Greetings from the King
Taran eyed Her Majesty, Queen Elizabeth of England, as she sat at the high table, presiding over the great hall.
Pale-skinned and thin lipped, the hallows beneath her cheeks lent her the appearance of a bird of prey.
The keen, hawkish gleam in her brown eyes only served to underscore the comparison, as did her long-fingered hands with nails of exceptional length.
“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.