Page 39 of Flanders' Folly
"With our stores? We could last through winter." Robert tore into a leg of fowl. "No, he waits for something. Or someone. But it doesn’t matter who comes. No one will get through the curtain wall James Duncan built. Though they’re welcome to die tryin’."
The meal continued without Flanders. Brigid found herself glancing at the door more often than she cared to admit.
* * *
Flanders stoodon the north wall, watching the enemy camp through narrowed eyes. Torches flickered among the tents, and men moved about with casual ease. Too casual.
"They're not preparing for battle," Hemming observed beside him.
"No. They’re not."
He thought of Brigid, likely at supper now. He'd meant to join her, to steal a few moments of peace amid the preparations. But each time he resolved to seek her out, some new task demanded his attention.
Perhaps it was for the best. She'd made it clear she wished for distance between them. Let her have it, then. When this business with Stephan was finished, he'd have time to get her sorted.
And the distance between them would be gone for good.
* * *
The fourth daydawned bright and clear. Brigid spent the morning in the herb garden, grateful for the work. Her hands moved with practiced skill, harvesting what was needed, preparing tinctures for the inevitable wounded, and encouraging growth with an innocent but powerful song—whenever she was alone.
A shadow fell across her work. She looked up to find Flanders standing there, his broad shoulders blocking the sun.
"Ye look well," he said, his voice gruff with fatigue, she was sure.
"As do ye." She stood and brushed dirt from her skirts. "Are ye weary yet?"
"Aye." He shifted his weight, suddenly awkward. "I came to ask if ye need anythin’."
"I have all I require, thank ye."
A silence stretched between them and she was compelled to reach out to him, but before she could lift her hands?—
"Good, then." He nodded and turned to go, and she couldn’t bear it.
"Flanders." Her voice stopped him. "Be careful on the walls. The sun is strong today."
He smiled, the first genuine smile she'd seen in days. "I shall try to remember. But a storm is comin’. I feel it." The mention of a storm, while looking into her eyes, sent a fissure of cold up her back.
Then he was gone, striding toward the keep, and Brigid returned to her herbs, wondering if he’d felt the same.
She resisted reaching out with her mind. Distracting him now would indeed be selfish.
* * *
That evening,Flanders made a point to attend the meal in the great hall. He found Brigid already seated, deep in conversation with one of the women from Gallabrae. She glanced up as he approached, her expression unreadable.
"May I join ye?" he asked, gesturing to the empty seat beside her.
"Of course." She moved slightly to make more room—or possibly to gain more distance, he couldn’t know.
He sat, acutely aware of her nearness and the scent of rosemary that clung to her always.
"Any change?" she asked, nodding toward the south.
"None. They sit and wait, and we watch them sit and wait."
"A thrilling battle."
