Page 31 of Flanders’ Folly (The Curse of Clan Ross #7)

31

THE OPENING GAMBIT

* * *

T he great hall was transformed into a makeshift court. The immovable chair, still immovable despite the weight of silver that had been rescued from its base, and the smaller table and chairs that usually sat behind it had been removed. Thus, when Moray sat upon The Bruce’s gift, there was nothing to distract attention away from him.

Obviously, there was little of the humble soldier left inside the finery.

Benches had been removed so that everyone in attendance remained standing, except for Lady Stephan, who was given a stool to one side of the dais.

The war council stood along the south wall to Moray’s right. Along the back of the large room waited the women who had been rescued from Stephan’s pit, along with their families.

Though it was unconsciously done, Flanders kept nudging Brigid back so that his own body blocked The Regent’s view of her. And each time he did, she nudged him in return and tried to step forward to see what was going on. She did, finally retreat a step on her own when the enemy entered.

Atholl came first, his steps quick and eager, his face a mask of deference. "Lord Regent,” he said, bowing low. "An unexpected honor. How fares our young king?"

"Well enough," Moray replied coolly. "Though I wonder at your concern, given your recent actions."

Atholl's smile faltered. "I've done only what was expected, my lord. I've represented yer interests in this petty dispute?—"

"Petty? Indeed." Moray's voice was dangerously soft.

Hector Stephan entered and came to stand at Atholl’s side, his gaze darting around the hall like a man who expects it all to be his, and soon. When he spotted Gerts among the women, his face darkened and his eyes narrowed while he waited to be addressed.

“Laird Stephan.”

"Lord Regent,” he said, offering a stiff bow. "I'm pleased ye've come to enforce yer representative's judgment?—"

"Are ye?" Moray leaned forward. "Tell me, Atholl, when ye came to me with Laird Stephan's complaints, why did ye not mention that ye were relations?"

Atholl's face paled. "I...didn't think it relevant, my lord."

"No? A man accuses his neighbors of harboring witches and kidnapping his people, including his lady wife, and ye didn't think it relevant that he is kin?" Moray's voice rose slightly. “Ye didn't suppose that might affect yer judgment?"

"I assure ye, my lord, I was completely impartial?—"

"Enough." Moray cut him off with a sharp gesture. "Yer judgment is annulled. I will judge this situation myself." His gaze swept the hall. "After all, some of Scotland's most loyal subjects find themselves in jeopardy."

Flanders didn't like the way Moray looked at Brigid when he spoke. There was something in his eyes—not desire, but a kind of calculating assessment that warned Flanders to reach for his sword, which he couldn’t do, since weapons in The Regent’s presence were restricted to his own guards.

Atholl cleared his throat and a dozen of Stephan’s men ushered themselves into the hall. He waved a hand in their direction. “If it pleases ye, my lord, these are but a few of the witnesses?—”

“Silence, Atholl, or I’ll have yer tongue.”

Atholl clapped his mouth shut and he cowered over to the north wall where he and Stephan waited, along with their witnesses. Both men repeatedly glared at the forty-some-odd people ready to call them liars. And still, Atholl sneered as if he believed things would still fall his way.

Moray turned his attention to James. "I would have ye explain to this assembly why we were led to believe ye were dead, sir.”

"A misunderstanding. I left Scotland for good. Or so I had intended,” James said simply. "I never expected to return, but my friend Wickham found me and told me there was trouble brewing between Gallabrae and Todlaw. I thought Flanders might need my help."

"Hmm." Moray's eyes narrowed. "I don't care for people returning from the dead, James. It makes things...messy."

Wickham chuckled softly, drawing Moray's attention.

"And who exactly are ye, sir? Too young to have fought in the Wars, perhaps?”

"I assure Yer Majesty, ye dinnae wish to ken the likes of me.” Wickham’s smile insinuated he was jesting, but his eyes promised he was not. “But if ye insist, it would be best if everyone else clears the room first." He seemed deadly serious.

Moray studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "Everyone out. Except ye.” He pointed to James. "Ye stay."

As the hall emptied, Flanders cast one last look at Wickham. The man winked—a gesture so unexpected that Flanders nearly stumbled.

Steady man. No matter what happens, keep yer wits.

Outside in the bailey, they waited in tense silence. Brigid pressed close to Flanders' side, her eyes fixed on the closed door at the top of the stairs. He was tempted to tell her the words he’d heard in his head, but he preferred she believed that speaking into his mind was something only she could do.

"What do ye think they're discussing?" she whispered.

"I have no ken," Flanders admitted. "But whatever it is, I trust James. And if he trusts Wickham..."

"Ye don't sound convinced," Brigid said.

"I'm not. But I've seen enough strange things in my life to keep an open mind." He squeezed her hand. "Including a beautiful witch who can make plants grow and sing with just a whisper of encouragement."

She blushed but said nothing, her attention drawn back to the door.

Over an hour passed before the door finally opened. Everyone involved was instructed to return to the great hall. When they filed inside, Moray’s face was ashen. He waited impatiently for what was probably his second or third cup of wine, judging from the red drops at the corners of his mouth and a line of stain that ran to his chin.

After draining it, he gulped in deep breaths to compose himself.

James looked unconcerned. Wickham wore a satisfied smile that made Flanders distinctly uneasy, and he had to remind himself that he trusted these men.

"Return to yer places," Moray commanded, his voice steadier than his complexion suggested. "I will hear the witnesses."

Once everyone had settled, Moray turned to Stephan. "Tell me your version of events, Laird Stephan. And be brief—I've heard enough long-winded tales this day.” His eyes darted briefly in Wickham’s direction.

Stephan recounted his accusations—witchcraft, kidnapping, conspiracy to poison. His voice grew more confident with the retelling, as if he believed Moray couldn’t possibly believe anything or anyone else.

When he finished, Moray sat in silence for a long moment, his gaze moving from Stephan to Atholl, then to Wickham, who watched the proceedings with that same unsettling smile.

"I've heard enough," Moray said finally. "Since I have already heard Leesborn and Duncan’s recounting, I am prepared to render my verdict." He gestured to his scribe, who hurried forward with quill and parchment.

"I recognize that no one will be satisfied if the result of all this fuss is a mere slap on the hand," Moray began. "The charges are serious. What Atholl proposed would have ruined lives—the wrong lives."

For the first time, Atholl and Stephan appeared to worry.

Moray nodded to Gerts. "During my rest, I had a long conversation with Lady Stephan. Combined with what I already know of the men in this room, I believe I understand the truth of this matter."

Atholl shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot, while Stephan’s face had gone completely white.

"First," Moray continued, "the charge of witchcraft. A serious accusation, particularly when it results in death." His gaze fell on Brigid, and Flanders’ hand tightened around hers. "In this matter," Moray said, his voice ringing through the hall, "I find Laird Stephan guilty…of murdering…the wrong woman.”