Page 63 of Flanders' Folly
Atholl's face paled. "I...didn't think it relevant, my lord."
"No? A man accuses his neighbors of harboring witches and kidnapping his people, including his lady wife, and ye didn't think it relevant that he is kin?" Moray's voice rose slightly. “Ye didn't suppose that might affect yer judgment?"
"I assure ye, my lord, I was completely impartial?—"
"Enough." Moray cut him off with a sharp gesture. "Yer judgment is annulled. I will judge this situation myself." His gaze swept the hall. "After all, some of Scotland's most loyal subjects find themselves in jeopardy."
Flanders didn't like the way Moray looked at Brigid when he spoke. There was something in his eyes—not desire, but a kind of calculating assessment that warned Flanders to reach for his sword, which he couldn’t do, since weapons in The Regent’s presence were restricted to his own guards.
Atholl cleared his throat and a dozen of Stephan’s men ushered themselves into the hall. He waved a hand in their direction. “If it pleases ye, my lord, these are but a few of the witnesses?—”
“Silence, Atholl, or I’ll have yer tongue.”
Atholl clapped his mouth shut and he cowered over to the north wall where he and Stephan waited, along with their witnesses. Both men repeatedly glared at the forty-some-odd people ready to call them liars. And still, Atholl sneered as if he believed things would still fall his way.
Moray turned his attention to James. "I would have ye explain to this assembly why we were led to believe ye were dead, sir.”
"A misunderstanding. I left Scotland for good. Or so I had intended,” James said simply. "I never expected to return, but my friend Wickham found me and told me there was trouble brewing between Gallabrae and Todlaw. I thought Flanders might need my help."
"Hmm." Moray's eyes narrowed. "I don't care for people returning from the dead, James. It makes things...messy."
Wickham chuckled softly, drawing Moray's attention.
"And who exactly are ye, sir? Too young to have fought in the Wars, perhaps?”
"I assure Yer Majesty, ye dinnae wish to ken the likes of me.” Wickham’s smile insinuated he was jesting, but his eyes promised he was not. “But if ye insist, it would be best if everyone else clears the room first." He seemed deadly serious.
Moray studied him for a long moment, then nodded. "Everyone out. Except ye.” He pointed to James. "Ye stay."
As the hall emptied, Flanders cast one last look at Wickham. The man winked—a gesture so unexpected that Flanders nearly stumbled.
Steady man. No matter what happens, keep yer wits.
Outside in the bailey, they waited in tense silence. Brigid pressed close to Flanders' side, her eyes fixed on the closed door at the top of the stairs. He was tempted to tell her the words he’d heard in his head, but he preferred she believed that speaking into his mind was something only she could do.
"What do ye think they're discussing?" she whispered.
"I have no ken," Flanders admitted. "But whatever it is, I trust James. And if he trusts Wickham..."
"Ye don't sound convinced," Brigid said.
"I'm not. But I've seen enough strange things in my life to keep an open mind." He squeezed her hand. "Including a beautiful witch who can make plants grow and sing with just a whisper of encouragement."
She blushed but said nothing, her attention drawn back to the door.
Over an hour passed before the door finally opened. Everyone involved was instructed to return to the great hall. When they filed inside, Moray’s face was ashen. He waited impatiently for what was probably his second or third cup of wine, judging from the red drops at the corners of his mouth and a line of stain that ran to his chin.
After draining it, he gulped in deep breaths to compose himself.
James looked unconcerned. Wickham wore a satisfied smile that made Flanders distinctly uneasy, and he had to remind himself that he trusted these men.
"Return to yer places," Moray commanded, his voice steadier than his complexion suggested. "I will hear the witnesses."
Once everyone had settled, Moray turned to Stephan. "Tell me your version of events, Laird Stephan. And be brief—I've heard enough long-winded tales this day.” His eyes darted briefly in Wickham’s direction.
Stephan recounted his accusations—witchcraft, kidnapping, conspiracy to poison. His voice grew more confident with the retelling, as if he believed Moray couldn’t possibly believe anything or anyone else.
When he finished, Moray sat in silence for a long moment, his gaze moving from Stephan to Atholl, then to Wickham, who watched the proceedings with that same unsettling smile.
