Heather House: The Witch of Threadneedle Street

by Carmen Caine

  “’Tis the plague,” George continued hoarsely. “Thomas came down with it this morning.”

  “He’s dead now,” Francis added and pointed.

  Moll drew an unsteady breath and followed the line of his finger. At first, she could only see dense, dark clouds of smoke. Then a blast of wind lifted the smoke like a curtain and offered her a glimpse of the street beyond.

  ‘Twas Threadneedle Street. Had she come this far in the crowd? How long had they caught her up? ‘Twas surprising, but then, the realization of what she saw focused her thoughts.

  The tailor shop burned. Flames danced on the rooftop and licked through the broken windows. As she watched, the top floor collapsed and the thread-and-spool sign above the door fell to the ground in a shower of sparks. Then, just as quickly as the clouds of smoke had lifted, they dropped again and blocked her view.

  She turned away. She’d seen enough.

  “We can’t stay,” George hissed. He stepped forward.

  “Wait.” Francis pulled him back by the collar. “Look.”

  A group of heavily armed men appeared at the end of the street, striding in their direction, the fire’s orange glow glinting on their swords and the barrels of their muskets. Behind them, trundled several horse-drawn carts filled with boards. Moll knew what it meant. They all did. The men were there to blockade the plague’s spread. They would nail boards over windows and doors to seal the plague and its victims—real and perceived—inside.

  “This way.” Francis jerked his head over his shoulder.

  The narrow space between the buildings only grew smaller at the opposite end, but by turning sideways, they managed to squeeze through and emerged onto the street behind.

  “’Tis clear here, still,” Francis announced in a hoarse whisper.

  “Then, let’s make haste.” Moll pointed toward the Thames. “We can—”

  “No, Moll,” Francis grabbed her wrist. “This way. We can’t leave without them, Moll.”

  “Them?” Moll knit her brows, puzzled, as he pulled her to a nearby cellar door.

  “Here.” He caught hold of the rusted iron ring and yanked open the door to point into the yawing darkness.

  Moll peered over his shoulder into the gloom. At first, she saw nothing, but then her eyes adjusted. Children. Young and scared.

  “They can’t go home now,” George hissed from behind.

  She didn’t need to ask why. With the musket-carrying men caging people like birds and the fire ravaging the streets, whether their parents truly had the plague or not didn’t matter. Lord help her, but what had they done to deserve such a scourge?

  The children blinked.

  Moll nodded. There was little time to waste and nothing to do but move forward. Briskly, she clapped her hands. “Out, poppets. Let’s give wings to our feet, shall we?”

  The children didn’t hesitate. She counted them as they hopped out of the cellar like frightened rabbits. Four in all. A girl of perhaps nine, and three boys, two near the same age of perhaps seven, and the smallest child of probably two or three.

  Gently, Moll took the youngest by the hand and moved out onto the street, surveying her surroundings. Smoke and shouting men surrounded her on three sides, now. Again, there was only the one choice.

  “This way,” she said.

  They took off. The children fell into a line behind her with Francis and George bringing up the rear. They’d nearly reached the end of the street, when a man stepped around the corner to block their path.

  “Halt!” he barked as he brandished his musket, the barrel gleaming in the firelight. “From where you hail, you and this ragamuffin lot?”

  Moll’s stomach dropped, but she jutted her chin and replied, “Manchester, sir. We’re straight this very day from Manchester.”

  ‘Twas clear the man doubted her. He took a menacing step forward.

  “There you are, Moll,” a distinct voice boomed from behind. “I’ve been searching everywhere.”

  Moll whirled as the moneylender stepped through a cloud of smoke to arrive at her side.

  The man with the musket relaxed. “De Hause? You know this lot, then?”

  “Yes,” the moneylender replied at once. He clamped a heavy hand over Moll’s shoulder and gave it a warning squeeze. “’Tis my cousin, Moll, from Manchester.”

  “Then you’d best hurry and leave this place. We’re sealing the streets.” With a nod, the man pushed past them and vanished into the smoke.

  Moll heaved a breath of relief, but the moneylender gave her little time to relax.

  “This way.” He waved them forward, toward the Thames. “Make haste. We’ve not a moment to spare.”

  They didn’t need to be told twice. They ran, this time following Brian De Hause as he led them through many a smoke-filled street and past several panicking crowds.

  At last, they arrived at the Dowgate quays, and there, the moneylender stopped before a large, well-kept barge.

  “I’ll be but a moment,” he murmured, then brought his fingers to his lips to let out a shrill whistle.

  On the barge, two burly men in leather hauberks appeared from around a stack of oak barrels. At a whistle of their own, several men on the boat rushed to lower the gang plank and they strode ashore as the moneylender stepped forward to greet them.

  Moll watched, leery. ‘Twas difficult to swallow. Her throat burned from the smoke, the stench of it clung to her clothes, her hair. She turned to the children and eyed their soot-covered faces. ‘Twould be a miracle if they could escape London unscathed. Around them, men and women shouted, demanding passage to the boats lined up on the quay.

  George and Francis exchanged worried looks with her, but then, a movement caught her eye and she whirled to see Brian de Hause had already returned.

  “You’ll be safe with them,” he assured as he waved them forward. “They’ll see you out of London and further north.”

  Out of London. She’d wanted nothing else but to leave London for over a year, but she couldn’t let herself feel the relief, the excitement of a wish fulfilled—not yet, not until they had left the town far, far behind.

  The moneylender pressed a small leather bag into her hands. “Alas, I cannot help you more, Moll.”

  More? She clutched the bag tightly, her throat closing with emotion. ‘Twas strange the only compassionate man she’d met in London would prove to be a moneylender. “Brian de Hause, you are a merciful, honorable man,” she choked. “This is a debt I cannot pay.”

  There was only kindness in the man’s eyes as he stared down at her in the gathering gloom. “No debt stands between us, Moll. I only wish I could do more. Now, go.”

  He didn’t wait to be thanked. With a terse bow, he strode away and vanished into the crowd.

  “This way,” a burly man from the barge ordered. “Step carefully, now.”

  As several beefy men held off the crowd surging behind them, seeking to board, Moll and the children ran to the boat.

  Moll counted as their feet hit the deck. Six. In all, there were six children. Six to feed and shelter. With a shaky breath, she gripped the railing, her stomach roiling.

  The day had started out like so many others…but now? She was a widow, free of Thomas, free of the cruelty and the pain, but also without means to find food and shelter, with only the clothes on her back, and with only a small bag of coins to shield them from disaster.

  Numbly, she followed a bargeman to an open space between a stack of boxes and barrels.

  “Stay here,” he barked.

  As they sank to their knees, Moll glanced over the children’s pinched, worried faces. Six of them. How could she care for them all?

  Let them close the streets first. We can’t have ye on the wrong side now, Moll. Bertha’s voice suddenly rang through her mind. The children await ye. Have no fear, take them all. Aye, the more the merrier. ‘Twill only melt his heart all the faster, aye? He thinks he’s a lone wolf. Pah!

  Moll shivered. ‘Twas far too much of a coi
ncidence. The old woman had known…but how?

  Have no fear? ‘Twas easier said than done.

  And melt his heart? She clenched the money bag tighter. She must have meant the moneylender? The man was a Godsend, surely, but the coins wouldn’t last long, not with six mouths to feed—seven, including her own. Fear crawled down the back of her neck.

  The sound of soft sobs broke into her thoughts. ‘Twas the children. Tears of her own threatened, but she couldn’t afford to cry, not now. She was their strength.

  Summoning a bright smile, Moll squeezed the youngest boy’s hands.

  “We’ll be fine. I promise, poppets,” she assured them all. “I’m your ma now.”

  A Cunning Fox of a Lass

  Ten days later in Haddon Hall, England

  Alexander Taran MacKenzie, heir to the MacKenzie of Leod, brushed a speck of lint from his sleeve, crossed his arms, and leaned against the stone wall. He closed his eyes and drew a deep breath of the crisp air, enjoying the warmth of the autumn sun on his face.

  A moment later, a familiar, strident tone shattered his solitude. “Taran? Taran? Is that you?”

  He clenched his jaw and drew his brows into a line, not even attempting to hide the scorn churning deep inside. ‘Twas Anne. The very sight of the lass annoyed him. He couldn’t abide one second more of her company. He was a warrior. A lone wolf. Not some courtier to flirt with women and indulge in hours of useless conversation—especially with women he couldn’t abide. He ducked through an arched doorway and crossed the castle’s lower courtyard with a determined stride.

  “Taran?” a lower, musical voice called from his right.

  Ach, ‘twas Euphemia. Both lasses were after him now.

  He quickened his stride.

  There was a time not so long ago that he would have accepted his clan and the king’s bidding without a second thought and simply wed the woman assigned him. After all, ‘twas for the greater good, a benefit to the clan. He’d nearly wed Lady Helen—but then, she’d hied herself off to a nunnery. He’d felt nothing over the entire affair. After all, marriage was a duty, nothing more…but now? After his time with Alec and Sorcha, he’d changed in an inexplicable way, a way that found him overtly reluctant to choose either lass the king had presented him. His reluctance only worsened by the day.

  As their voices echoed closer, Taran tossed his hair back from his face, adjusted his plaid over his shoulders, and strode out of Haddon Hall’s gates in search of privacy.

  Somewhere. Anywhere.

  The wind blew, sending a flurry of old leaves swirling around his boots as he broke into a run and ducked inside the stables just outside the castle walls. Peace. At last. He took a deep breath, welcoming the familiar scent of horse and manure. Aye, he much preferred it to the cloying aroma of Anne’s perfume.

  Horses whickered softly as he passed through the building and out the other end to a line of carriages and carts. He stalked to the nearest coach, slid inside, and sprawled back on the leather seat with a loud, long sigh.

  If only he could saddle his horse and gallop back to the Highlands. God’s blood, but surely King James knew the Queen of England would never return Scotland’s silver? ‘Twas the third time His Majesty had sent a party into England to collect the debt, and judging by matters thus far, Taran certainly wasn’t proving any luckier than his predecessors in collecting the debt. So far, Queen Elizabeth had surreptitiously avoided his every attempt to arrange a meeting. She’d kept him waiting in Haddon Hall, months already.

  Taran drew his lips in a grim line and slouched further on the seat. Home. His heart ached for the Highlands. If only he were galloping across the rolling, endless moors. Exhaling a long breath, he closed his eyes.

  Gradually, he grew aware of soft voices. Feminine.

  Alarmed, he lifted his head and peered through the narrow open crack of the carriage door. At first, he saw nothing. Then a lassie appeared to lean against the stable wall directly in front of him, her dark brown hair bound in two braids and her homespun gown patched at the knee.

  “Do you miss him, Moll?” the lassie asked, hugging a pillow to her thin chest.

  “Who?” a strong voice asked from nearby.

  A slim, shapely woman wearing a worn scarlet gown stepped into view, tucking her long, honey-colored tresses into a simple hairnet as she walked.

  “Your husband,” the lassie replied. “Do you miss him, Moll?”

  Moll snorted and placed her hands on her hips. “Not one whit, Charlotte. I’ll never pine over the loss of that pig. He was the cruelest man to walk Threadneedle Street. ‘Twas a happy day when I became a widow.”

  Taran’s brow arched in surprise.

  Charlotte appeared taken aback.

  With a laugh, Moll reached over to chuck the girl under the chin. “Nay, love, my heart doesn’t ache, nor does loss grip my soul. You listen overly much to love poems. Love is the last thing required in a marriage. Don’t fool yourself thinking otherwise.”

  The words arrested Taran’s attention and the corner of his lip quirked as he subjected the young widow to a deeper inspection. He received a fleeting impression of a heart-shaped face and a pert, upturned nose before she turned her back to him and held out her hand.

  “Now, Charlotte,” Moll said. “Hand me that pillow.”

  “But what of true love?” the young Charlotte insisted as she obliged.

  Moll snorted and lifted her skirts, startling Taran with an unimpeded view of slender thighs and shapely legs. With his lip curving in devilish amusement, he watched the young widow position the pillow over her stomach and begin to fashion a harness by tying thin strips of material around her waist.

  “Love is a myth, concocted to fool young dew-eyed maids into an old man’s bed, Charlotte,” she said as she anchored the pillow firmly to her belly. “Believe me, there’s no delight there. And kisses?” She paused to shudder.

  “Did your husband fool you?” Charlotte prodded.

  Moll shot her a querulous glance. “Why the sudden interest in marriage, now? ‘Tis naught be misery. If you must know, I had no say in the matter. ‘Twas how my father got himself a new pair of breeches and freedom from having to feed me. Thomas was an old man, near fifty with rotten teeth, a foul temper, and he stank like the pig he was. ‘Twas nigh a year of hell, Charlotte. When he wasn’t bedding me, he was beating me with a stick. I’ll never wed again, nor will I trust any man. They’re fools and, Sweet Mary, they stink. They just want a full stomach and a woman in their bed, and when they’ve had a bad day, one to beat as well. Heaven help me, but I bless the day he died.”

  Dead silence met the end of her heartfelt speech.

  Taran couldn’t help but eye the lass with a deepening curiosity.

  It was almost a full minute before Charlotte muttered, half in disbelief and half in dismay, “Sounds nothing like the tales of love. Surely, not all men are so evil? Some are exceedingly handsome, and they don’t smell, Moll.”

  Moll snorted and turned her attention back to the pillow ties. “Then you didn’t get close enough, poppet,” she grunted. “Nay, my widowhood suits me fine, and what need have I for a man when I’ve the lot of you to warm my heart? We’ll find ourselves an abandoned house, grow a garden, and find some pigs.” The pillow she’d strapped to her waist suddenly slipped. “A pox on this pillow!” she swore.

  As she gave a few other choice curses, Taran suppressed a chuckle and allowed his eyes to rove appreciatively over her lithe, winsome figure.

  “There,” Moll said at last. She dropped her skirts and smoothed the lump, pleased. “I’m a respectable widow with children and expecting another. Who can refuse us a bite to eat? Fetch young James, now.”

  Charlotte crouched and held out her hand. “Come, James, be quick.”

  Almost at once, a small boy with a shock of red hair slithered out from under a cart to grab her fingers.

  “Good then.” Moll shooed them forward but stopped. “Well, look at that.”

  “What?” t
he lassie asked.

  “Mushrooms,” Moll replied, pointing to a small cluster of mushrooms growing along the base of the stable wall. “Those are rare, Charlotte. They can cure a broken heart.”

  “Shall I pick them?” Charlotte stretched out her hand.

  “No, poppet.” Moll smiled and shook her head. “They must be gathered only under moonlight, and only then, by a Witch of the Heart. There’s naught we can do now. Come, come. ’Tis time to eat.”

  They’d no sooner disappeared around the corner of the stables than Taran found himself stalking after them and keeping out of view. Something about Moll caught his fancy, something more than the sway of her hips as she made for Haddon Hall’s open gates.

  She didn’t get far.

  “Halt!” a watchman cried as he lowered his spear.

  Moll and the children drew up short.

  The next moment, the tall, gaunt figure of Lord Haddon stepped through the gates. Jutting his jaw, he planted himself before his castle with folded arms and feet spread wide.

  “What have we here?” he boomed, the wind ruffling what it could of his prematurely thinning brown hair. “Where have you come from, woman? To what purpose?”

  Moll dropped into a deep curtsey and yanked young Charlotte to do the same as the frightened boy darted behind their skirts.

  “Speak!” Lord Haddon thundered. “If our good Queen Elizabeth hangs nobles who dare ride to her castle in these plague-stricken times, I’ll not hesitate to do the same for a peasant walking up to my very gates.”

  Moll’s back went rigid.

  Taran lifted a brow. If he knew one thing about Lord Haddon, ‘twas the man never jested. Last week, tidings of the plague’s return had set even rocky-steady nerves on edge. The thought Lord Haddon might very well execute his threat sent Taran sprinting across the road.

  “There ye are, my love,” he rumbled as he slid an arm around the young widow’s waist. He gave the pillow hidden under her dress a firm tug as a warning to play along. “I told ye to rest, didn’t I now? For the bairn’s sake?”