Freedom
As a Witch of the Heart, Moll didn’t mind mice and other woodland creatures of the night. She’d often encountered them as she gathered mushrooms in the forest—but whatever moved beneath the dank, moldy straw was hardly the same.
“A pox on you all!” she spat for the tenth time as something slithered over her ankle.
She knew it had only been a matter of hours that she huddled in the damp, chilly darkness, scarcely larger than a garderobe, but, somehow, it felt closer to days.
At first, she’d pounded against the stone walls with her fists, feeling the small walls closing about her, but she’d screamed her voice raw.
‘Twas a nightmare, to huddle in the dark, battling the visceral fear in her gut and cursing at the things slithering and squeaking beneath her. She could only hope that Euphemia wasn’t as coldblooded as she’d seemed.
After what felt an eternity, the stones above her groaned. Gravel and dust cascaded down, striking her cheek. She stepped back, but the sudden squeak and skittering beneath her heels sent her forward again.
Protecting her face with her arm, she watched as the sliver of light turned into a flood and a voice above her boomed, “Moll! Lass! Moll!”
Choking with relief, she shielded her eyes from the now blinding light. “Taran? Is that you?”
“Here, lass, grab hold,” he grunted.
He tossed a rope down, and with shaking hands, she shrugged into the loop.
Then, he was pulling her up with his muscular arms, clenching his teeth with the effort as he bodily hefted her onto the chapel floor.
They fell back together, and for several, long moments, she lay with her head against his chest, gripping his shirt tightly as if she’d never let go.
Gradually, she became aware of his fingers stroking her hair.
“Marry me,” he whispered in her ear.
Moll drew back to search his face in the flickering torchlight.
His blue eyes pierced hers. “Marry me, Moll.” He caught her hand in his and raised her fingers to his lips, looking all the while into her eyes.
“’Tis a strange jest,” she half-choked, half-sobbed.
He pulled her closer and buried his face in her hair. “Do ye think I’d jest over that?” His voice was low, soft.
Moll shivered. “’Tis impossible.” It was difficult to say the words when her heart and her lips both wanted to scream yes.
“Nay, it’s not,” he disagreed, sitting up.
Was he trying to rip her soul in twain? Tears slipped down her cheeks. “I’m still wed,” she spat bitterly. “Even if I wasn’t, you have no more choice than I.”
Taran rose to his feet and then lifted her. “Nay, I’ll have your mockery of a marriage annulled, and as for the king and the clan…” His arms slid about her waist. “In this matter, I will choose a wife of my own.”
The words made her shiver again.
A gleam entered his eye and his head angled down, the flickering torchlight accentuating the cleft in his chin. “Marry me, lass,” he whispered again. “Hither to my side when I call ye.” His hand dropped to the flattened pillow hanging limp, sideways about her waist. “Bear my bairns.”
Moll couldn’t breathe as his eyes bored into hers.
“Forgive me for intruding.”
Moll jerked, surprised, as Lady Haddon stepped into the circle of torchlight.
“You must hurry.” The lady of the castle smiled, waving at them both. “Please, hurry.”
“My lady,” Moll gasped. “Should you not be abed?”
Lady Haddon rolled her eyes. “Do you not understand the power of your own brew, Moll?” she teased lightly. Indeed, ‘twas hard to deny she looked quite strong. “You must hurry. Lord Haddon has so far, delayed the opening of the gates until Moll was found, but even he can delay no further.”
Even as she spoke, they could hear the castle’s gates beginning to groan.
“Opening the gates?” Taran queried sharply.
“Aye,” Doughall’s deep voice boomed from the shadows. The next moment, the torchlight reflected off his long, gray braids. “’Tis time to hurry.”
Taran’s head snapped back. “I’m leaving Haddon Hall,” he said grimly. “With Moll.”
“Nay,” Doughall grunted. “We’re leaving, lad.”
Taran’s brows rose. “Nay, ye dinna understand. I intend to make Moll my wife—”
The bear of a highlander snorted. “Are ye calling me a fool?” He paused and bowed low before Moll, then straightened with a grin. “’Strewth, but the lad has taken his time. I’d wagered good coin his lordship would have made his move long afore now.”
“We must hurry.” Lady Haddon rushed to the door.
“The clan—” Taran began as they quickly followed.
“Ach, dinna be a fool, lad,” Doughall snorted under his breath. “We follow you, not the king, and not even your father. He’s been gone too long from home. As for your wee lady? Ach, ye couldna have made a better choice. Now, let’s be off, aye?”
Taran fell silent as they hurried through the door where Lady Haddon waited on the step outside.
“I must return to my chambers now,” she whispered and then reached for Moll’s hand. “Go safely. We shall meet again.”
Moll had scarcely squeezed her hand in return, and then she was being bundled forward, toward the wall.
“The children,” Moll whispered.
Doughall held up his hand as two shadows separated from the wall.
“Moll?”
Moll inhaled in relief. ‘Twas George and Francis. “Charlotte?” she whispered. “The children—”
“They’re already through,” George rushed to reply.
“They carried her and the younger ones out first,” Francis added.
“Aye,” Doughall interrupted, again holding up his hand, but this time, in the demand for silence. “The lads wait already in the wood with the wee ones and horses.”
Taran shifted. “’Tis dangerous to aid me,” he began in an undertone. “The king might well outlaw the lot—”
Doughall snorted. “Then let him try. We protect our laird and his lady.”
Several men shouted from the direction of the gate.
“Hurry,” Doughall said then. “The queen’s men walk the walls, but Lord Haddon’s hold the gate. They’ll provide cover. Once you’re through, wait for the hoot of an owl, only then, ‘twill be safe to run for the forest where the lads wait. ’Tis time for silence, now. Follow in a line, aye?”
Silently, they followed him, keeping to the shadows, the twins first, then Moll, with Taran bringing up the rear.
Lord Haddon’s men lined either side of the wide-open gate, standing shoulder-to-shoulder, but the men on the left stood several feet from the wall.
‘Twas a path, leading from the castle to the road outside.
Moll swallowed. So, Lord Haddon had come to their aid. Quickly, they ducked behind the row of men and pressed forward. They’d nearly reached the gate when several men shouted from the direction of the great hall.
Doughall paused and crouched.
Moll held her breath and glanced back, between the legs of the men she hid behind.
The queen’s guards approached, the moonlight glinting off their helmets as they dragged a limp body forward between them as the foremost man broke away from the others to stride toward the gates.
It was the captain. “Why does the gate stand open?” he railed.
The man to Moll’s left broke rank and stepped forward as the men who had flanked him sealed the breach in the line.
Moll caught a fleeting glimpse of his thinning hair and prominent nose. ‘Twas Lord Haddon himself.
“Onward,” Doughall whispered.
As they began to move once again, the castle’s lord challenged the captain standing so belligerently before him, “The fault is yours. You’ve kept me long waiting.”
The captain snorted. “’Twas your men, Lord Haddon. They’ve been playing games, delaying the—”
“’Tis not my men who play games,” Lord Haddon cut in, his tone rank with contempt.
As the verbal match continued, Doughall hurried them through, and then, they were outside the castle, hugging the walls. First George, then Francis, dashed to the forest’s safety under the hoot of the owl, then, ‘twas Moll’s turn.
Holding her breath, she waited for the signal when behind her, she heard an all-too-familiar voice.
“Where are you taking me?”
‘Twas Thomas.
Moll gasped and whirled, clamping her hand over her mouth.
The captain stood mere feet away with only Lord Haddon’s men between them. At the sound of her gasp, he turned in her direction, but Lord Haddon’s men shifted and began to cough.
“Be quick,” Lord Haddon stepped forward. “I’ll not stand here all night, indulging your every whim.”
Distracted, the captain turned his attention back to his prisoner as his men dragged the tailor forward.
“And what crime has this man committed?” Lord Haddon asked.
“He dared place Her Majesty in grave danger,” the captain clipped. “He came from the heart of London’s plague and…”
Then, Taran’s arm was pulling Moll back as she heard the hoot of an owl echoing from the forest.
“Run,” Taran breathed in her ear.
She did.
The sting of winter seemed much more pronounced under the eaves of the forest. The Highlanders waited for her there, some standing beside their horses and others already mounted, ready to ride.
In the moon’s dim light, she could saw the children, seated before the clansmen, wrapped in warm, woolen plaids.
Moments later, Taran arrived with Doughall quickly upon his heels.
The sudden sound of a man’s scream pierced the air, but even before Moll turned, the sound came to an abrupt end. When she looked, she saw only his feet, dangling in the moonlight, and then, she could look no more.
A strong arm caught her about the waist, effortlessly hoisting her into the saddle.
“Dinna look, lass,” Taran’s deep brogue warned. “There’s naught that can be done.”
“Not that there should be,” George muttered from nearby.
“’Tis justice,” Francis added. “For his previous wives and their untimely ends.”
Taran lifted a hand. “‘Tis time to ride.”
He drew his cloak around Moll, shielding her from the view of the castle as well as the cold, and then, he dug his heels into his horse’s flank.
Moll inhaled with a sense of finality and bowed her head.