Page 22 of Flanders’ Folly (The Curse of Clan Ross #7)

22

YE CALL THAT DIPLOMACY?

* * *

M orning arrived with a sullen sky and the promise of more rain. Flanders stood atop the wall, his eyes gritty from lack of proper sleep, though he couldn't bring himself to regret the night spent with Brigid curled against him. She'd fallen asleep on his lap in the war room while they counted Heslington's silver, and he hadn't found the heart to wake her.

It had been a taste of what might be—her warmth against him, the scent of her hair, the way she fit in his arms. And when she woke, she'd allowed him a kiss that left him dizzy with hope. A hope he dared not yet name.

Now, as he scanned the enemy camp for any sign of the regent’s representative, he found himself eager to have this business done. The longer they remained in peril, the more Brigid seemed to doubt the bond between them. As if she believed their connection was born only of shared danger, a fleeting thing that would dissolve once safety returned.

He knew better. What burned between them was no mere spark from flint and steel, to die when the tinder was consumed. It was a steady flame, one that would warm them both through many a winter.

If only he could convince her of that.

Robert paced nearby, his face drawn with fatigue. The lad hadn't slept at all, by the look of him.

"Any sign?" Flanders asked.

"None." Robert rubbed his eyes. "Perhaps the great judge has decided we're not worth his time after all."

"Would that it were so simple." Flanders shook his head. "Nay, he'll come. And with demands we'll find hard to swallow."

"Then we'll choke him with our silver."

Flanders chuckled. "Aye, that's the plan."

Another hour passed with no movement from Stephan's tent. Flanders felt his temper fraying at the edges. The longer they waited, the more his mind conjured dire outcomes. And anger would serve no one when diplomacy was needed.

"I'm going to find Brigid," he told Robert. "Send for me when our esteemed judge deigns to appear."

Robert nodded, his attention still fixed on the enemy camp.

Flanders descended the steps and crossed the bailey, nodding to the guards and villagers who greeted him. Despite the tension in the air, Todlaw's people went about their business with determined normalcy. Children played, women tended gardens, men repaired tools—all under the watchful eyes of archers on the walls.

He was halfway to the keep when a shout went up from the eastern wall. A guard pointed toward Stephan's tent, where movement had finally begun.

"Bloody hell," Flanders muttered, turning back. So much for finding a moment's peace.

Robert pointed to the Rat Laird’s tent where Atholl and his four guards were exiting. Stephan himself walked beside the young judge, both of them smiling as they mounted their saddled horses and began riding toward the gate.

"The bastard presumes to enter Todlaw," Robert snarled. "After all he's done."

Flanders felt his own rage rise but forced it back to his gullet. "Remember the plan," he said quietly. "We need Atholl to rule in our favor. If that means playing the diplomat?—"

"I know, I know." Robert took a deep breath. "For Brigid. For all of them."

"Aye."

The first drops of rain began to fall as the six riders approached the gate. Fat droplets splashed against stone and steel, promising a proper downpour before long.

Atholl reined in his mount and looked up at them, drops already darkening his fine russet cloak. "Laird Duncan," he called. "I've come to hear yer defense, as promised."

Robert made no move to signal the guards to open the gate. He simply stared down at the party, his expression unreadable.

"Do ye mean to keep us waiting in the rain all morning?" Atholl asked, impatient but civil.

"Ye're welcome inside, my lord," Robert replied evenly. "But if I'm to be heard without interruption, as ye said yesterday, then Laird Stephan will have to wait outside." He smiled thinly. "He so enjoys the rain."

Stephan's face darkened with fury. "Ye dare?—"

"Besides," Robert continued, "I'll burn this place to the ground myself before I let that man inside these walls."

Flanders slapped him on the back with a laugh. "So much for diplomacy." He leaned closer to Robert. "Come on. Let's make Comyn’s grandson sing for his supper, eh?"

* * *

Flanders waved Rolf closer and gave a quiet order. “Change of plan. Hurry on ahead. I want that silver covered up. I don’t want Atholl to see it, do ye understand? He can wonder all he wants, but he won’t lay eyes upon it or he’ll find a way to add it all to his demands before we can suggest any exchange. And stoke the fire. Good and hot. Let us warm him to his bones and when they start to melt, he’ll want to strike a bargain just to get out. And spread the word. This man is not to be trusted, nor his guards, royal decree or not.”

As they watched Rolf go, Robert nodded his agreement. “We were far too weary last eve to think clearly. We could have lost everything.”

“Aye, well, we still may.”