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

7

THE RAT LAIRD’S FIRST MISTAKE

* * *

T hree weeks later…

The walls of Todlaw were so substantial in size that, to anyone who had not witnessed their construction, they might have existed from the beginning of time, just as the great Red Hills to the north. Tonight, they bristled with soldiers as sharp-eyed as the crows that nested in the parapets.

Every gate was reinforced with iron bands, every tower stocked with arrows by the sheaf and barrels of grain stacked like fortifications of their own. The armory was full, the horses restless and battle-ready, and each night, the guards patrolled the perimeter with twice their usual vigilance. And the lists reeked and rang with the constant sweat and practice of Todlaw’s famous fighters.

Two brave souls at a time manned the tower above the northeast pass with a clear view of the far side. If Stephan were to attack, he would have to silence those two first...or come by another road, passing by more watchtowers.

All the people had been moved inside the curtain wall, along with their animals and crops, save those still ripening on the vine. But if those fields were burned, there was still plenty to get them through until next spring.

Aye. Todlaw was ready for war.

Flanders should have been content. Indeed, he should have been jubilant, knowing that nothing was left undone. If Stephan dared make a hint of aggression, the fight would be taken to him and never reach Todlaw’s gates. Though Robert Duncan was prepared for the worst, the battle would be fought on the far side of the pass, where Flanders would make damn sure it ended before any of his people suffered from more of the Rat Laird’s greed.

Gallabrae’s men didn’t stand a chance. All of Todlaw had been trained either by James or by those James had trained. One Todlaw man was worth eight of Stephan’s. And even if the bastard was clever enough to hire mercenaries, Flanders would always bet on his men, every time.

Aye, there would be some who would brand Flanders the aggressor, but let Moray come and ask for explanations. Flanders would give him a full accounting—a scroll of justifications as long as an arm.

Despite his confidence, sleep refused to follow where it was so clearly invited. And Flanders lay restless, staring up at the black beams overhead, his mind a battlefield of its own, though the war in his head had little to do with his enemy.

Mabon was almost upon them.

A true warrior didn’t hold with superstition, typically. And Flanders had once been a man of reason, not given to nightmares or troubling omens and certainly not to fretting about some witches whispering in the wind. But he could no longer claim to be a typical warrior. He’d seen James and Sophie disappear in an instant with that Wickham fellow who had apparently come to collect them.

And the fact that he’d seen it with his own eyes made it fact. He’d watched plants grow in a matter of seconds, heard them straining in what Brigid had called the Song of Growing. And he’d absolutely heard her voice in his head.

He could never go back to typical.

Lying there in the early hours, the memories were sharp and clear. In weaker moments, he’d sometimes convinced himself he had imagined it all. But no one could lie to themselves in the morning…

I saw our death. And chaos.

How far into the future had Brigid seen? Did that doom still wait for them, creeping closer with every turn of the moon? And just who would suffer that chaos?

Damned if he knew.

Grinding the heel of his palms against his eyes, he forced himself to relax. It was just another year. Another Mabon. Another restless night with nothing but ghosts rattling in his head.

Eventually, weariness overtook his worries, dragging him down at last into the heavy dark of sleep. And in his dreams, she was there again, standing in the woods with the mist curling around her ankles, her hair loose—the same coppered gold as the mare she stood beside. She turned, her lips parting as if to speak, but no sound came.

He took a step forward, but suddenly the trees behind her cracked apart like bones snapping in a fist. Blackness rushed in—an unnatural dark that consumed everything in its path. She reached for him, as she had in other dreams. This time, however, it was not fear on her face, but urgency. And then the darkness took her. Swallowed her whole.

He woke with a start, his fast breath almost painful in his chest. Sweat cooled on his skin and made him shiver. For a long time, he lay there while the fragments of the dream escaped him like water through his fingers.

Was someone slipping hensbane into his drinks? Was some bastard having a jest at his expense?

But nay—that couldn’t be. Hensbane would have helped his sleep, not kept it from him.

Still, as he swung his legs out of bed and reached for his leathers, the gnawing in his gut persisted. He had prepared for every threat outside these walls. Every threat he could see.

What the devil was he supposed to do about that hungry darkness?

* * *

Still an hour from dawn, Flanders climbed the narrow steps to the gatehouse. He shivered from a chill that hadn't been present the evening before—a chill that had nothing to do with the temperature. The sun was coming, and with it, Mabon.

Still weary, he leaned his weight against the rough stone and scanned the darkness within Todlaw's walls.

Below, the bailey lay quiet where most of their new inhabitants still slept, blissfully unaware of the men watching over them. Oblivious to the shuffle of an occasional boot or the haunting call of owls on the hunt. Toward the Red Hills hiding in the darkness to the north, he cast his mind and imagined two Muir sisters picking their way through the trees.

"Don't come," he urged aloud, just in case their magic allowed them to hear him, whether or not he could hear them. "Not this year. Not this time."

His worries turned to Gerts, who might soon be about her usual business, preparing the hensbane for her dastardly husband. He hoped she had the sense to keep her wits, to be careful not to stir Stephan’s ire. The man had always been dangerous to his people, but with The Bruce gone and uncertainty spreading across Scotland like gossip, he would be even more unpredictable.

If the Rat Laird suffered from the same nervousness and lack of sleep currently plaguing Flanders, he would be more alert than usual. More easily provoked. More paranoid.

More deadly.

Surely, Gerts knew this and would act accordingly.

The distant sound of hoofbeats pulled Flanders from his brooding. He moved to the other side of the walkway and strained to see the road east. The changing of the guards on the watchtowers meant scouts were due back. But they were usually more cautious on a dark road, so their haste worried him. Or perhaps his ears were simply too sensitive.

Hastily, he descended the tower steps. The wary gatekeeper saw nothing amiss and opened the gate. No alarm. Two horses entered, but instead of two riders, there were three.

The lead rider, Alpin, dismounted and hurried forward. When he recognized Flanders, he seemed relieved.

“Laird—”

“Who is he?” Flanders nodded to the third man.

"Mael, our spy from inside Gallabrae. Came to the tower," he said, his voice rough with both exhaustion and foreboding. "Stephan has caught a woman. Accused her of witchcraft."

The air in Flanders' lungs refused to move in or out. "And?"

"He burned her at the stake last night."

The world tilted beneath Flanders' feet. He gripped the hilt of his sword to steady himself, forced himself to breathe. "Did he give a name? A description?" The words scraped from his throat.

Alpin nodded grimly. "Red hair, he said. Young, comely. Came with her sister to trade herbs with the women of the fort."

Brigid. It had to be. The dream—that cursed dream—had been a warning after all. The horror pushed into his mind, but he resisted. Instead, he imagined it just like his dream and hoped the darkness had swallowed her quickly.

"And what of the sister?" Flanders managed.

"Escaped. There was chaos when the first one was tied to the stake. Some of the women tried to intervene." Alpin hesitated. "The bastard had them all tossed into the pit. Lady Stephan among them."

Flanders closed his eyes briefly, the insanity of it all urging him to his knees. They had prepared Todlaw for war, had fortified the place against every possible attack, had anticipated Stephan's every move.

But he had never imagined this, that he might be tempted to go after Stephan on his own, to rip out his throat with his bare hands. No. Better yet, rip out the man’s guts and burn him at the stake while he yet lived!

Flanders hadn’t been willing to risk Todlaw for anyone—but apparently, he might have done for her…

"Gather the war council," he ordered, to anyone listening. His voice was surprisingly steady despite the destructive rage consuming him. "Wake Robert. And someone ready my horse."

Alpin's eyes widened. "Ye mean to ride to Gallabrae? Now?"

"Aye." Flanders turned and headed for the keep. “I have an idea.”

The man trailed on his heels. "But Laird, the woman is already dead. Wouldn’t it be folly to go now?—"

"I know." Flanders cut him off, his eyes hard as flint. "But Gerts still lives. And the witch’s sister may yet be in those woods, hunted like an animal. Besides, if Stephan gets the better of me, Robert will have all the more justification to destroy him.”

To the east, the first hints of dawn began to lighten the sky. Mabon had arrived. He’d simply never imagined that he would be the one to bring the chaos in Brigid Muir’s vision.