Page 59 of Flanders' Folly
Hemming shouted from behind. “What shall I tell the earl when he comes knockin’?”
He, Robert, and James shouted in unison, “Tell him to piss off!”
When they reached the top of the steps, he slapped the old man on the back. “I should have kenned it was you who set off the trumpeters in all directions.”
Duncan stiffened. “Flanders, lad, I did no such thing. All my forces were behind me.”
Robert paled and together they searched the southern horizon, the eastern, and what they could see of the north. Shadowy lines shifted in the morning light…in all directions.
Robert swallowed and pointed. “Then who are they?”
29
THE BOARD IS SET
* * *
Using trestles and planks, a table was erected in the outer bailey, its surface covered with maps and the stones to hold them in place. They also marked the positions of the enemy.
The morning sun struggled to warm anything through a low bank of gray clouds that hovered overhead as if trying to read those maps over the shoulders of Todlaw's war council. Robert had immediately ceded the head of the table to his father, taking a position at Stout Duncan's right hand while Flanders stood at his left. James, Wickham, Snorre, Rolf, and Hemming completed the circle, with Brigid and Gerts seated on a bench to one side.
Flanders couldn't stop glancing at James. His friend had changed since he’d disappeared eight years before. He was much less gaunt, proving he’d eaten well wherever it was he’d gone. And the gray at his temples and striping his beard proved that time, even in the future, did not stand still. He also looked irritatingly happy.
As for Wickham, the man was a puzzle. He moved with a strange grace, his eyes constantly taking in everything around him. He missed nothing. And simply thinking his name drew his attention. It took far too long for Flanders to realize the bastard might share Brigid’s ability to speak into the minds of others, and probably hear their thoughts as well.
As if proving that fact, the man glanced Flanders way and grinned, which sent chills racing up and down Flanders’ spine.
McInnes, the eagle-eyed watchman, came to stand before them. The wiry man's face was weathered from years of watching horizons, his sharp eyes missing nothing within sight of Todlaw's walls. Behind him waited four watchmen who had abandoned their distant posts and ridden hard to report all they’d seen. Atholl, in a demonstration of his youth and inexperience, had allowed them back through the gates without interference.
"My lords," McInnes began, nodding respectfully to both Duncan and Robert, "the watchmen bring the expected news. We are surrounded."
Robert nodded. "But by whom?"
McInnes took a deep breath. "By half of Scotland, it seems." He gestured to the north. "From the Red Hills, the Morays—red banners with gold crosses." The Regent’s own clan.
Stout Duncan's eyebrows shot up, but he held his tongue.
McInnes gestured to the southwest. “The Campbells. Yellow and black triangles. Unmistakable. And with MacDonalds to boot."
"MacDonald and Campbell together?" Hemming scoffed. "Next ye'll tell us the English have come."
"Aye, well, the Earl of Mar, Lennox, and the Stewarts."
Flanders exchanged a look with Robert. "It seems we've become rather popular overnight."
"But why?" Robert asked, bewildered. "Why would they all come?"
All eyes turned to a grinning Stout Duncan, who suddenly found great interest in examining the table.
"Father?"
The old man chuckled. "I might have sent a missive to Thomas Randolph."
“Aye?” Flanders said. "What kind of missive brings Scotland to our door?"
Duncan's eyes danced. "I merely suggested that the fate of the country and the wee king might be decided at Todlaw in two days' time." He shrugged. "I was guessing, of course. Never trust an enemy with family ties at court."
"A lesson I've learned, Father," Robert said. "And just as important,know your enemy's relations in the first place."
