Page 30 of Flanders’ Folly (The Curse of Clan Ross #7)

30

LET THE GAMES BEGIN

* * *

T homas Randolph, Earl of Moray and regent to the child king, did indeed come to Todlaw.

His Majesty’s carriage approached Todlaw's gates with a slow, dignified pace that belied the urgency of the situation. From the wall, Flanders watched as the conveyance rolled past Stephan and Atholl, who stood expectantly by the roadside. The Regent barely turned his head in their direction, offering nothing more than the briefest glance through the carriage window.

"Open the gates," Robert called, unable to hide his satisfaction at the slight to their enemies.

The massive wood slabs swung wide, and the carriage rolled through. Before Stephan or Atholl could protest or follow, the gates closed with a decisive thump.

The carriage rolled to a stop and caked mud fell from its wheels. The small door opened before a footman reached it, and the man who was so anxious to extricate himself was barely recognizable. Thomas Randolph, the great war captain, the man with whom they’d been caked in the mud and blood of Scotland, now stood before them draped in fine wool and silk.

His well-weathered mantle of old had been replaced with something rich and trimmed in fur, and the decorations on his boots sparkled as if the sun itself shone down from his arse. Gone was the battle-worn warrior, the hardened knight who had drunk the rain and slept in the heather. In his place stood Scotland's Regent, wrapped in the gaudy trappings of court.

Despite the finery, his face was familiar enough. Canny eyes sat atop strong cheekbones and an iron jaw. Once upon a time, he’d been quick to smile. But that morning, he bore the sobriety of his station.

Just as with every soldier, time had carved new lines in his skin and marked him as a man who had seen too much of war and not enough of peace. His hair had lost its dark color and was now cut in the manner of an English courtier.

The same piercing gaze that had sized up enemies on the battlefield now swept over Todlaw’s war council, weighing, measuring. He might have traded steel for silk, but the man beneath had not changed. This was still Thomas Randolph, nephew of The Bruce, and dangerous to his enemies.

Hemming let out a low whistle. "Would ye look at that? Our Thomas has gone and turned into a peacock."

"Careful," Snorre muttered, though his eyes danced with mirth. "That peacock can have yer head."

Stout Duncan made no effort to hide his amusement. "Thomas!" he called, striding forward. "I hardly recognized ye without grass in yer teeth! How can ye draw yer sword with those fancy sleeves in the way?"

Moray's stern expression cracked, just slightly. "Duncan, ye old goat. Still alive, I see. And still lacking any sense of propriety."

"Propriety?" Duncan scoffed. "In my day, we called it somethin’ with a foul smell.”

"In yer day," Moray grinned, "didn’t ye fight with clubs?"

The two old warriors clasped arms and laughed.

“Lord Regent,” Duncan finally said, and stepped back to offer a respectful bow.

Robert stepped forward next and did the same, adding, “Todlaw welcomes ye."

"Young Duncan." Moray clasped his arm as well. "Last I saw ye, ye were barely as tall as a sword. Never expected ye to grow full sized." His gaze swept over the assembled men. "Flanders Leesborn, still standin’ watch and fosterin’ trouble?"

Flanders bowed. "Someone has to, my lord, since others have been relegated to protecting their silk.”

Moray laughed again. "The silk is for the nobles. For old friends, I'm still the same captain who once drank ye under the table at Scone."

"As I recall," Flanders countered, "it was ye we found under the table in the mornin’. And not alone."

"Details," Moray waved a dismissive hand, but his eyes crinkled at the corners. His gaze continued its journey around the group until it landed on James. His brows flew high in genuine surprise. "James Duncan. Ye’re dead! Is this a ghost?”

"Departed, not dead, sir. And soon to be again."

"Hmm." Moray's gaze shifted to Wickham, lingering there with undisguised curiosity while he took in the man’s strange manner of dress before moving on to Brigid and Gerts. "Ladies," he said, inclined his head, then dragged his attention away.

Flanders backed up to stand closer to Brigid, a movement not lost on the regent and not intended to be.

"I see we have much to discuss," Moray said, rubbing his temples. "But first, I require rest. The journey was...taxing." He glanced back toward the gate. "I assume our friends outside can wait a while longer?"

“They can," Stout Duncan said. “A little waiting should improve their manners."

"Indeed." Moray's lips twitched. "When I've rested, we'll sort this mess. All of it." His gaze swept over them once more. "It is good to see truly loyal faces. I mean to see that loyalty rewarded…” He looked at Brigid once more, then Flanders. “Wherever possible.”

James stepped forward and inclined his head. “Allow me to escort ye into the keep, my lord. I believe I remember the way.”

"I'd welcome that," Moray said. “It's not every day I can converse with a man fresh from the grave."

* * *

Three hours later, Thomas Randolph emerged from Robert’s chambers feeling refreshed, though he could have slept for an entire day, truth be told. He was greeted by the tall and lanky soldier he knew as Snorre and escorted to Todlaw’s impressive war room, where the narrow windows gave him a clear view in every direction and a welcome breath of fresh air.

The fortress was surrounded on all sides by Gallabrae’s men, but on each horizon, another army bided its time.

"Now," he said, settling into the chair at the head of the table. “Tell me everything. From the beginning."

Young Duncan and his council took turns recounting events that had led to this standoff, starting with a corrupt and banished steward, Hector Stephan's accusation of witchcraft, the burning of the first witch, Lady Stephan and other women being sent to the pit. Leesborn told the harrowing tale of the attempted rescue, being sent to the pit himself, and their ultimate rescue. This was all followed by Stephan’s arrival at Todlaw’s gates, of their theories of what motivated the bastard, and Atholl's arrival soon after.

“We were not surprised by Atholl’s biased judgment,” Young Duncan added. “Considering his grandfather was Red Comyn.”

Through it all, Moray had listened without interruption, careful not to allow his expression to reveal his thoughts. When it was finished, he sat back and steepled his fingers. "I feel it only right that I remind ye that I, too, have Comyn blood through my mother’s family.”

He was pleased to see them set back on their heels, if only slightly. Their confidence in their own righteousness needed checking, and he pretended not to notice when, to a man, they shared a silent, nervous exchange.

He enjoyed it so much, in fact, he sought to worry them just a wee bit more. So he asked, “Where is this Easterling silver Heslington stole? The silver that might have bought Atholl's favor?"

Flanders glanced at Young Duncan before answering. "Hidden, Lord Moray. Safe from those who cannot be trusted."

He nodded. "Wise. Now, I believe it's time we heard from our friends outside. Send for Atholl and Stephan."

Flanders’ expression darkened and he shook his head. "I am happy to bring in Atholl, my lord, but I can't guarantee Stephan will leave Todlaw alive."

Moray's gaze flicked to the witch standing in the corner. The Viking was protecting his woman. Completely understandable. But he couldn’t allow one man to put the future of Scotland at risk for a show of chivalry.

"Give it no further thought, Leesborn. I can guarantee his safety. Is that understood?”

The man inhaled sharply, then inclined his head. "As ye wish, my lord."