Heather House: The Witch of Threadneedle Street

by Carmen Caine

  “Lord MacKenzie.” The queen tilted her red head in his direction, again deliberately ignoring the castle’s own lord where he stood, scarce five feet away.

  Taran’s lip curled into a smile. ‘Twas far amusing, truly, that the only alternative at Her Majesty’s disposal was himself—a man she’d avoided for months. The ironic gleam in her eyes revealed the observation was not lost upon her, as well.

  “Lady Haddon?” the queen asked no one in particular, her voice as hard as steel. “Why does she not greet us?”

  From the corner of his eye, Taran could see Lord Haddon tense. ‘Twas fortunate the queen was hellbent on ignoring him outright and failed to take note. One breath of illness within the walls of Her Majesty’s newfound haven, and Lady Haddon might very well find herself hanging with the rest who dared bring illness into the presence of the Queen.

  From the sickly pallor of Lord Haddon’s face, ‘twas clear the thought crossed his mind, as well.

  Taran bowed. “She is indisposed with child, Your Majesty,” he replied.

  The queen arched a painted brow.

  As her eyes narrowed with suspicion, Taran knew he needed a distraction—quickly. ‘Twas fortunate, he had one at the ready. “His Majesty, King James, sends ye his greetings, Your Grace.”

  If not for the lives potentially at stake, he would have chuckled at her reaction. Her nostrils flared, and her lips thinned in a disapproving line.

  “I am weary from the journey,” she announced.

  As she rose and swept grandly from the hall, Lord Haddon bowed his head at Taran in silent gratitude. Taran dipped his chin in reply, then ducked through the door and out into the chill air. He clenched his jaw. By God, the queen could not have arrived at a worse time.

  Charlotte’s sudden illness, along with Lady Haddon’s weighed heavily on his mind. All it took was one pair of loose, idle lips to summon disaster. But surely, Moll would find a way?

  He turned his step to the north tower when Francis stepped out of the shadows to block his path.

  “’Tis Moll.”

  Taran straightened, alarmed.

  Francis swallowed and shifted his gaze to the gates. “She ran to the stables,” the lad whispered. “For Charlotte. The mushrooms she needed are there…”

  Taran inhaled a jagged breath. He was already moving. In moments, he stood on the ramparts, his eyes locked on the queen’s men felling trees at the forest’s edge. The purpose was clear enough. They were erecting gallows—more than one.

  “Can we get her back inside?” Francis whispered at his side.

  The lad couldn’t hide the tremor of fear in his voice. ‘Twas the same fear Taran felt himself, deep inside, but fear served no purpose now. Right now, he had to find a way to save Moll—or make one.

  With locked jaw, he scanned the castle walls, a plan already beginning to form.

  “Fetch George and Doughall,” he ordered the lad. “At once.”

  * * *

  Darkness fell with Taran still walking the walls, scarcely noticing the bite of the cold wind. ‘Twas fortunate he’d been restless of late. None paid heed to his presence to foster suspicion. To his right, Doughall idled on the ramparts, appearing as if asleep as the twins slipped in and out of the shadows, observing the guards' every move.

  Outside the walls, the guards had nearly finished erecting the gallows—four, in all. Two stood as ominous sentries on each side of the gates. Finally, as the evening feast began, they finished their task and entered through the postern gate, leaving only two men to remain there, on guard.

  At last. Only two men.

  Taran leaned back and caught Doughall’s eye.

  As the gray-braided Highlander arrived, two MacKenzie clansmen stepped out of the shadows on the left.

  Taran frowned, displeased. He hadn’t wanted his men involved. The least who knew, the better.

  “Ach, lad, dinna think we’d leave ye alone,” Doughall grunted, reading his face.

  Taran cocked a brow. ‘Twasn’t the plan. He’d asked for only Doughall’s help, along with the twins, but ‘twas hardly the time to discuss the matter.

  They stalked to the postern gate, slowly, waiting for the twins to signal the guards were looking in the opposite direction.

  The hoot of an owl echoed through the courtyard, almost at once.

  “Aye,” Taran muttered under his breath.

  The next moment, he and his men stood at the postern gate. As the nearest guard turned, Taran’s fist connected with his jaw, just as Doughall slammed his fist on his companion’s head.

  Both men sank soundlessly to the ground. They’d wake, later, with splitting headaches, but no worse for the wear.

  Quickly, the clansmen dragged their bodies into the shadows and returned mere moments later, already having switched clothes.

  “And a fine Englishman ye make, Sean.” Doughall grinned.

  The men snorted, but Taran paid them little heed. He kept his eyes trained on the walls, relieved that, as of yet, the exchange of men had passed unnoticed.

  Then, George loomed up from the dark. “Ready?”

  “Aye.”

  “Ye’ll have only a minute to run for the stables, my lord,” Doughall reminded him. “Whistle like a nightjar when ye wish to return, and if ‘tis safe, I’ll hoot like an owl.”

  “Aye.”

  “Then, ‘tis time for a distraction,” Francis said, suddenly appearing behind his brother.

  They didn’t wait. With war whoops that impressed even Taran himself, the twins tore across the courtyard and up the opposite stairs, drawing the eye of every guard along the way.

  Taran was through the postern gate in an instant.

  The moon provided few shadows on the ground in which to hide. Trusting his men and the twins’ powers of distraction, Taran sprinted across the grass, taking the shortest route to the stables.

  Then, he was through the stable doors, calling her name, “Moll? Moll?”

  He came to a stop and held his breath.

  There was no reply.

  Found

  Moll bit her lip and watched the gallows rise on either side of the castle gates as the moon crossed the night sky. While she couldn’t have wished for better light in which to harvest, ‘twould be fair difficult—if not impossible—to sneak back into the castle undetected. Inside the stables, she waited as patiently as she could, praying the stable hands wouldn’t return—at least, not until the queen’s men had retired.

  After what felt like years, the queen’s men finally packed up their tools, and with a slowness that made her grind her teeth, filed back inside the castle through the postern gate.

  The iron-studded door had no sooner closed than she leapt up from the straw and dashed out the stable doors.

  ‘Twas time to harvest. A quick glance at the moon revealed she had less than an hour to find the mushrooms and pluck them from the earth. ‘Twas doable, most assuredly, and fortunate the snow had, for the most part, melted.

  She hurried to the stable wall where she’d seen the mushrooms before and fell to her knees. The rich, damp scent of wet earth filled her nostrils as she pulled back the dried leaves and brown-tipped fern fronds heaped against the wall.

  The minutes passed. With a deepening frown, she ran her fingers over the rocks and clumps of loamy soil.

  Her heart began to thud.

  “No,” she sobbed under her breath.

  The mushrooms were nowhere to be found. With a growing desperation, she searched the entire base of the wall and the rest, as well, the image of Charlotte lying ill at the bed tearing her soul.

  “Please,” she whispered. “Please.”

  At last, she could deny it no longer.

  The mushrooms were truly gone.

  Moll closed her eyes and forced herself to breathe. ‘Twas no doubt the fault of the snow. Still, perhaps, there were still mushrooms left in the wood.

  Determined, she rose to her feet and took a step toward the line of trees across the road when the c
reaking of a cart startled her into taking cover behind one of the carriages parked near the stable wall.

  Less than a minute later, shadowy figures appeared around the bend in the road. ‘Twas two men with staves, driving half a dozen pigs toward the stables with another man leading a donkey pulling a cart.

  “At last,” one man grumbled. “’Tis Haddon Hall.”

  “Will they let us in, now we’re late?”

  “If they wish to keep Her Majesty in a fine mood, they will,” the first man snapped.

  The man with the donkey guffawed.

  Something about his laugh made Moll’s skin crawl. Unsettled, she peeked through the spokes of the carriage wheels, watching them closely as they drove the pigs into the barn.

  “We butcher the old sow, first,” the first man said as they emerged once again. “Eldric, fetch a torch and build the fire.”

  With a grunt, Eldric stalked away.

  The moment he was out of earshot, the first man muttered, “There’s something off with the man.”

  “He works well enough,” the other replied.

  As they returned into the barn, Moll silently backed away.

  The moon now stood at its zenith. There was little time left. Moll drew a sharp breath. She couldn’t panic. She simply hadn’t the time. Nor could she waste time pondering on her return. She had to find the mushrooms—and quickly.

  Refusing to even contemplate failure, she scanned her surroundings. The mushrooms she sought grew at the base of stones. The castle walls, made of rock, stretched out in both directions. ‘Twould be dangerous, but her best chance at finding what she sought.

  She crept through the underbrush and made her way close to the castle wall. Torches flickered on the ramparts, revealing more men than she’d ever seen there before. Of course, the presence of the queen had only—

  The sudden snapping of a twig caused her to whirl.

  “Lor!” a gruff voice swore.

  Eldric stood behind her, his face half covered by his cloak. For a moment, he simply stared, and then he lunged, as if to grab her.

  Startled, she leapt to her feet and dashed away.

  Swearing, he pursued, a fresh volley of curses spewing from his lips each time he stumbled in the dark.

  She fled to the forest, but once under the cover of the trees, tripped and fell to land on her hands and knees. Holding her breath, she scooted back against the nearest tree.

  The man stumbled into the wood, but within three yards, he paused to listen.

  The branches of the trees creaked and rustled in the occasional gusts of wind.

  Finally, the man spat, then turned back to the road and to the postern gate.

  Moll drew a shaky breath. ‘Twas far too close a call. She stirred, preparing to rise, when a shaft of moonlight fell to the forest floor.

  Her heart jumped in her throat. ‘Twas as if divine guidance had led her there.

  Along the base of the boulder, small white caps pushed up from the soil.

  Almost reverently, she ran a fingertip over the small, plump caps. Fourteen. Moll closed her eyes. ‘Twould be enough for Charlotte and Lady Haddon, as well. Relief, sweet and pure, washed over her, soothing her fears.

  With a smile, she whispered the words of her spell as she so gently, so carefully pulled the stalks from the dirt and lay them in the moonlight, side-by-side.

  Then, at last, ‘twas done.

  She gathered a nest of grass and twisted the dry withered stalks around the mushrooms for protection. Satisfied with the results, she lifted her skirt and tore a strip of cloth from the bottom of her shift to wrap the entire bundle with the greatest of care. Then, for an extra measure of protection, she slid the bundle into the contraption still belted about her waist. At least, the ‘bairn’ had proved useful.

  She rose and crept back to the edge of the forest to peer at the castle.

  ‘Twas time to face her next daunting task, that of her return. Perhaps, she could—

  A hand clamped over her mouth.

  Moll screamed and bucked, but the hand covering her lips was far too strong, too powerful to let the sound escape.

  Then, a familiar voice sliced through her panic, “Easy, lass.”

  Lass? Moll’s knees turned into jelly.

  ‘Twas Taran.

  “Aye,” he grated in a near growl. “I dinna know whether to be angry or proud of what ye’ve done. I’ll decide once I have ye safe back in Haddon Hall.” He paused, then asked, “Did ye find what ye seek?”

  She nodded into his hand.

  His fingers fell away. She whirled to face him. ‘Twas dark, but she could see enough to know he was displeased—nay, angry.

  “I had no choice,” she began.

  He silenced her with a finger on her lips.

  Neither spoke as he grasped her wrist and pulled her forward, keeping to the shadows until there was nothing left but an empty expanse of road between them and the castle gates.

  Taran stood still, waiting until the two guards above the castle gates turned their heads before he lifted his fingers to his lips and whistled. ‘Twas a shrill warble, one that sounded so like a bird that Moll could hear an answering call in the trees behind them.

  The guards above the gate shifted, then suddenly glanced over their shoulders.

  A hoot of an owl sounded close by the castle gates, then, Taran was pulling her forward, straight to the wall, half-carrying her along the way as he swept her toward the postern gate.

  It all happened so fast. The next thing she knew, she was shoved through the door. Hands pulled her forward and into the courtyard, a flicker of torchlight illuminating long, swinging gray braids.

  “Quickly, now,” Doughall urged.

  Then Taran returned, his strong arm hurrying her forward to the safety of the laundry room. He didn’t give her time to think until he’d bundled through the door.

  ‘Twas only once they stood safely inside that he whirled upon her. “I’ll not have ye do something so foolish again,” he rasped through clenched teeth.

  Moll lifted her chin. “I had no choice.”

  With his jaw set in a stern line, he hooked a thumb over his shoulder. “Did ye not see the gallows, lass?”

  “Yes,” she hissed in reply. Then, with narrowing eyes, added, “Would you have me let Charlotte die?”

  The breath he drew was a sharp one, then, he closed his eyes and his shoulders sagged.

  Her anger melted. ‘Twas clear he only feared on her behalf.

  He stepped forward, but she met him halfway. As his arms closed around her, she lay her cheek against his hard chest. As ever, with him, she felt safe. For a few precious moments, she stayed there, listening to the steady beating of his heart.

  “Promise me, lass,” he whispered into her hair. “Promise me, ye’ll not do such a foolish thing again.”

  He’d risked so much to see her safe. ‘Twas an exceedingly dangerous thing to do, yet, she wouldn’t—nay, couldn’t—promise such a thing. She’d do it again, to save those she loved. “There is no need,” she answered instead. “Soon, both Charlotte and Lady Haddon will be safe.”

  Outside the windows, men began to shout.

  Taran lifted a brow, alarmed, and then, he stepped back with a curt, “I will return.”

  Unsettled, she watched him stride away, but as the shouts continued, she peered out the laundry room door.

  A cluster of men had gathered around the postern gate. Moll bit her lip. Had they been seen? She frowned, worried.

  Then, something moved in the corner of her eye. She jerked and whirled as a figure stepped out from the shadows. In the dim light, ‘twas too difficult to see, but she recognized the cloak.

  ‘Twas the man who had chased her in the woods.

  With a gasp, she dove back into the laundry and slammed the door shut. As the bolt slid safely home, she sagged against the wood in relief.

  Ruin

  Five of the queen’s guards stood in a half circle around the steps leading to the po
stern gate. Alarmed, Taran quickened his stride. Had the MacKenzie clansmen been discovered masquerading as the queen’s guard?

  “What madness is this?” he barked as he arrived.

  The guards stood aside at once.

  To his relief, the clansmen were already gone. Only the man he’d knocked out before sat on the ground, rubbing his jaw in confusion.

  “’Twas an attack, my lord,” the man said.

  “An attack of the wine bottle, mayhap” another snorted dryly.

  “Mayhap two.” Another guard held up a flask before giving it a whiff. He grimaced. “Nay, ‘tis stronger than wine.”

  “Nay, ‘twas an attack,” the man insisted. “I was struck down. Ask Eldric. He saw them himself, those who struck me down. He saw them when he roused me.”

  Taran arched a brow. Eldric wasn’t part of the plan. Who was the man? What had he seen? ‘Twas a loose end he’d have to handle.

  Turning to the men, he snapped, “’Tis clear ye canna protect Her Majesty unaided.”

  To the man, they began to object. He didn’t care. ‘Twas the perfect excuse to involve his own men and insure the matter died, then and there. He gave a shrill whistle.

  At once, Doughall and several clansmen stepped out from the shadows.

  “Mind the gates.” Taran ordered.

  After taking one look at the gray-braided mountain-of-a-man, the grumbling of the queen’s guard subsided, and Taran knew the matter would die quickly enough.

  With a jerk of his head for the nearest clansmen to follow, Taren strode across the courtyard to the base of the north tower.

  There, he pulled the man aside and murmured, “There’s a queen’s man here, one named Eldric. Find him and learn what he knows.”

  “Aye, my lord.”

  Taran ascended the steps and stepped out onto the wall, wary and on edge. Until he found Eldric and learned what he knew, danger still hung over their heads. He ran his hands through his hair and closed his eyes. When would the nightmare end?

  The castle bustled with life, more than he’d seen since he’d first stepped foot in the place months ago. Servants bustled to and fro, bearing chests and other household items from the carts parked in the lower courtyard to the keep. Apparently, the queen planned on staying in Haddon Hall for quite some time.