fortress, Todlaw. Four years since the king demanded James give Stephan a stone keep of his own…one rock at a time.

Naturally, Stephan was livid he’d been tricked out of a great reward—a reward promised to the man who introduced James to the woman he would take to wife. It was a deed Stephan had fulfilled. He had, no doubt, expected a great treasure of silver or jewels, but the jest was on him. The Bruce had been on hand when James declared his intentions to marry the woman Stephan had provided and, meddling monarch that he was, the king had chosen the reward himself.

And a bitter grudge was born.

After teasing Stephan with the promise of a stone keep, which that laird dearly desired, the king had ordered James to gift his neighbor with only the stones to build one. Stones Stephan was required to transport himself. And out of spite, Stephan had refused to build it.

Notwithstanding, the stones were moved from Todlaw to Gallabrae, where the petulant man left them in a great pile, just outside his palisade, where it could stoke the fire of his anger each time he looked to the west.

The sight of it upset Flanders as well, for each time he was forced to pass the fort, when he had business in the east, he saw a perfectly good store of stone that he knew just how to use. Stone he could neither purchase nor barter for.

Fearing he’d lost sight of the path, Flanders halted his horse and studied the inky black forest floor. Voices up ahead made him curse his luck. But since he couldn’t go on until he had the forest to himself again, he dismounted and relieved himself.

The murmurs continued, moving neither closer nor further away. A few minutes later, the tinkling of light laughter and the pitch of those voices told him those blocking his path were women.

He smiled. What had he to fear from women who could be charmed?

Trailing the reins behind him, he set off again. When there were but twenty yards between himself and a break in the trees, he saw them. Five of them. Three huddled together, and two standing watch. A pity they were watching in the wrong direction.

He carefully cleared his throat, though he did not slow. Immediately the three jumped apart and the two watchers hurried to stand in Flanders’ way—two men whose small swords spoke for them. He stopped in his tracks, and for their sakes, he took a step to the side so a ray of moonlight could warn them just whom they dared to threaten.

One sword lowered immediately. The man’s quick smile proved he couldn’t be one of Gallabrae’s dour men.

“Flanders, isn’t it?”

“The very same.”

The other man came forward with an open hand. Though, in the shadows, he might have been Flanders’ tall mother for all he could tell. “Thomas and Torquil. Muir ,” he said, and shook Flanders’ hand.

“Muir?” His mind whisked him back to the day James Duncan had disappeared—right before his eyes. And that, after two sets of Muir witches had come to Todlaw to collect Pheobe, the woman Flanders had once thought to make his wife. Unfortunately, she and James were already in love with each other, though they’d denied it.

That was the day he’d learned that his best friend was not as mad as Flanders had once thought. For in all the years they’d battled beside each other, James sometimes spoke about the future, the distant future, as if he’d once lived there.

A place to which James and his would-be wife had returned. And all with the help of Muir witches.

After Flanders shook the hands of both men, two women stepped forward. Though they, too, were twins, they were not the sisters who had visited Todlaw that fateful day. Thomas introduced them as Bella and Brigid. They were lovely, even in the darkness. Tiny shafts of moonlight lit the red fire and gold of their hair, the only color amidst the shadows.

Flanders took the hand of the nearest sister and lifted it to his lips. And the oddest thing…

Both sisters gasped as if they’d been burned. The hand was gone, and the two clutched each other, their pretty faces hidden. The brothers took a protective step closer to the pair, but they didn’t draw their blades. In fact, they paid Flanders no heed at all. Clearly, they didn’t believe him to be a threat.

“What is it, sister?” Thomas said, gently trying to pry the pair apart. “What did ye see?”

The one called Brigid whispered to Bella, then stepped back. Abject fear shone from her eyes in the dappled moonlight, but she faced Flanders anyway. “I saw our death. And chaos,” she said, as if she’d seen those things in his eyes…and could see them still.

Flanders retreated enough to draw his sword and find the direction of this eminent threat, but Thomas stopped him with the wave of his hand. “It is the future she sees,” he said. “Thanks to Gerts, none of the men at Gallabrae can…erm…raise a sword or anything else. At least not this night.”

The third woman stepped from the shadows and it was, indeed, Hector Stephan’s lady wife.

“Laird Leesborn.”

With his hackles up, Flanders was loathe to put his blade away, but he did so out of respect for his old ally. Many a time Gerts and he had saved a young woman from her husband’s clutches, and the bond between them was unbreakable because of those days.

“Gerts.” He stepped close and placed a kiss on a cheek soft with age. “How do ye fare?”

“I’m well enough. I still wish for those days when ye came regularly.”

“I’ve missed ye as well, though I cannot say the same about yer laird.” He pointed his chin at the others standing behind her. “Dare I ask what business ye have with true witches?”

She grinned all the way to her eyes. “They come through every year near about Mabon, to fortify my supply of hensbane. Come, watch them work.” Gerts led him deeper into the trees where a sea of plants grew close to the ground. These had obviously been harvested recently, and Flanders recognized the strange plant as one he’d been warned to avoid since he was a small boy.

The brothers moved off to the right. The sisters to the left encircling the cloistered field. But it was only the sisters who raised their arms and whispered. Even in the tenuous light, Flanders could see their words transforming into an ethereal mist that spread above the plants and swirled slowly. He couldn’t look away.

When both sisters fell silent, the swirling ceased and the mist fell straight to the ground like a fine rain. He opened his mouth to comment, but Gerts clutched his arm in warning. The demonstration was not over, then.

A noise he couldn’t possibly describe came from the ground. Barely audible, it was something akin to the squeaking of mice. It was a voice, and yet not. No mouth created such…magic.

Flanders blinked over and over again, wanting to understand what moved at his feet, but simultaneously dreading that knowledge. Only when the plants began to sway did he realize they’d doubled in size, and as he watched, they doubled again, nearly tall enough to reach his high knee.

“What ye hear,” Brigid whispered, “is the Song of Growin’.”

A song. Much less malicious than what he’d been imagining—not the devil or his ilk rising up from Hell to greet them.

Flanders released his breath and gave her a smile of thanks for relieving his fears. And suddenly he realized…she hadn’t whispered after all. She stood too far away for such a soft whisper to be heard. The words had come…only in his mind.

He sought her eyes. She gave a sheepish smile that made her beauty all the more compelling. But was that a trick as well?

“Careful not to insult a witch,” she whispered aloud, then laughed quietly.

He’d barely had the chance to laugh along before the witches all moved back toward the road, leaving behind a healthy crop of the dangerous plants. Used regularly but carefully by healers, it could ease pain, aid sleep, and treat gout. But it was also deadly. In large doses, it caused confusion, fatigue, and could render a man impotent. It was rumored that witches and druids used the stuff themselves to bring on visions and prophetic dreams.

Flanders followed close on Gerts’ heels and asked why she needed so much of the stuff.

“What do ye think? He brings a pretty lass into the household and I can no longer send them away to Todlaw, can I? I do what I can to spare them his attentions, and when I cannot…” She shrugged.

He was horrified. “Gerts! What are ye thinkin’? The man’s hate for witches is implacable. If he finds ye’ve been fettling him with?—”

“He drinks it willingly. Our healer told him it makes him more virile and potent. For him to complain that it does not would be to admit his own failures. And the great Hector Stephan fails at nothing.” She smirked. “Except his attempt to take Todlaw.”

Flanders worried that the Muirs didn’t understand the risks of coming so close to the fort, and to even step foot on Stephan’s land was to risk their lives—and a hellish end. But it was the fort that was quiet as death at the moment. Nothing moved.

He insisted they ride with him as far as Todlaw, just to be safe. But they had other business to see to before the end of Mabon. They did not say where. So, Flanders could do nothing more than wish them well.

He stepped close to Brigid’s horse but was careful not to touch her, fearing that alarming vision might repeat itself. “I am sorry for what ye saw, lass. Sorry for the pair of ye. I only hope ye are mistaken.”

Her head swayed slowly from side to side. “Worry not for us, Laird Leesborn.” She stared at his hand resting on her saddle, then tentatively reached out to lay her fingers upon his. After only a heartbeat or two, he heard her in his head once more.

Laird Stephan is more devious than ye believe. He need not leave home to bedevil ye.

He took the warning to heart, then attempted to answer her in the same manner. Very clearly, he thought the words, Many thanks.

Though her face showed nothing, he heard the tinkling of laughter that was answer enough.

“Remember,” he said aloud. “Any witch, Muir or otherwise, will find sanctuary at Todlaw.”