Page 12 of Flanders’ Folly (The Curse of Clan Ross #7)

12

FRIENDS IN LOW PLACES

* * *

G allabrae’s pit was an impressive affair. Hector Stephans was a poor builder, but he knew how to dig.

The hole was twenty feet in diameter and well over twenty feet deep in the ground with its walls and edges reinforced by stones—some of the very ones James Duncan had been ordered to deliver to Gallabrae, one by one. At least some of them had been put to use, though not in the way The Bruce had intended.

The guards forced Flanders and Brigid down a rough-hewn ladder. He went first so he could help Brigid down after him. Robert had been dragged away, and he could only hope the lad would be treated well enough for ransom purposes.

His feet hit the floor with a squelch. The bottom of the pit was mostly mud with a smattering of rocks here and there. There was nothing to keep the rain out, and the storm from that morning had yet to be absorbed. The place stank of wet earth, offal, and fear—a pit used often, then.

As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he realized there were more women in there than he expected. At quick count, fifteen women, one girl. That meant more crying bairns in Gallabrae. That meant more motivated fathers who wouldn't look kindly on Heslington burning their wives and a young daughter.

"Flanders!" Gerts emerged from the shadows and embraced him fiercely. "Ye came for us!"

"Aye, though not quite as I planned." He returned her embrace, then held her at arm's length to examine her. She looked tired, wet, but unharmed. "Are ye well?"

"Well enough." Her eyes shifted to Brigid with recognition and concern. "And ye found Brigid."

Brigid stepped forward, her face drawn with grief. "Gerts."

The older woman pulled her into a gentle embrace. "I am sorry about Bella, child. We tried to stop it."

"Which gave Stephan and Heslington an excuse to put ye here," Flanders said glumly.

Gerts nodded. "Stephan has always been cruel, but Heslington encourages his cruelty. Though lately..." She shook her head. "For days, he’s not been himself. A week ago, he was fine.”

Brigid wiped a tear from Gerts’ cheek. "Age wouldn’t cause such a drastic change. And it wouldn’t be hensbane, unless ye’ve doubled the fettle."

“I haven’t. But perhaps Heslington has found the garden.”

"Or perhaps Heslington has his own poisons.”

Flanders frowned. "We saw Hector. He was confused. And Heslington seems to be the one giving orders now."

Gerts cheered. "Well, the men won’t stand for that.”

Flanders smiled. "Good. That's very good." He looked around at the other women, some huddled together for warmth, others watching them with wary eyes. Some stood apart from the others, balancing on the larger rocks to keep their feet from the mud. "Cheer up, Gerts. Heslington is a fool."

As the afternoon wore on, Flanders paced the perimeter, testing the walls, looking for weaknesses. The stones were solid, but the mortar between them crumbled in places. None of it was sturdy enough to climb. Their only hope lay in intervention from the outside.

Eventually, he settled beside Brigid, who sat with her back against the wall, her knees drawn up to her chest. She seemed lost in thought, her eyes fixed on nothing.

"I've thought of ye often," he said quietly, surprising himself with the admission. "Since that night in the forest."

She turned to look at him, her eyes glistening in the dim light. "Have ye?"

"Aye. I tried to reach ye, in my mind. As ye reached me that night."

A ghost of a smile touched her lips. "I heard ye. Sometimes. When the distance wasn't too great."

"Ye never answered."

"I was afraid," she admitted. "Of what I saw when I touched yer hand. Of what it might mean for us both."

"And now?"

She looked away. "Now Bella is gone, and I'm still here. I don't understand why."

He reached for her hand, hesitated, then took it gently in his. "I'm sorry about Bella. Truly. But I'm not sorry ye're still here."

She didn't pull away. "I saw our death, Flanders. Both of us. And chaos. How can that be, unless I am soon to join her?"

"Perhaps what ye saw hasn't come to pass yet," he suggested. "Or perhaps it changed. The future isn't set, surely."

She gave a weak shrug that signified nothing.

As the light began to fade, Gerts moved among the women, offering comfort and quiet words of encouragement. She had no magic like Brigid, but she had a lifetime of wisdom.

Footsteps approached the edge of the pit. They all looked up to see Heslington's smug face peering down at them.

"Comfortable?" he called down, feigning concern. "I hope so, because it's yer last night on this earth. The laird has agreed that ye should all burn in the morning." His gaze fixed on Flanders. "Maybe we won't bother with a stake. We can just fill this pit with wood and light it from above. Save us the trouble of hauling ye all out."

Flanders stood, his face a mask of calm despite the rage coiling inside him. "Ye’re a coward Heslington. It’s a wonder Stephan allowed ye in.”

Heslington's face flushed red. "We'll see who's the coward when ye're begging for mercy tomorrow."

"I've never begged for anything in my life," Flanders replied with a cold smile. "But I'll wager ye will before this is over. Perhaps ye should practice. Ask me now to forgive ye. Let us see how high yer voice can reach. Give me somethin’ to look forward to."

"Empty hopes of a doomed man in a hole," Heslington spat, but his voice wavered slightly.

"Not hopes, but a promise."

The man’s eyes narrowed, his face pinched, but he had no clever retort. With a final glare, he turned and stomped away, then yelled, “Bring the ladder to the longhouse! No one escapes!”

Gerts moved to stand beside Flanders. "Ye've rattled him."

"Good. He won’t sleep any better than we do tonight.”

They settled back into their places as darkness fell. There was but the smallest sliver of a moon whose light didn’t make much difference in the pit.

There was movement above. Flanders tensed, ready for whatever might come, but instead of guards or Heslington, a basket was lowered on a rope. Inside it were skins of water. When it lowered the second time, there were loaves of bread and strips of dried meat.

"Take it all, quickly,” called a gruff voice from above.

Flanders exchanged a hopeful glance with Gerts. "What did I tell ye?"

Gerts nodded. "The men are with us."

“Aye, but they need a push.” Flanders grabbed hold of the basket before it could rise out of reach. A head peeked over the edge to see what impeded it.

Wolfy’s father. “Let go, man. I cannot lift ye.”

“Listen well,” Flanders hissed. “If ye mean to save yer women, ye’ll need to free them well before dawn, or ye’ll be raisin’ those bairns on yer own! And mark me. Todlaw and Duncan move against Stephan even now. This place will be razed to the ground and yer families with it…unless ye get us all out now.”

The man yanked on the rope again, but Flanders held.

The big beard returned. “What now?”

“Find Young Duncan. Free him. And he’ll help.” He released the basket and it flew up into the darkness.

As they distributed the food among the women, Flanders felt his faith in the men of the Gallabrae grow stronger. Heslington might have Stephan's ear, but he didn't have the hearts of the people. And that would be his downfall.

Brigid touched his arm, her fingers light as a feather. "Ye knew this would happen?"

"I hoped," he admitted. "Men may follow orders, but they love their women more."

She studied his face in the dim light. "And what of ye, Flanders Leesborn? What do ye love more than duty?"

He held her gaze steadily. "I'm beginning to wonder that myself."

Gerts approached them with bread and meat. "Eat now, both of ye. Tomorrow will test us all."

As they ate, Gerts settled on Flanders’ other side. "I've been meaning to ask ye something," she said quietly.

"Ask away."

"Why did ye come? Ye knew it was dangerous. Ye knew Stephan would kill ye if he caught ye."

Flanders glanced at Brigid, who was sharing her bread with the young girl. "I came because I couldn't bear the thought of not trying."

Gerts followed his gaze and smiled knowingly. "Ah, I see." She patted his hand. "Ye know, when I first met ye, I thought ye were just another warrior with more muscle than heart. I'm glad to see I was wrong."

"Don't tell anyone," he said with a wink. "I've a reputation to uphold."

He leaned back against the cold stone wall, watching Brigid across the pit as she comforted the young girl. Even in the midst of her own grief, she found the strength to ease another's fear. Her lively-colored hair caught the faint moonlight, and for a moment, he was transported back to that night in the forest when he'd first felt the strange connection between them.

It surely sounded like folly to feel so drawn to a woman he barely knew. And yet, in this moment, trapped in a pit and facing death, he finally understood why James had been willing to leave everything behind for Phoebe.

Here, in this unlikely place, with death looming over them, he felt more alive than he had in years. He'd spent his life fighting, surviving, and building walls, only to find something worth living for when those walls were no longer his to protect.

Brigid looked over then, her eyes finding his across the darkness. Something passed between them. A recognition. A certainty. She felt it too—he could see it in her eyes, in the slight parting of her lips, in the way she held his gaze without wavering.

As the women settled for the night, bunched together in a mob, Brigid huddled against him on his right. They didn't speak for a long time, just drawing comfort and warmth from each other.

"If we survive this," she finally whispered, "what then?"

"Then I take ye home," he said simply. "To Todlaw."

She turned to look at him, her face half in shadow. "And if we don't?"

He took her right hand in his left and pulled her closer beneath his arm. "Then I'm glad to have found ye…if only for a day."

She leaned her head against his chest and eventually relaxed. Perhaps she even slept while, above them, that sliver of moon passed from one side of the pit to the other. He listened to the soft breathing of the women around him, to the occasional whisper or quiet sob. He thought of Robert and prayed the lad was safe. He thought of Todlaw, of the people waiting for their return. He thought of their unseen allies.

All their hopes hinged on the love those men had for their women. And if he could only judge by how he felt for Brigid, by how determined he was to see her to safety, to take her home and make her his for the rest of his days, he liked their chances.