“Remember,” he said aloud. “Any witch, Muir or otherwise, will find sanctuary at Todlaw.”
2
BLACK EYES FOR BREAKFAST
* * *
Todlaw, Spring, four years later…
Burned again.
The bitter tang of scorched eggs assaulted Flanders' senses before he ever set eyes on the trencher. It was a familiar disappointment, one that had plagued his mornings for longer than he cared to admit. His stomach grumbled a low complaint, then reconsidered and roared with the primal need to consume anything that would fill the void.
Forcing a smile, Flanders looked up to find his new cook Marjory biting her lips together and staring straight ahead. Her hands were clasped behind her back in a pose that was meant to convey defiance but reeked of fear. The wayward strands of hair that dangled from her cap trembled. But what stirred his blood more than the prospect of another ruined breakfast was the idea that she would fear him at all.
He didn't chide her, just as he hadn't the day before, or a score of days before that. There was no point in adding cruelty to incompetence.
"My thanks," he said instead, his voice steady and calm. "Ye may go."
In her surprise, she dared meet his gaze. "Yer thanks? For this?" She pointed to the trencher, where a dozen pigeon eggs lay in various shades of black and grey, their centers staring up at him like so many accusing eyes. Not a hint of yellow to be seen among the broken yolks, and instead of the crispy brown lace around the edges that he'd dreamt of far too often, today's lace was black as the devil's heart.
For eight long years, since James Duncan had left Todlaw in his care, Flanders had craved those magical eggs cooked perfectly in butter, which his friend had introduced him to. But neither man, woman, nor child had been able to recreate the dish. And in the last week, this latest addition to the kitchen had very nearly purged that delicious memory entirely.
"Aye. Ye may go," he repeated, his tone leaving no room for argument. The sooner she was out of sight, the sooner he could dispose of the charred offerings without her witnessing the waste.
He tilted the trencher to one side, watched the black circles tumble together like stones in a riverbed, then ripped the bread in half before standing and heading to the hearth. Half a trencher would sate his gullet for a while, at least until he could see to the real problem at hand—the slow decline in kitchen skills that had plagued Todlaw while he'd been distracted by Scottish politics and alliances.
A young woman swept the hearthstones with a fragrant broom and paused to watch him approach. Her eyes grew wider as she realized his intent. When she licked her lips, a nervous gesture that betrayed her hunger, he stopped dead, caught off guard as if he'd taken an unprepared punch to the stomach.
He held out the half with eggs along with the rest of the trencher. "Ye would want this...this..." He shrugged, words failing him in the face of her obvious need.
She dropped her attention to her shoes and whispered, "Aye, laird."
He pushed them at her. "Take them. Feed them to the dogs. Then come to the kitchens and I'll see ye're fed real food."
She gaped at him in disbelief.
"Do as I say." He looked around the great hall, finding another half dozen hungry-eyed women looking on. "Same with the rest of ye. Meet me in the kitchens."
If James were to return to Todlaw and find that any one of his people were hungry enough to eat burnt offerings, he'd pound Flanders into a bloody heap before boiling him in butter. And rightly so. Flanders had no excuse. His distraction with Scottish politics had been his downfall. He'd left the running of Todlaw to others and had obviously chosen to trust the wrong people for the duty.
As he made his way out of the keep, he averted his gaze, not ready to face what else might have suffered while he'd been galivanting around the young country, tending to alliances instead of seeing after the people who had been placed in his care. His mantle lay heavy now, with the weight of his remembered responsibility, a mantle he'd worn lightly for too long.
Tomorrow, there would be a reckoning. Todlaw was a rich place with stores a' plenty. And if its bounty wasn't reaching the stomachs of its people, someone was diverting it elsewhere.
But for now, he had one task only. There were bellies to fill...and his, perforce, would be the last.
* * *
The heavy oakdoors of Todlaw’s keep creaked open, and a hush fell over the gathered crowd as the last of the household members filed around the corner and into the great hall. Their faces were etched with confusion, and their movements were hesitant, as if they feared they were walking into a trap.
Flanders sat in the laird’s chair—a great bulking throne of carved wood that had been a gift to the original laird by Robert Bruce, King of Scotland. It was a common belief that the monarch sent the chair along so he’d have something worthy of his arse when he came to visit. But today, it would only know Flanders’ unworthy arse.
He gave nothing away as he watched the stragglers find their places, the men filling the open benches before the dais and the women hanging back to find what space they could among the general population. They were nervous, clutching at each other while they tried to understand why they'd been summoned.
At the head of a long table to Flanders' left sat Heslington, the pinch-nosed steward. The man had proven to be the most literate of all the residents when James Duncan had invited the people of the glen to gather at Todlaw to enjoy his protection—to become a community that shared labor and respect equally. But in the years since its conception, that community had slowly separated into classes, despite James' best intentions. And in the time since the peace-loving warlord had walked away, those gaps had widened.
Flanders had seen little harm in it, early on. After all, the desire to better oneself was a sound motivator. But lately, he'd realized that climbing the ladder of any society meant climbing over one's neighbors. Someone was always left at the bottom, sometimes through no fault of their own.
