Page 2 of Flanders' Folly
The one called Brigid whispered to Bella, then stepped back. Abject fear shone from her eyes in the dappled moonlight, but she faced Flanders anyway. “I saw our death. And chaos,” she said, as if she’d seen those things inhiseyes…and could see them still.
Flanders retreated enough to draw his sword and find the direction of this eminent threat, but Thomas stopped him with the wave of his hand. “It is the future she sees,” he said. “Thanks to Gerts, none of the men at Gallabrae can…erm…raise a sword or anything else. At least not this night.”
The third woman stepped from the shadows and it was, indeed, Hector Stephan’s lady wife.
“Laird Leesborn.”
With his hackles up, Flanders was loathe to put his blade away, but he did so out of respect for his old ally. Many a time Gerts and he had saved a young woman from her husband’s clutches, and the bond between them was unbreakable because of those days.
“Gerts.” He stepped close and placed a kiss on a cheek soft with age. “How do ye fare?”
“I’m well enough. I still wish for those days when ye came regularly.”
“I’ve missed ye as well, though I cannot say the same about yer laird.” He pointed his chin at the others standing behind her. “Dare I ask what business ye have with true witches?”
She grinned all the way to her eyes. “They come through every year near about Mabon, to fortify my supply of hensbane. Come, watch them work.” Gerts led him deeper into the trees where a sea of plants grew close to the ground. These had obviously been harvested recently, and Flanders recognized the strange plant as one he’d been warned to avoid since he was a small boy.
The brothers moved off to the right. The sisters to the left encircling the cloistered field. But it was only the sisters who raised their arms and whispered. Even in the tenuous light, Flanders could see their words transforming into an ethereal mist that spread above the plants and swirled slowly. He couldn’t look away.
When both sisters fell silent, the swirling ceased and the mist fell straight to the ground like a fine rain. He opened his mouth to comment, but Gerts clutched his arm in warning. The demonstration was not over, then.
A noise he couldn’t possibly describe came from the ground. Barely audible, it was something akin to the squeaking of mice. It was a voice, and yet not. No mouth created such…magic.
Flanders blinked over and over again, wanting to understand what moved at his feet, but simultaneously dreading that knowledge. Only when the plants began to sway did he realize they’d doubled in size, and as he watched, they doubled again, nearly tall enough to reach his high knee.
“What ye hear,” Brigid whispered, “is the Song of Growin’.”
A song. Much less malicious than what he’d been imagining—not the devil or his ilk rising up from Hell to greet them.
Flanders released his breath and gave her a smile of thanks for relieving his fears. And suddenly he realized…she hadn’t whispered after all. She stood too far away for such a soft whisper to be heard. The words had come…only in his mind.
He sought her eyes. She gave a sheepish smile that made her beauty all the more compelling. But was that a trick as well?
“Careful not to insult a witch,” she whispered aloud, then laughed quietly.
He’d barely had the chance to laugh along before the witches all moved back toward the road, leaving behind a healthy crop of the dangerous plants. Used regularly but carefully by healers, it could ease pain, aid sleep, and treat gout. But it was also deadly. In large doses, it caused confusion, fatigue, and could render a man impotent. It was rumored that witches and druids used the stuff themselves to bring on visions and prophetic dreams.
Flanders followed close on Gerts’ heels and asked why she needed so much of the stuff.
“What do ye think? He brings a pretty lass into the household and I can no longer send them away to Todlaw, can I? I do what I can to spare them his attentions, and when I cannot…” She shrugged.
He was horrified. “Gerts! What are ye thinkin’? The man’s hate for witches is implacable. If he finds ye’ve been fettling him with?—”
“He drinks it willingly. Our healer told him it makes him more virile and potent. For him to complain that it does not would be to admit his own failures. And the great Hector Stephan fails at nothing.” She smirked. “Except his attempt to take Todlaw.”
Flanders worried that the Muirs didn’t understand the risks of coming so close to the fort, and to even step foot on Stephan’s land was to risk their lives—and a hellish end. But it was the fort that was quiet as death at the moment. Nothing moved.
He insisted they ride with him as far as Todlaw, just to be safe. But they had other business to see to before the end of Mabon. They did not say where. So, Flanders could do nothing more than wish them well.
He stepped close to Brigid’s horse but was careful not to touch her, fearing that alarming vision might repeat itself. “I am sorry for what ye saw, lass. Sorry for the pair of ye. I only hope ye are mistaken.”
Her head swayed slowly from side to side. “Worry not for us, Laird Leesborn.” She stared at his hand resting on her saddle, then tentatively reached out to lay her fingers upon his. After only a heartbeat or two, he heard her in his head once more.
Laird Stephan is more devious than ye believe. He need not leave home to bedevil ye.
He took the warning to heart, then attempted to answer her in the same manner. Very clearly, he thought the words,Many thanks.
Though her face showed nothing, he heard the tinkling of laughter that was answer enough.
