Page 19 of Flanders’ Folly (The Curse of Clan Ross #7)

19

THE BUILDING STORM

* * *

D ays passed with maddening slowness. Flanders spent his waking hours on the walls, overseeing the preparations for an attack that never came. Stephan's men remained camped outside Todlaw's walls, neither advancing, multiplying, nor retreating, simply...waiting.

Brigid watched the Viking-like laird from afar, noting the deepening lines of worry on his face whenever their paths crossed. Which was less and less often.

* * *

At the evening meal on the third day, Brigid found herself seated at the high table beside Gerts with an empty chair between them where Flanders should have been. The hall buzzed with conversation, but a tension hung in the air like a cloud of smoke.

"He's been on the wall since midday," Gerts said, following Brigid's gaze to the empty seat. "Counting arrows, I believe."

"Again?" Brigid tore her bread into small pieces, not really hungry. "He counted them yesterday."

"Aye, and he'll count them tomorrow too, I reckon. " Gerts smiled knowingly. "Men need to feel useful when they're worried."

Robert Duncan appeared at the table, his face flushed from exertion, his clothes smeared with something dark. His stench was nearly enough to put them off their meal.

He nodded to both women before taking his seat. "My apologies for the delay. We’ve been moving the last of the oil barrels to the east wall.” He reached for a cup of ale. "We're more than ready. From all sides."

"And yet Laird Stephan makes no move," Brigid said.

Robert shrugged. "That's what troubles us. Near three hundred men don't sit idle without purpose."

"Perhaps his purpose is to starve us out," Gerts suggested.

"With our stores? We could last through winter." Robert tore into a leg of fowl. "No, he waits for something. Or someone. But it doesn’t matter who comes. No one will get through the curtain wall James Duncan built. Though they’re welcome to die tryin’."

The meal continued without Flanders. Brigid found herself glancing at the door more often than she cared to admit.

* * *

Flanders stood on the north wall, watching the enemy camp through narrowed eyes. Torches flickered among the tents, and men moved about with casual ease. Too casual.

"They're not preparing for battle," Hemming observed beside him.

"No. They’re not."

He thought of Brigid, likely at supper now. He'd meant to join her, to steal a few moments of peace amid the preparations. But each time he resolved to seek her out, some new task demanded his attention.

Perhaps it was for the best. She'd made it clear she wished for distance between them. Let her have it, then. When this business with Stephan was finished, he'd have time to get her sorted.

And the distance between them would be gone for good.

* * *

The fourth day dawned bright and clear. Brigid spent the morning in the herb garden, grateful for the work. Her hands moved with practiced skill, harvesting what was needed, preparing tinctures for the inevitable wounded, and encouraging growth with an innocent but powerful song—whenever she was alone.

A shadow fell across her work. She looked up to find Flanders standing there, his broad shoulders blocking the sun.

"Ye look well," he said, his voice gruff with fatigue, she was sure.

"As do ye." She stood and brushed dirt from her skirts. "Are ye weary yet?"

"Aye." He shifted his weight, suddenly awkward. "I came to ask if ye need anythin’."

"I have all I require, thank ye."

A silence stretched between them and she was compelled to reach out to him, but before she could lift her hands?—

"Good, then." He nodded and turned to go, and she couldn’t bear it.

"Flanders." Her voice stopped him. "Be careful on the walls. The sun is strong today."

He smiled, the first genuine smile she'd seen in days. "I shall try to remember. But a storm is comin’. I feel it." The mention of a storm, while looking into her eyes, sent a fissure of cold up her back.

Then he was gone, striding toward the keep, and Brigid returned to her herbs, wondering if he’d felt the same.

She resisted reaching out with her mind. Distracting him now would indeed be selfish.

* * *

That evening, Flanders made a point to attend the meal in the great hall. He found Brigid already seated, deep in conversation with one of the women from Gallabrae. She glanced up as he approached, her expression unreadable.

"May I join ye?" he asked, gesturing to the empty seat beside her.

"Of course." She moved slightly to make more room—or possibly to gain more distance, he couldn’t know.

He sat, acutely aware of her nearness and the scent of rosemary that clung to her always.

"Any change?" she asked, nodding toward the south.

"None. They sit and wait, and we watch them sit and wait."

"A thrilling battle."

He chuckled despite himself. "Indeed. But we’ve done all we can. I only hope whatever the bastard has in mind can’t get through our defenses. After all, even elephants can be killed."

For a brief moment, the tension eased. Then Robert approached with news of a scout's return, and Flanders was pulled away once more.

* * *

By the sixth day, Brigid had established a routine. Mornings in the garden unless it was raining, afternoons tending to the children and elderly, evenings in the great hall where she might catch a glimpse of Flanders if he remembered to eat.

She told herself she was content. She couldn’t go home, but she was safe for the time being. And she had many friends to help her while away the hours. Not much to complain about when so many had been displaced because the mad laird to the east couldn’t be trusted with the wellbeing of his own people.

One day soon, this would all end. Flanders would be eager to see her gone, and she would be eager to go. She was nearly certain that time and distance would heal them both. After all, what they’d shared was merely happenstance and circumstance. Yet each time he entered a room, her heart betrayed her by tripping over itself.

Thankfully, no one else would ever know.

* * *

"Ye're a fool," Gerts told her bluntly as they sorted through jars of remedies, preparing for a battle that might not come, while the rain poured hard and fast outside.

"I beg yer pardon?"

"Ye heard me." The older woman's eyes twinkled. "Ye push ‘im away then pine for ‘im when he goes."

"I do not pine."

"O’course not. And I'm the Queen of France. I've seen how ye watch him."

Brigid’s cheeks warmed. "It's…difficult to look away."

"At least ye’ve ceased calling it complicated. That’s progress .”

Was it?

How could such a simple word make her feel so…light?

* * *

On the seventh day, just as the morning storm blew out like a candle in the wind, a horn sounded to the east and all men flooded to the walls. Flanders strode with Robert to the gate, where Todlaw men had been enjoying the view of the enemy getting pummeled into the mud by a brief but furious rain.

Two riders. As they neared, they recognized the established Royal Banner of Scotland with the lion rampant.

When they stopped outside the gates, Stephan didn’t bother joining them, but stood outside his tent and sent one of his men in his stead. When the messenger realized he wouldn’t get more of an audience, he produced a scroll, which he unrolled with much flourish.

"At last," Robert muttered.

“His Majesty, The Regent to King David the Second, regrets that he cannot intervene in what he considers a local dispute. He suggests ye settle the matter between yerselves."

Just as Flanders expected.

Robert wasn’t satisfied. "And what of Stephan's claims?" he demanded. “What charges?”

The messenger shook his head. “I know of none, Laird Duncan.”

Robert exchanged a puzzled look with Flanders, then pressed again. "Hector Stephan sent no message?"

“Not unless it arrived after I was dispatched, three days ago.”

Robert waved for the gates to open to allow the messengers inside. “Refresh yerselves. And give The Regent our thanks.” He turned back to Flanders and the rest of the war council. “Our man saw his rider leave."

"Perhaps he never reached Stirling," Hemming suggested.

"Or perhaps," Flanders said slowly, "Stirling was not his destination.”

* * *

That night at supper, Flanders sought out Brigid deliberately. He found her sitting alone by the hearth, staring into the flames.

"Good even.”

She looked up, surprised. "Good even.”

He sat beside her, closer than necessary. "I've missed ye," he said simply.

Her eyes widened. "Ye've been busy."

"Aye. Too busy." He took her hand, half expecting her to pull away. She didn't. "But I find myself thinking of ye even when I should be counting arrows or inspecting the walls."

A small smile curved her lips. "Is that so?"

"It is." He squeezed her hand gently. "When this is over?—"

A horn blast from the walls cut him off. Three short blasts – the signal for approaching riders.

Flanders was on his feet in an instant. "Stay here," he told Brigid, then rushed out the door, leaving her to guess at what he might have said.

* * *

“Horn from the east,” the sentry announced as Flanders ran to the top of the wall. Robert joined him just as the riders came into view. Five men. Four of them guards. A banner of red and gold. But whose?

Three gold stars on a red field—the banner of Thomas Randolph, The Regent himself.

How many times had he fought beneath that very flag?

But no. The Earl of Moray, Regent to the child king, would have dressed better. And he’d have come by coach, not as the soldier he once was. This was someone lesser. A puppet. But whose?

Flanders was afraid he already knew.