Page 11 of Flanders’ Folly (The Curse of Clan Ross #7)

11

WHERE HOPE HIDES

* * *

T he row of muds stretched along the palisade like a line of orderly beasts with their mouths open, waiting to be fed. Flanders counted as they moved, wishing they could run. Fifteen or more to go before the last on the left…when facing north.

"Bloody hell," Robert muttered. "There must be twenty of these."

"Twenty-four," Mael corrected, his eyes darting nervously toward the center of the fort where men were gathering. It seemed the men of Gallabrae were giving up on the hunt. Soon the place would be brimming with the enemy.

A woman with a heavy basket approached from the opposite direction. Her eyes narrowed. Flanders turned his face away.

"Good day to ye, mistress," Robert said, his tone warm and friendly. “Seen a witch about?”

The woman shook her head and hurried on.

"Move," Flanders grumbled.

They passed each entrance with care, alert for any sign of danger. A child cried from within one, and from another came the sound of a man's snores. A fast-moving cloud dowsed them in shadow, but the reprieve would be brief.

At last, they reached the final dugout. Flanders paused, his heart a war drum in his chest. What if the children lied? What if she’d gone? What if the men came back because they’d caught her? Had they killed her as well? There was no hue and cry, so…

He shook the worries away and knocked softly on the wooden frame of the entrance. "We come to help," he whispered through the opening. "Friends from Todlaw."

Silence answered him.

He exchanged a glance with Robert, then ducked his head and stepped inside. The interior was much like the other—two raised beds, a table, a small chimney. But this one caught a shaft of sunlight through a small window that was possible only because it was the last in the row. Warm light illuminated dust motes that danced in the air.

"Bella?" he whispered.

Nothing.

He moved further in, eyes adjusting to the dim light. An empty cup on the table, a small pile of kindling by the hearth, a child's wooden toy on one of the beds.

Then, like a breath of wind, he heard his name, and he caught his breath.

Flanders?

Not aloud. In his mind. Just as Brigid had once spoken to him.

He scanned the small space again. "Where are ye?" he whispered.

Robert gave him a strange look. Mael pulled the blanket over the doorway and peeked out the thin gap beside it.

The voice came again, stronger this time. Under the bed. I…dare not move.

He dropped to his knees and lifted the rough blanket that hung to the floor. In the darkness beneath, he saw her—curled tight against the wall, her copper-gold hair a tangled mess, her face smudged with dirt and tears.

She looked so much like Brigid, the sight of her drove a fist into his gullet. Then again, could Bella speak into his mind as well? Certainly, the sister could share the same powers, but…dared he hope?

"Brigid?" The name escaped him in a choked whisper.

She blinked up at him, her eyes wide with fear and disbelief. "Flanders," she said aloud.

Robert lifted the end of the bedframe. Flanders reached for her and firmly but gently helped her out. When she stood before him, alive and whole, he pulled her into his arms and held her as if she might dissolve into smoke. Tears spilled down his cheeks.

"I thought ye dead," he said against her hair. "When they said they burned a witch, I remembered yer vision. I’ve seen it myself in my dreams. I assumed it was ye. I reckon my dreams were wrong."

She trembled against him but didn’t push him away. "It was Bella. She couldn’t get free—” Her voice broke. "Oh, my poor Bella!”

He pulled back enough to see her face, to read the heartbreak in her eyes. "I am sorry," he said, knowing the words were hollow compared to such loss. He wished he could take her pain, absorb it into himself, but all he could do was hold her.

Robert cleared his throat from the entrance. "Time to talk later. Mael will give ye his clothes, then he’ll take yer hiding place until after dark.”

Mael held out a hand to silence them but kept his eyes on the other side of the wool drape. "Six or seven,” he hissed, “headed this way."

Flanders turned back to Brigid. "Don’t worry. I will not leave ye.”

“Maybe they’ll pass,” Robert whispered.

“I don’t think so.” Mael released the curtain and turned away. “They have Wolfy with them.”

Robert rolled his eyes. “We should have known—children tell the truth.”

* * *

As footsteps outside grew closer, Flanders moved Brigid behind him before quietly drawing his sword. Robert did the same. There was no room to maneuver, but they prepared just the same.

"We ken ye're in there," taunted a voice from just outside. "Come out, willingly or dead, it matters not. Bring the witch as well."

Flanders froze. That voice. He knew that voice.

"Heslington," he spit.

Brigid clutched his arm. "Who?"

"The steward I banished from Todlaw," he said. "An old snake in a new nest." Now he wished he wouldn't have left the man alive. No doubt he played a part in putting Gerts in the pit.

"Come out now, Flanders Leesborn. Aye, I ken it's ye. I'd recognize those shoulders anywhere, even beneath a peasant's cloak."

Robert cursed under his breath. "Bad luck the bastard ended up here."

"Where else would a rat go but to the Rat Laird?"

Mael dropped to the floor and gave Flanders a nod before crawling beneath the bed. The spy would hide and perhaps live to carry the tale to Todlaw.

"I'm counting to three," Heslington shouted. "Then we shall pile wood over the door and finish the job proper. One..."

Flanders squeezed Brigid's hand. "Stay behind me."

"Two..."

Robert adjusted his grip on his sword, though they all knew using it now would be suicide.

"Thr—"

"We're coming out," Flanders said calmly. He pulled the drape aside and stepped into the light.

Heslington backed away from the steps that led out of the hole, leaving them room. He was flanked by four men. His clothes were no finer than those he’d worn out of Todlaw. Hector Stephan would have never allowed anyone to dress more fine than he.

The triumphant serpent smiled. "Well, well," he said, rubbing his hands together with undisguised glee. "What a pleasant surprise. The mighty Flanders Leesborn, caught like a common thief." His eyes widened when he recognized Robert. "And Young Duncan besides! Laird Stephan will be most pleased. Drop yer weapons and come out of there."

Flanders laid his blade carefully on the ground as if to say I'll be back for it, then he started up the steps with Brigid at his back, Robert behind her. When he finally towered over his former steward, he looked down his nose at the man and smirked. "Ye've fallen far, Heslington. From steward to lackey. Pray tell, does Stephan ken ye’ve slithered under his gate?"

The bastard's smile faltered briefly. "And ye've fallen further, from laird to prisoner." His gaze shifted to Brigid, who stood half-hidden. "And I've caught the witch. A good day for the house of Heslington."

Flanders laughed. "Ye're no house. Ye're half a man. And yer name will die with ye. Right soon, I reckon."

The bastard swallowed with care, knowing full well how lethal his enemy was whether or not he held a weapon. And thusly sobered, he retreated further and gestured to the others. "Take him and the witch to the pit. Put Young Duncan in chains. We'll get a fine ransom from his father. Leesborn can burn with the rest of them."

As the men moved forward, Flanders tensed, calculating their odds. Four against two, but a mob of curious witch hunters were already moving in their direction. Between the two of them, they could dispose of twenty, but there would soon be twice that, and Brigid could get hurt while he was otherwise occupied.

"You there," Heslington called to a man in the mob with a bow on his back. "Nock an arrow and aim it at the woman. If either man resists, kill her."

The bowman did as he was told and circled to the side, so his arrow would have a straight path.

In response to shouting, the mob parted and the laird of Gallabrae marched through the middle. His dark curls now had streaks of gray through them, but his nose hadn’t changed, still looking as if it had been recently injured, smashed to one side, and the swelling had yet to wane.

Two guards hurried to maintain their positions at his shoulders. The man seemed more feeble since Flanders had seen him last. Confused as well? Something was definitely amiss.

"What's this? What's this?" Stephan squinted as he pushed closer. "Flanders, Flanders?" For the merest second, he seemed almost pleased to see him. Had he forgotten they were now bitter enemies? But then he caught sight of Brigid and stopped short. "Ye've found her then? I trust ye'll hand her over."

Heslington slithered toward Stephan, but one of those bodyguards stepped in his path.

"Laird Stephan, I've caught Leesborn and Young Duncan sneaking into the fort to rescue the witch. I've caught them all, ye see."

Stephan blinked rapidly, then his curious expression changed to understanding. "Ah, yes. Witch lovers, like the king. But the king's not here to defend ye, Flanders, is he?" He scowled again and looked at Robert, then behind him, then around the gathering. "Where's James, then?"

One of his guards bent close to whisper in his ear, then the blinking commenced again.

"Dead? Oh, yes, yes. Of course."

"Yer lairdship," Heslington interrupted, "I've ordered chains for Young Duncan. He's worth a fine ransom. And I reckoned we'd all be safest if we put Leesborn in the pit with the witch."

"The pit? Yes, of course." Stephan smiled again. "Ye'll join us for supper, Flanders. Gerts will be pleased to see ye."

"Hakon," Heslington barked at the guard who'd whispered in Stephan's ear. "Take our laird back to the longhouse. It's been a trying night with no sleep. He'll need food and a bed."

Hakon whispered again and Stephan nodded. Judging from the concerned look exchanged between the guard and the former steward, their laird wasn't the man in charge.

Heslington dared step closer, then spoke quietly. "It seems I haven't slipped as low as ye imagined, aye?"

With his chin lifted like the Stephan Flanders remembered, the laird strode toward the longhouse on the hillside, oblivious to the shifting glances exchanged by his own men. He was a puppet now, his strings held firmly in Heslington’s grasp. And yet, they obeyed him still.

Flanders’ gaze swept across the gathered crowd and landed on Wolfy, the wee lad clinging to the leg of a broad-shouldered man with a thick beard and wary eyes. The father’s hand rested protectively on the boy’s small shoulder, his fingers gripping tight in silent warning. His chest rose and fell in slow, measured breaths, but his jaw was locked, his eyes burning with something dangerous.

Not fear.

Defiance.

The man’s gaze flicked toward the pit in the distance, then back to Flanders. Clearly, he and Robert weren’t the only ones resisting the urge to act.

And no one had checked the dugout. Thank the gods, they hadn't thought to ask the boy how many men had been searching for the witch. Too young to count, perhaps his ignorance had bought Mael’s life.

If Heslington meant to burn all the women in that pit, then this wasn’t just cruelty—it was a mistake. Because there were men here who wouldn’t stand idle while their wives and daughters turned to ash. All it would take was a spark, the first man bold enough to step forward.

Thank the gods, this fort was days away from an uprising. Hopefully, only hours.