Page 23 of Flanders’ Folly (The Curse of Clan Ross #7)

23

THE BEST DEFENSE IS A GOOD LIE

* * *

I nside the main tower, at the base of the stairs, Flanders turned to face Atholl's guards. Four men, hand-picked for their size and scowls, no doubt. They stood with hands resting on sword hilts, eyes darting around the keep as if memorizing its defenses.

"I'm afraid this is where we part ways, gentlemen," Flanders said pleasantly. "The war chamber is rather small, only enough room for negotiators.”

The largest of the guards stepped forward, clearly disgruntled by the fact that he had to tip his head back to look Flanders in the eye. "We go where the earl goes."

"Not in Todlaw, ye don't." Flanders' smile never wavered. "Ye'll be well cared for here. Food, drink, perhaps a bit of entertainment."

"Entertainment?" The guard's eyes narrowed.

A group of children appeared in the entrance to the great hall, faces lit with excitement. Brigid had done her part well.

A small boy of about six summers stepped forward and bowed with exaggerated formality. "We've prepared a special performance," he announced proudly. "With singing and dancing and a play about a brave knight who slays a rat."

The other children nodded eagerly, some already humming.

Atholl looked from the children to Flanders, then to Robert. "My men stay with me."

"Then ye stay with them," Robert replied. "Down here. With the children. Though I doubt we can make much headway over their noise."

One of the smaller girls stepped forward and tugged on the guard's sleeve. "Do ye know how to play Catch the Pig? I'm very good at it."

The guard looked down at her in horror.

Atholl sighed. "Very well. My men will wait here,” he announced, as if it had been his decision. He turned to the largest guard. "Keep yer wits about ye."

"Aye, my lord."

As they climbed the stairs, Flanders studied their unwelcome guest. David Strathbogie, Earl of Atholl, was a striking figure despite his youth. Tall and lean, with golden brown hair and sharp features, he carried himself with the confidence of a man born to privilege.

His clothing was rich but practical—beneath his russet cloak he wore a fine wool tunic of deep burgundy with silver embroidery at the collar and cuffs, his hose looked to be of exceptional quality and deliciously warm. Flanders couldn’t have hoped for more. He very nearly broke into a sweat just thinking about the heat awaiting them.

Atholl’s short boots had clearly never seen a day's labor. A silver chain hung around his neck, bearing a pendant with his family crest. But it was the man's eyes that held Flanders' attention—shrewd, calculating, and constantly moving as they greedily took in every detail of Todlaw's interior.

When they reached the landing, the earl paused, his gaze sweeping over the stone walls, the high ceiling, the quality of the workmanship evident in every corner. "Impressive," he murmured. "I've heard tales of Todlaw, but I confess, I never expected such...magnificence."

"My brother was ahead of his time," Robert said with pride.

"Indeed." Atholl ran a hand along the orderly stone of the wall. "It's curious that in all his land dealings, The Bruce never claimed this place for himself."

Flanders caught Robert's eye. The young man’s interest was too keen, his admiration too pointed. They could practically see the thoughts forming behind those calculating eyes?—

How do I get my hands on Todlaw?

"The king valued loyalty above stone," Flanders said. "The mortar you see was mixed with James Duncan’s sweat, and he earned every inch of this with his blood."

"As did some others," Atholl replied, his tone light but the nod to his grandfather’s spilt blood was clear.

They should never have let this man inside the gates. But it was too late now.

"The war room is this way," Robert said, leading them down the left corridor.

Flanders glanced over the banister to see the children below already circling the guards, chattering excitedly. The smallest girl had taken the big man's hand and was trying to pull him toward the great hall.

"Ye're a cruel man, Flanders Leesborn," Hemming muttered, though his eyes danced with merriment.

"Aye. It will be a day they’ll remember.”

* * *

The war room was stifling. A fire roared in the hearth with three fat, fresh logs squatting in the center. The western windows had been shut tight against the rain. In the corner, a large basket covered with a blanket sat atop a table, its mysterious bulk drawing the eye.

Atholl noticed it immediately. "What have we here?"

Flanders waved a dismissive hand. "One of the women has an odd notion of tidying up by hiding the rubbish. Ignore it."

The Earl's eyes lingered on the covered mound before he turned his attention to the room at large. Hemming and Snorre stood by the wall, arms crossed, expressions neutral. Rolf remained near the door, a silent sentinel.

"Please, sit," Robert gestured to a chair near the fire. "Ye must be chilled after a night in the open."

Atholl eagerly removed his outer cloak. Beads of sweat were already forming on his brow. He glanced around expectantly, as if waiting for refreshments to appear, then sat.

"I'm sure Laird Stephan—yer cousin, is he?—saw ye well fed," Flanders said, taking a seat on the opposite side of the table, where a cool draft might reach him.

The Earl's eyes narrowed at the implication. "He is a distant relation through my mother's side."

"How fortunate for him to have family in such high places," Robert remarked dryly, then took his seat at the head, where he was also more likely to feel a breeze. "Now, to business. What charges does my neighbor bring against me?"

Atholl straightened in his chair, assuming a more formal posture. "Laird Stephan accuses ye of harboring a witch, kidnapping his people, including his wife, and sending a spy to poison him. He demands the return of all his subjects, the usual compensation for the cost of bringing his men to retrieve them, and punishment for those who aided in these crimes."

"Is that all?" Robert asked mildly. "No demand for my firstborn child?"

Atholl ignored the jibe. "There is also the matter of Todlaw itself. Laird Stephan questions yer right to hold these lands, as ye are not James Duncan's true heir by blood."

Robert's jaw tightened, but Flanders spoke before he could. "And what remedy does yer cousin suggest?"

The jibe hit its mark, the young traitor stiffened, but he continued. "He believes Todlaw should revert to The Crown, as it should have when James Duncan abandoned Scotland." Atholl's eyes gleamed. "Though he would be willing to administer it on The Crown's behalf."

"How generous of him," Flanders said. "And have ye already decided our fate, my lord? Or do ye actually intend to hear the truth before rendering judgment?"

Atholl's cheeks flushed. "I am here to hear yer defense, am I not?"

"Ye are indeed," Robert said. "Ye seem young to carry such responsibility, but surely not so young that ye’re ignorant of what justice requires? Ye cannot consider any remedy without hearing what truly happened."

The flush on Atholl's face deepened. "I assumed the facts were not in dispute, since Gallabrae’s people are indeed now inside Todlaw's walls."

Hemming let out a bark of laughter. "He assumed Stephan told the truth! That's rich."

Even Snorre cracked a smile. "Next he'll tell us the sky is green and boars can fly."

Atholl's eyes flashed. "Ye mock me at yer peril."

"We mock anyone who takes Stephan's word as truth," Flanders replied. "Perhaps ye should hear from those he claims were kidnapped." He nodded to Rolf, who opened the door and beckoned.

Gerts entered, her head high, her bearing every inch the noblewoman. She curtseyed to Atholl with perfect grace.

"Lady Stephan," the surprised earl stood and bowed.

"My lord." Gerts took the seat offered to her. "I understand my husband claims I was taken against my will."

"He does."

"Then he lies, as he has lied about many things." Gerts' voice was steady. "My husband attempted to force himself on a young woman. When that failed, he accused her of witchcraft and burned her at the stake. When I and others protested, he banished us. Threatened us with our own burning if we ever returned. Perhaps he intended to lay the blame at Laird Duncan’s feet all along.”

Atholl's brow furrowed. "Laird Stephan claims the woman was a proven witch."

"Proven by whom? By what evidence?" Gerts shook her head. "I know from long experience that my husband often has...difficulties...with women. His pride cannot bear it, so he blames others."

"Ye expect me to believe he burned a woman alive because she refused his attention?”

"Ye misunderstand me. Out of fear, she refused him nothing. It was he who could not rise to the occasion. And I expect ye to doubt any man who would burn his own wife, and others, for questioning him. Surely, there are more just punishments for such mild sins. Besides, The King forbade such practices for witches. I reckon he wouldn't have looked kindly upon wife-burning?—"

"The Bruce is dead," Atholl said flatly.

"So he is. But would The Regent think it wise to rescind such policy?” Gerts took a breath and resumed a mild manner. “My husband banished everyone who dared speak against him, including me. Had Robert Duncan not taken us in, where would we be? Dead in a pit or reduced to dust in a fire. No, he does not want us back."

"As for harboring a witch," Flanders injected, "the woman in question is a healer, nothing more. She's treated Stephan himself many times. But because she showed some preference for me, he wants us both punished."

For the moment, Atholl seemed as if he actually believed their slightly altered story. "And the matter of sending a spy to poison him?"

"That was Heslington, the steward I banished from Todlaw for stealing from our people. He went to Stephan seeking refuge, since together, they’d been siphoning Todlaw’s resources to Gallabrae. But Heslington’s ambitions knew no bounds. Whatever poison was used, it came from his hand, not ours. And lo, Stephan arrives at my gates hale and hearty. So how deadly could this poison have been?"

Atholl leaned back against his chair, sweat now streaming freely down his face. "And the cost of bringing his men to Todlaw?"

"That is part of the farce,” Robert said. “He kicked out his people and chased them here, then blames me for filling their bellies. If ye knew the man well, ye would recognize his cunning. He's held a grudge against Todlaw since my brother built it. Long ago, while visiting here, The Bruce denied him a boon, and Stephan seeks revenge for that slight now. That is the long and short of it."

"Ye have witnesses to support these claims?"

"Forty-two," Robert replied, not mentioning that half of those were bairns.

Atholl wiped his brow with a silk handkerchief. "Laird Stephan has hundreds who corroborate his version of events."

"Of course he does," Flanders said. "Men will say anything when their laird holds a sword to their throats."

The earl stood abruptly and moved to an eastern window. He leaned out for a breath of cooler air and stared down at the bailey, then to the distant walls where Todlaw's men stood ready to shed their blood if Robert asked.

Hemming moved slightly closer, his eyes flicking to the sheer drop beyond the window. He caught Flanders' eye with a raised brow, as if asking permission for a simple solution to their problems.

Atholl must have sensed the danger, for he stepped quickly away from the window, his face pale despite the heat.

"Some families just choose the wrong side," Flanders remarked casually. "In war, in politics...in justice. But ye, here, have a chance to prove ye’re a wiser man than yer father."

The Earl's eyes narrowed. Flanders had overplayed his hand. "Now that I've heard yer defense, I will need time to render my judgment. Tomorrow?—"

"Today," Robert cut in, his voice hard as steel.

"Pardon?"

"We will not pace our floors for another day whilst ye play patty fingers with Stephan," Robert said. "We will provide a room where ye can worry through the details and ask God for wisdom. Ye’ll not be interrupted. After the evening meal, we will expect yer conclusions." His smile was cold. "And worry nothing for yer men. We'll see they're treated as fairly as ye've treated Todlaw."

Atholl looked from Robert to Flanders, then to the others in the room. Whatever he saw in their faces made him swallow hard. "I shall render my verdict this evening."

"Excellent." Flanders stood. "Rolf will show ye the way. Pen and paper await. And David?”

The man paused in his eager rush for the door and the chance of cooler air, his back bristling at Flanders’ gall in using his given name.

“Ye’re young. Just startin’. Ye’re about to decide the trajectory of yer life. Choose honor, and history will remember ye for it. Choose dishonor, and yer family will be remembered only with derision.”