Page 2 of Flanders’ Folly (The Curse of Clan Ross #7)

2

BLACK EYES FOR brEAKFAST

* * *

T odlaw, Spring, four years later…

Burned again.

The bitter tang of scorched eggs assaulted Flanders' senses before he ever set eyes on the trencher. It was a familiar disappointment, one that had plagued his mornings for longer than he cared to admit. His stomach grumbled a low complaint, then reconsidered and roared with the primal need to consume anything that would fill the void.

Forcing a smile, Flanders looked up to find his new cook Marjory biting her lips together and staring straight ahead. Her hands were clasped behind her back in a pose that was meant to convey defiance but reeked of fear. The wayward strands of hair that dangled from her cap trembled. But what stirred his blood more than the prospect of another ruined breakfast was the idea that she would fear him at all.

He didn't chide her, just as he hadn't the day before, or a score of days before that. There was no point in adding cruelty to incompetence.

"My thanks," he said instead, his voice steady and calm. "Ye may go."

In her surprise, she dared meet his gaze. "Yer thanks? For this?" She pointed to the trencher, where a dozen pigeon eggs lay in various shades of black and grey, their centers staring up at him like so many accusing eyes. Not a hint of yellow to be seen among the broken yolks, and instead of the crispy brown lace around the edges that he'd dreamt of far too often, today's lace was black as the devil's heart.

For eight long years, since James Duncan had left Todlaw in his care, Flanders had craved those magical eggs cooked perfectly in butter, which his friend had introduced him to. But neither man, woman, nor child had been able to recreate the dish. And in the last week, this latest addition to the kitchen had very nearly purged that delicious memory entirely.

"Aye. Ye may go," he repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument. The sooner she was out of sight, the sooner he could dispose of the charred offerings without her witnessing the waste.

He tilted the trencher to one side, watched the black circles tumble together like stones in a riverbed, then ripped the bread in half before standing and heading to the hearth. Half a trencher would sate his gullet for a while, at least until he could see to the real problem at hand—the slow decline in kitchen skills that had plagued Todlaw while he'd been distracted by Scottish politics and alliances.

A young woman swept the hearthstones with a fragrant broom and paused to watch him approach. Her eyes grew wider as she realized his intent. When she licked her lips, a nervous gesture that betrayed her hunger, he stopped dead, caught off guard as if he'd taken an unprepared punch to the stomach.

He held out the half with eggs along with the rest of the trencher. "Ye would want this...this..." He shrugged, words failing him in the face of her obvious need.

She dropped her attention to her shoes and whispered, "Aye, laird."

He pushed them at her. "Take them. Feed them to the dogs. Then come to the kitchens and I'll see ye're fed real food."

She gaped at him in disbelief.

"Do as I say." He looked around the great hall, finding another half dozen hungry-eyed women looking on. "Same with the rest of ye. Meet me in the kitchens."

If James were to return to Todlaw and find that any one of his people were hungry enough to eat burnt offerings, he'd pound Flanders into a bloody heap before boiling him in butter. And rightly so. Flanders had no excuse. His distraction with Scottish politics had been his downfall. He'd left the running of Todlaw to others and had obviously chosen to trust the wrong people for the duty.

As he made his way out of the keep, he averted his gaze, not ready to face what else might have suffered while he'd been galivanting around the young country, tending to alliances instead of seeing after the people who had been placed in his care. His mantle lay heavy now, with the weight of his remembered responsibility, a mantle he'd worn lightly for too long.

Tomorrow, there would be a reckoning. Todlaw was a rich place with stores a' plenty. And if its bounty wasn't reaching the stomachs of its people, someone was diverting it elsewhere.

But for now, he had one task only. There were bellies to fill...and his, perforce, would be the last.

* * *

The heavy oak doors of Todlaw’s keep creaked open, and a hush fell over the gathered crowd as the last of the household members filed around the corner and into the great hall. Their faces were etched with confusion, and their movements were hesitant, as if they feared they were walking into a trap.

Flanders sat in the laird’s chair—a great bulking throne of carved wood that had been a gift to the original laird by Robert Bruce, King of Scotland. It was a common belief that the monarch sent the chair along so he’d have something worthy of his arse when he came to visit. But today, it would only know Flanders’ unworthy arse.

He gave nothing away as he watched the stragglers find their places, the men filling the open benches before the dais and the women hanging back to find what space they could among the general population. They were nervous, clutching at each other while they tried to understand why they'd been summoned.

At the head of a long table to Flanders' left sat Heslington, the pinch-nosed steward. The man had proven to be the most literate of all the residents when James Duncan had invited the people of the glen to gather at Todlaw to enjoy his protection—to become a community that shared labor and respect equally. But in the years since its conception, that community had slowly separated into classes, despite James' best intentions. And in the time since the peace-loving warlord had walked away, those gaps had widened.

Flanders had seen little harm in it, early on. After all, the desire to better oneself was a sound motivator. But lately, he'd realized that climbing the ladder of any society meant climbing over one's neighbors. Someone was always left at the bottom, sometimes through no fault of their own.

It was the duty of those at the very top to see to those unfortunates who might not possess the wherewithal to defend themselves...or to fight for their share of the bounty that was created, in large part, because of their contributions. And that duty lay with him—a duty seen much more clearly through the lingering acrid haze left from yet another morning of burnt eggs.

"Pray tell," Heslington began, lifting his arse only halfway off his seat and raising his voice to be heard above the murmuring crowd. "To what end have we been summoned, Laird Leesborn?" As he lowered again, he held his brows aloft, demonstrating his self-importance, as if Flanders had better have a good reason for disrupting his day.

Flanders ignored him and gave a nod of thanks to his audience for settling quickly. "Thank ye for answering the call. I have brought ye all together so that I might apologize." He waited a moment for the surprise to settle. "I have failed ye. Ye see, it has become clear that, with all my travels, I have neglected our community, and I mean to rectify that. If any of ye have a complaint that has gone unanswered, I invite ye to step forward and lay it at my feet."

Heslington rose immediately and moved to the edge of the dais as if he believed the invitation was for him alone. "I'm grateful, yer lairdship. I believe everyone has a right to hear the true state of our community, so I have no qualms airing my concerns before all and sundry."

The man had changed a great deal since the day he'd first stood before James and proved he could read, write, and add sums. He'd been a humble man then, content to record the details of an expanding community and please Robert the Bruce's favorite warlord.

It was difficult to reconcile that man with this strutting, well-dressed peacock. Clearly, he wore finer garments than anyone else in the keep, including Flanders. Any other man would be embarrassed to stand so near those women who cooked and cleaned for the household, whose gowns were little better than oft-mended ribbons of cloth that weren't up to Highland weather.

"As ye must know, Laird, the provisions consumed during yesterday's impulsive celebration have left supplies in a precarious state. Why, the number of animals alone has disrupted a delicate balance." He looked at the grizzled and well-fed Dunstan, Master of Beasts, who gave a nod. Then he smiled slyly back at Flanders. "I tried to warn ye, of course."

At Heslington's back, an unhappy murmur shuffled through the crowd, though the man was either oblivious or unconcerned by it. A hundred flashing eyes bored holes in his fine cote, while half the people looked like they would flee out the door if given permission to do so. After a moment, however, the steward proved he wasn't oblivious after all, for he stiffened, turned, and sent a haughty glare the breadth of the room, putting an immediate end to all those dissenters.

Clearly, no one else would be stepping forward to complain.

In the back of the room, three figures entered late and found places against the wall. Flanders recognized the faces beneath the hoods, but he didn't have time to deal with them at the moment. Nothing was more important than making sure this gathering evolved the way he'd planned.

Heslington returned to the conversation. "We must make adjustments. Allotments must be reduced accordingly. And if all will accept those adjustments, we should be back in fair shape in time for winter." He cast a pointed look at Ailis, the chatelaine, whose thin lips held tight to whatever she might be tempted to say. But eventually, she nodded.

This time, the murmurs were only whispers, more worry than anger. Clearly, the people of Todlaw believed these three villains held their futures in their hands. And the sooner they were disabused of that notion, the faster the damage could be undone.

Satisfied that his pronouncement was accepted by all, and not bothering to wait for Flanders' agreement, the steward returned to his seat and waited, with a smile, for Flanders to send everyone back to work.

Flanders let the silence stretch, affording ample time for someone to speak up.

No one dared.

His gaze settled on the new cook, Marjory, who stood with her back against the wall, waiting for him to call upon her, as he'd promised to do.

"Marjory," he said. "Come forward, if ye please."

Without hesitation, she moved around the perimeter and came to stand before him.

"Ye've been responsible for preparing my meals of late. Tell me, why have ye continued to burn my eggs in the mornin', while ye have no trouble cookin' other food?"

The young woman nodded and spoke boldly. "Aye, well, that would be because Mistress Ailis instructed me to do so."

A collective gasp nearly sucked the air from the hall. Flanders feigned surprise and turned his attention to the now pale chatelaine. "Is this true?"

Ailis cleared her throat, then lifted her chin in defiance. "Aye, laird, it is true. I... I told Marjory to ruin the eggs, lest ye continue to crave them and consume more than yer fair share. James Duncan was determined that all are equal?—"

"How dare ye invoke his name in yer lies!"

She clutched at her throat and took a step back. "Lies?"

Flanders regretted he'd allowed his calm mask to slip, but it was back in place now.

"A funny thing happens when people find their bellies full, and the wine and ale flow freely. They are much more likely to speak the truth when they don't know someone is listening. So no, Heslington, yesterday's celebration was not the waste ye believe it was." He got to his feet, stepped around Marjory, and moved closer to Dunstan.

"Tell me, sir. When did ye first change yer loyalty from Todlaw to Heslington? Or should I say Gallabrae?"

The man's mouth dropped open and his shoulders shrugged over and over as he sought the words that would excuse him. A denial mustn't have occurred to him, or else he knew one would be useless. Finally, he bowed his head. "Forgive me, Laird."

Flanders shook his head. "It is not my forgiveness ye need today, man."

Heslington was back on his feet, leaning forward over the table, his face flushed with indignation. "Ye dare to accuse us of transgression? We've been acting in the best interests of these people!"

Flanders raised a hand, silencing the steward once more. "The people, ye say? And what of the women I sent to the kitchens, hungry and disheartened by their meager rations? I am surprised they stay on. Which leads me to wonder how many have abandoned Todlaw while I was away, believing they would be better off on their own?"

He looked Heslington over, from head to toe, and winced.

"Odin help me, I cannot look another moment at those raiments." He lowered his voice. "Take them off."

The man blinked rapidly. "Off?"

"Yer cote. Take it off. Tell me, where did ye find such a fine garment?"

The man gaped and wrapped his arms around himself as if he could somehow hide his clothes with his fleshy limbs. "It...it was a gift."

"A gift? From someone at Todlaw?"

"No, laird."

"No, I didn't think so. Yer friend must be someone... significant . Did The Bruce happen by in my absence and believe ye were in need of a reward?"

"No, laird."

"No? Hmm. I would wager that selling such a fine piece would bring in enough food to restore that balance ye quibble over. Would it not?"

Heslington bit his lips together.

"Nay, nay." Flanders shook his head. "Too fine a garment to part with." He waited for the man to hope, then he dashed that hope into the rushes. "Ye'll note that Marjory's gown is quite thin. With nothing better by winter, she'll no doubt fall ill. I believe yer cote would cover two women of such size, will it not?"

The steward backed a step. "Ye would have me freeze, then? Yer steward?"

There was that self-importance again.

"Auch, no. I have something else in mind for ye." Flanders barely hid his smile. "Strip, Heslington." After a nod to one of his guards, the man was forced to relieve himself of his most outer garment before returning to the bench and told to sit. The garment was then delivered to Marjory, who folded it neatly over one arm and returned to her spot by the wall.

Flanders returned to the chair . One down, two to go, as James used to say. It was just one of those phrases from far in the future, where James would be living out his life...in time. It was a pity his friend wasn’t with him now, to help him rectify the situation. But alas, all Flanders could manage was to imagine what his wise friend would do in his stead.

And hopefully, this would take care of Hector Stephan’s meddling. If only he’d heeded Brigid Muir’s warning more closely, it might not have come to this.