Would she return to meet Gerts this year? For three summers past, he'd hoped she might stop at Todlaw—for a respite and refreshment if for nothing else. But perhaps she'd forgotten his offer of sanctuary and welcome.
Perhaps this year...
He flatly refused to believe that the foresight of her own death might have come to pass. She was out there, he was certain, wandering across Scotland like the stars wandered across the sky, following a path he didn't understand.
"Ye're brooding again," he chided himself and pushed away from the wall. "And over a witch, no less."
But even as he turned to make his way back to the stairs, he cast one last thought into the darkness, more from habit than hope.
Brigid, lass, remember me!
7
THE RAT LAIRD’S FIRST MISTAKE
* * *
Three 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.
