Page 21 of Flanders’ Folly (The Curse of Clan Ross #7)

21

THE IMMOVABLE CHAIR

* * *

I t was midnight, and though all of Todlaw was awake and wary, the main tower sat in hushed silence. All the children had been moved indoors, filling the floors of each level with blankets and wee bodies, with mothers taking turns keeping watch. The wee-uns thought it some sort of holiday, oblivious to the fact that they'd been brought inside for their safety, in case war was inevitable.

The great hall was no exception, and when Flanders and the war council stepped inside, he begged privacy from the mother on watch, and she was happy to leave them alone so long as they vowed to be quiet.

Gerts kept her secret to the end, barely containing her amusement as she moved to the dais and climbed into the laird's chair.

"The Immovable Chair,” she whispered, then gave a quiet giggle.

Flanders watched her carefully. "Aye. It hasn't moved a jot since the Bruce gifted it to James Duncan. He had it secured in place, somehow." He stood back and studied the chair as if for the first time.

The massive oak throne dominated the dais, its dark wood worn smooth in places from years of use. Intricate Celtic knotwork adorned the arms and legs, while the back featured the lion rampant of Scotland, carved with such precision it seemed ready to leap from the wood—The Bruce's signature mark, a reminder of his favor.

The seat itself was bright from the shine of a thousand arses, or rather, a thousand sittings of a few arses, but Flanders had never paid much attention to the boxed space beneath—a perfect hiding place. No one would think twice about it.

Looking back, he remembered the way his former steward would eye the chair as if he dreamed of polishing that seat himself one day. He'd always thought the man's ambition troubling, that Heslington would dare to aim so high. But it wasn't the title Heslington had wanted. He'd simply been keeping an eye on his hoard.

"Are ye certain?" Robert asked, his voice barely above a whisper.

Gerts nodded. "In his cups, the fool boasted he'd hidden his treasure where no one would ever look, in plain sight, in the one place that would never be moved . " She tapped the arm of the chair. "He said the Bruce himself couldn't shift it if he tried."

Robert glanced at Flanders, then gave a nod of permission. "Let's see what the bastard left us."

Rolf drew his knife and moved behind the chair to examine it closely. "Here," he whispered, pointing to a seam around the back panel.

With careful force, he slid his blade into the crack and applied pressure. The panel resisted at first, then gave way with a soft creak. Rolf eased it open to reveal a dark cavity within.

A whisper of movement came from inside and a single silver coin slipped free, hitting the dais with a clink that echoed like a scream in the quiet hall. They all froze and held their breath when a child stirred nearby.

"Sweet Odin," Hemming breathed when the child settled again.

Snorre peered into the opening. "It's packed full."

"How much?" Robert asked.

Rolf grinned. "Enough to buy Atholl twice over."

Brigid stepped closer to Flanders, her eyes wide. "He hid all this from ye?”

"Aye," Flanders said. "The bastard ate at my table and smiled while he starved our people." His hand found hers in the darkness. "But now his greed may save us."

Robert pointed at the rafters. "We need to move it to the war room, where we can present it to Red Comyn’s grandson."

They formed a line, silently passing handfuls of coins from one to the next. Each person made a pouch from the front of their tunics and filled them as much as they dared. If it had been gold, at twice the weight, it might have torn the fabric from their hands.

A pair of coins slipped from Snorre’s hand and fell to the floor with a loud thunk . Gerts hissed through her teeth and pointed to the children. He grimaced and nodded—a promise to take care.

When the cavity was finally empty, Rolf replaced the panel, fitting it back into place so perfectly that no one would ever know it had been disturbed.

Just as they prepared to leave, a small voice called out from the darkness. "Laird Robert? Are ye playin' a game?"

They all froze as a tousled head popped up from a nest of blankets. A boy of no more than four summers rubbed his sleepy, half-open eyes.

Robert knelt beside him, his silver-laden tunic held closed. "Aye, lad. Too late for games, though. Can ye keep our secret?"

The boy nodded solemnly.

"Good lad. Now back to sleep. There'll be porridge with honey in the morn."

The child smiled and nestled back down, eyes already closed.

They filed out silently, each burdened according to size and strength. In the corridor, they encountered the mother returning to her watch. Her eyes widened at the shiny boon that couldn’t be concealed. The high pitch of whispering coins was unmistakable, despite their care.

Robert gave her a sheepish look. "We found Heslington's silver."

She looked from one guilty face to the next, then broke into a broad smile. "High time.” Flanders followed closely behind Brigid, eager for another squeeze of her hand and praying this miracle would be enough to avoid bloodshed and wooden stakes.

He considered the Earl of Atholl and wondered what a man like him would think of their pile of Esterling silver. Would it matter? And would it be enough to entice a young ambitious lad from a turncoat family to choose treasure over family?