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…
