Page 39 of Flanders’ Folly (The Curse of Clan Ross #7)

39

SUCH SORCERY

* * *

A n elderly servant woman in loose blue hose and a tunic not long enough for a child, brought a tray of food—strange meats and cheeses, bread softer than anything Flanders had ever put between his lips, and bright fruits he couldn’t name but happily devoured. He and Bella shared the meal in silence, both too exhausted for conversation.

When they finished, Bella rose from her chair and stretched. "I should rest," she said. "I have a bedchamber just down the hall and around the corner."

"Go," Flanders told her. "I'll keep watch."

"Ye'll wake me if she needs me?" Bella's eyes were red-rimmed, her face drawn from worry.

"Aye. Ye have my word."

She hesitated, then nodded. "Thank ye, Leesborn."

Flanders settled deeper into his chair. A small red eye on the corner of the white box continued to watch him, unblinking. It unnerved him, but he wouldn't abandon his post. Not for all the gold in Christendom.

* * *

Flanders dozed fitfully in the chair, waking at every noise. When he was roused by Brigid's moans of pain, he’d been forced to stand by, listening helplessly, while the nurse came to her aid and fettled her back to sleep again. It was then he realized he wanted her sleeping too, not awake enough to call for him. If that wee box was silent, it meant she was at peace.

In the morning, when dawn arrived through high windows so clear as to be invisible, the doctor returned with a woman to replace the night nurse.

Moments later, Brigid cried out and Flanders was on his feet and through the door before he could think. At the distant end of a massive bedchamber, Brigid lay on a wide bed, held down by the nurses. Her face contorted in agony as the doctor removed bandages from her legs. She lifted a knee, and the sight of her raw, blistered skin broke his heart.

"Sortez!" the doctor barked, get out, while a nurse moved to block his path.

"She's in pain," Flanders growled.

"Of course she is," the doctor replied. "Burns are painful. Now go, or I'll have you removed from the house."

Strong hands caught him from behind. "Easy, lad," Wickham murmured in his ear. "The doctor knows what he's about."

Flanders struggled against the hold. "She needs me."

"She needs time and she needs a clean space. Soon, she'll have all the Flanders she could ever want. But not the now."

One nurse pressed something small against Brigid's arm, and before Flanders retreated out the door, she settled and her eyes closed.

"What magic was that?"

Wickham closed the door and smiled. "Modern medicine. Magic ye'll learn much about in the days ahead." He tugged Flanders away. "Come. Eat. I'm going to introduce you to breakfast. A weak man will be no help to her."

Flanders followed reluctantly. I won't go far , he thought, in case she could hear him. But he heard nothing in return.

Bella emerged from an adjoining hallway, tying a thin long gown at the waist. "How is she?"

"Sleeping again," Wickham answered. "The doctor is with her. Will ye eat?"

She shook her head and headed back the way she'd come.

* * *

The kitchen was a marvel of gleaming silver surfaces and wee wooden doors. And right there in the center of the castle with no consideration for smoke and smells. Flanders stared in wonder until Wickham nudged him on, then ducked into a room opposite that held the table Bella had mentioned. Polished wood worthy of any king. And scrolled chairs to match. Beneath them all, a rug finer than many he'd slept upon.

Wickham pushed him into one of those chairs and Flanders bent forward, to look at his reflection in the surface.

"It's all right, man. Ye can touch it."

He did so with his hands, then with his elbows. Then he put his head down on his arms and closed his eyes. "It's too much to take all at a go, aye?"

"Aye," Wickham said with a grin. "But I reckon breakfast will inspire ye to push through."

A plate was set beside him and he straightened to identify the strong smells that accompanied it. He nearly wept.

Eggs fried to perfection, their edges crisp and lacy. Thick slices of charred ham, plump sausages, haggis, mushrooms, some red round vegetable, and toasted bread—a feast fit for a king's table.

"I thought ye might appreciate a proper Scottish breakfast."

Flanders took his first bite of egg and closed his eyes in bliss. "I'm going to like the future just fine," he murmured.

As they ate, Wickham explained his plans. "I'm going back for James today. His wife will be here soon—she's been visiting her family. Ye'll remember Phoebe, no?"

Flanders nodded, his mouth too full for speaking.

"Good. I'll not be gone long." Wickham rose from the table. "My sisters will look after ye while I'm away."

"Sisters?"

Wickham gestured to the women who had delivered their plates, standing patiently in the doorway. Flanders had mistaken one the previous evening for a servant.

Identical sisters. Older, with red and silver-streaked hair and identical smiles. "Lorraine and Loretta. They don't speak much Scots, but they understand more than ye might think."

One approached, reached out to pat his hand, and said something in the New French he didn't understand. Then she laughed and both sisters left the room.

"They're...like Brigid?"

"Aye," Wickham said. "Witches. And they can read yer mind, so tend yer thoughts."

As soon as the meal was over, Wickham disappeared, his chair suddenly empty, as if Flanders had supped with a ghost. That was Flanders’ first moment of trepidation. What if he couldn't adapt to this new century? What if it were too vexing for Brigid? Or her sister? What would they do then?

* * *

Later in the morning, Flanders and Bella were both back at their posts. The white box was still quiet. She held on her lap a pile of thin, fine parchment that would have cost a handful of Easterling silver coins. She then produced a narrow shaft from her pocket and began drawing on the topmost layer.

She glanced at him and lifted the shaft. “It is a pen.”

“A pen? But where is the ink?”

She leaned toward him and grinned. “The ink…is inside the pen!” Then she tipped the parchment so he could watch her draw the daintiest of lines. And she kept on drawing, line after line, creating leaf after leaf, without ever stopping to refill the supply!

“Clever indeed!”

“So many clever things. I cannot wait to share them with Brigid.”

“Aye, aye. So many things.”

Her pen stilled. She studied him for a moment, then laughed. “Flanders, ye needn’t learn it all at once, ye ken? None of this…” She gestured all around them, at the soft chairs, the windows, the lights that lit from inside, then the parchment. “None of it is going to disappear. We’ll learn it, and if we forget it, we shall learn it again. Take heart, man. Ye look like ye would turn tail and run back to Todlaw, back to certain trouble, if given the chance.” She tapped her finger in sudden thought. “Of course, if that is what ye wish, Brigid and I can muddle along fine together. Ye needn’t worry?—”

“If she stays, I stay.”

Bella bit her lips together and nodded, but he noted the smile she tried to hide. Was she merely teasing him, or had she decided to discourage him from staying? Was she clever or kind? It was impossible to know.

The sound of a large door creaking open ended the twisting of his thoughts. A woman’s voice called out Wickham’s name. Then, “Flanders? Are ye here?”

“Phoebe,” he whispered, then jumped to his feet and ran back to the chamber where he and Wickham had entered, albeit by magic. There, he found the woman he had once intended to claim as his own—a long eight years before. But had eight years passed for her? Perhaps not.

Her dark hair was shorter now, just past her shoulders. Her warm hazel eyes lit when she saw him, and in her arms, a lanky wee laddie with his father’s red curls already past his ears.

"Flanders Leesborn," she said in the heavily accented Gaelic he remembered. "We meet again!"

He strode forward until he could tower over her. "Ye have the advantage of me, mistress."

She smiled, unsure. "I'm Phoebe. James Ferguson’s—James Duncan’s wife." She set the child down, and he immediately toddled away. “And that, is our son. Don’t tell me ye don’t remember me."

He turned thoughtful and tapped his chin. “Did we share a kiss, once?”

“Aye, we did.”

“Mayhap, if I taste yer lips again, I shall remember ye, sure.”

Pheobe rose immediately onto her toes and he leaned down. She placed a quick, chaste kiss on his cheek, then laughed in his face before she threw her arms around his neck.

“Oh, Flanders. I’m so glad ye’re here! James has missed ye so.”

“Surprising, what with his new distractions.” He gestured to both her and the wee laddie who was back again and tugging on Flanders’ oddly loose hose, babbling and making bubbles on his lips.

Flanders knelt to study the eyes, the wee jaw. The lips that were miniature versions of his mother’s. “What is the wee man’s name?”

"Flanders," Phoebe said softly. "We call him Flanders."

Something pinched him at the back of his nose and brought tears to his eyes. "James named his son after me?"

"He speaks of ye every day," Phoebe said. "His brother in all but blood."

The bairn stretched high to pat both sides of Flanders' face with chubby hands, then pointed at his own chin and garbled a question.

Phoebe translated. "He wants to know if you're a Flanders too.”

He smiled. "Aye, laddie.” He pointed to his own chin. “Flanders.”

The boy clapped his hands, probably approving of the sound of his own name, but still…

Before Flanders could say more, Bella joined them. "She's awake," she announced. "And asking for us both."