Page 17 of Flanders’ Folly (The Curse of Clan Ross #7)

17

THE WAR CHAMBER

* * *

T he war chamber sat at the top of Todlaw's main tower, a circular room with narrow windows that allowed those inside to see in all directions. A massive oak table dominated the center, its surface scarred from years of daggers stabbed into maps and fists pounded in frustration or triumph.

Flanders entered to find Robert already seated, along with Hemming, the captain of the guard, a stocky man with a face that looked as if it had been carved from granite by a blind man in a foul mood. Snorre, the master of scouts, lounged against the wall, his lanky frame deceptively relaxed. Rolf, the bald-headed, long bearded quartermaster with wild eyebrows, stood at the window, watching Stephan's men with narrowed eyes.

"Ah, the man of the hour," Hemming said with a smirk as Flanders took his seat. "Some of us didn't need the screech of a banshee to wake us this morning. We were already up and about our duties."

The others chuckled, but Flanders merely raised an eyebrow. "And yet, here ye sit, no more prepared than I."

"Touché," Hemming conceded with a nod. "Though I must say, I've never heard such colorful language from a lady's lips. Particularly the bit about yer ancestry and what ye might do with yer own sword."

"Enough," Robert cut in, though his lips twitched with amusement. "We have more pressing matters than Flanders' lady love."

"Love?" Snorre pushed off from the wall. "Is that what we're calling it now? I thought it was more akin to a bear poking a beehive."

Flanders ignored them all and spread his hands on the rough table. "What do we know of Stephan's movements? How many men?" There was no need for leadership in the room. Not with these men.

The teasing ceased immediately.

"Brought two hundred eighty-four that we can count," Rolf reported. "Impressive for just a day’s notice. Though there may be more beyond the pass. Supplies are trickling in."

"And the message to Stirling?" Robert asked. "Any idea what it contained?"

Hemming shook his head. "Their rider left before dawn. Fast horse, light load. He'll reach Stirling in two days."

"And what of our own messenger?" Flanders asked.

"Sent last night, just after we arrived," Robert confirmed. "Our fastest horse and best rider. He should arrive first, if luck holds."

Flanders nodded, satisfied. "Now, to the heart of it. What game does Stephan play? He cannot truly believe Thomas Randolph will order us to release his people so he can burn them as witches."

"Especially not his own wife," Snorre added. "Lady Stephan is nobility in her own right. Her family has connections."

"Connections that haven't helped her much all these years," Hemming pointed out.

Robert drummed his fingers on the table. "The worry is his confidence. Did ye see his face? He believes he'll win this."

"Aye," Flanders agreed. "And with Heslington dead, who's feeding him that belief? The man’s lucid again. Back to his bastard self."

Rolf had a thought. "Perhaps he learned something from Heslington.”

The men fell silent, each lost in thought. Flanders stared at the map spread before them, tracing the boundaries between Todlaw and Stephan's lands.

"What if it's not about the witches at all?" he said suddenly. "What if that's merely the excuse?"

Robert frowned. "What do ye mean?"

"Think on it. Stephan has wanted Todlaw since James first built it. The Bruce denied him, but The Bruce is dead. What if he's convinced Randolph to redraw the lines, to revisit his claim that James still owed him a great reward?"

"Impossible," Hemming scoffed. "The Bruce's decree was clear. Todlaw belongs to James Duncan’s heir, his brother."

"Aye, but what if Stephan claims Robert isn't James' true heir?" Flanders pressed. "They are foster brothers, after all."

Robert's face darkened. "Let him try. Every man, woman, and child in the glen knows I'm James Duncan's brother."

"By blood, no," Flanders reminded him gently. "By choice, aye. But in the eyes of the law?"

"The king himself recognized me as his heir," Robert insisted. “That should be enough.”

"The Regent must honor that," Snorre said firmly. "He needs The Bruce's allies, which include Stout Duncan. He won't risk alienating them or losing any of them to Balliol’s side.”

"Unless," Rolf said, "Stephan has offered him something he wants more. Only, what could Randolf want more than to continue as Regent, and to see David safely on the throne?"

The room fell silent again as they considered this possibility. They’d fought beside the man in question and knew him well enough to be certain he wouldn’t hand Scotland back to an ally of England, which Edward Balliol was.

Hemming gently hammered at the wall with his fist while he thought aloud. "What could Stephan possibly offer anyone? Just how much wealth can the man have?" Hemming asked.

No one had an answer.

"There's another possibility," Snorre said after a moment. "What if Stephan doesn't expect Randolph to rule in his favor at all? What if the message to Stirling is merely a distraction?"

Flanders straightened. "Go on."

"What if his real plan is to attack before any messenger returns? To take Todlaw by force and present Randolph with a fait accompli ?"

Robert shook his head. "With two hundred eighty men against our walls? He'd need ten times that number."

"Unless he has allies we don't know about," Hemming suggested. "Or a way inside we haven't considered."

They spent the next hour examining every possibility, every potential weakness in Todlaw's defenses. They discussed secret tunnels (there were none), traitors within their ranks (unlikely), and even the possibility of Stephan having some new weapon or strategy they hadn't encountered before.

By the time the sun climbed high enough to shine directly through the southern window, they were no closer to an answer.

"Perhaps we're overthinking this," Flanders said at last, putting his feet on the table and tipping his chair back. "Perhaps Stephan is simply mad. The years of hensbane may have addled his wits beyond repair."

Robert managed a smile. "Illusory confidence? We can always hope."

A knock at the door interrupted them. Servants entered with trays of food – bread still warm from the ovens, cold meats, cheese, and ale. The men fell on the meal with enthusiasm, their discussion happily postponed.

As they ate, Flanders’ thoughts went to Brigid. He wondered how she was digesting his last declaration. But he’d been perfectly serious, not just trying to distract her. If the lass fancied a good fight, it only made her more appealing. As long as she didn’t try to set his beard on fire when he came in for a kiss…

The thought made him smile.

Hemming noticed. "Thought of something clever, have ye?"

Flanders choked on a fresh cherry and washed it down with a swig while he thought of a reply other than the truth. "Just thinking that for all our worrying, we might be missing something obvious."

"Such as?" Robert asked around a mouthful of bread.

"I don't know. But I can't shake the feeling we're looking in the wrong direction."

Snorre nodded thoughtfully. "Perhaps we should ask the witch."

"Her name is Brigid," Flanders said sharply.

"Aye, Brigid then," Snorre amended with a knowing glance at the others. "But my point stands. She might have…insights we lack."

"She's a healer and herb-woman," Flanders protested, though even as he said it, he remembered her vision of death and chaos. The vision that had come true for her sister.

"Still," Robert mused, "she may know something.”

Flanders shook his head. “No. But there is a woman we should have added to our council. I shall speak with her."

"Assuming she'll speak to ye," Hemming muttered with a grin.

"I refer to Lady Stephan. Surely, she’ll know her husband’s mind better than anyone. If Stephan has a secret move to make, she’ll ken it."