Heather House: The Witch of Threadneedle Street

by Carmen Caine

  The rain fell in earnest when she opened the outer door. ‘Twas near dark, but yet, she could still see, and for a moment, she simply stood on the threshold, breathing in the chill, damp air. Despite the early winter darkness, her heart felt as light as a summer’s day, as if she were again a carefree child in Wales.

  Around her, Haddon Hall bristled with the queen’s guard. ‘Twas curious. What had made them so uneasy? Picking up her skirts, she ran across the muddied, dead grass. But as the rain thickened, she hurried to take cover under the line of buildings hugging the northern wall. She’d approach Taran’s bedchamber from the opposite side to avoid getting wet—or wetter. Already, her skirts clung to her knees.

  She’d just reached the overhanging roof of the first building when a helpful hand clasped onto her wrist to drag her inside.

  Then, the helpful fingers, turning all at once painful.

  She gasped and glanced up.

  ‘Twas the man from the forest. She recognized his cloak, but then, the dim light filtering through the door fell on his grizzled hair as the rain dripped off the end of his bulbous nose.

  Nay. ‘Twas impossible.

  Before her, alive and in the flesh, stood Thomas, the Thread Needle Street tailor.

  Horrors of the Past

  Moll could only hear the booming beat of her heart as the blood rushed to her ears. Thomas stood there, alive, well, and crushing her wrist in a vicelike grip as his mouth moved, spewing words she couldn’t hear. His face had grown thinner, and now, the stench of pigs mingled with the usual stink of his unwashed body and the odor of whisky. Lord help her. How had he survived London’s plague?

  He grinned, revealing his rotting tooth on the lower back side of his mouth. Oddly, ‘twas the darkened tooth that brought her back to the present. Horror poured into her, straight down to the bottom of her soul.

  Her husband had…returned. Lord help her…she was still wed to the man.

  Moll sucked in a huge, gasping breath and twisted free. “No!”

  The word hung in the air between them.

  Then, Thomas reached for her stomach. “You carry my babe? You hid it well.”

  Moll stumbled back, toward the steps. She’d willingly die before she’d let the man touch her again. “Keep away from me,” she warned in a voice between a gasp and a sob.

  “Is that a proper way to greet your husband?” His lips split into a gloating smile. “My heir.”

  She couldn’t return to the life from before. She simply couldn’t. “No,” she choked, lunging for the stairs. “Keep away from me. You’re not my husband. You never were.”

  He was nimble enough, despite his age. He reached the stairs before her and blocked her way. “Are you mad?”

  “Keep away from me, Thomas.” Moll’s voice shook.

  The sound of his name echoing up the stairwell caused him to flinch. As quick as a striking snake, his fingers lashed out and grabbed her arm, digging deep into her flesh. “I’ll thank you to remember it’s Eldric now, trollop,” he hissed. “Perhaps, this will help.” He struck her hard across the face.

  The coppery taste of blood burst into Moll’s mouth. As he loosened his grip on her wrist, she twisted free, and then she was running, out the door and into the rain.

  The next thing she knew, a strong arm caught her waist. She screamed.

  “Ho, lass,” Taran’s deep voice rumbled beneath her ear.

  Moll went still. Taran. Not trusting herself to speak, she gripped handfuls of his shirt, assuring herself he was truly there and determining he was, gripped even harder so that she would never be torn away.

  “What happened?” His soothing brogue washed over her like cool water on fevered skin.

  Dimly, as if she were miles away, she heard herself breathe the word, “Thomas.”

  A look of bewilderment narrowed his eyes.

  She had to tell him. Lord help her, she had to tell him, but her lips refused to utter the word ‘husband’. The man wasn’t. By God, she’d never consented, not once. Anger caught hold, giving her strength. “The man to whom my father gave me,” she spat.

  Every muscle in Taran’s lean body went rigid.

  “I saw the house burn.” A river of words poured from her mouth. “He couldn’t have survived, Taran. They told me he’d died. Died of the plague. Lord help me, Taran. I can’t go back. I can’t. He calls himself Eldric now. He’s here, taking care of the queen’s swine. Heaven help me, how did he survive?”

  It was only then that she realized he was holding her close, whispering into her hair, “Nay, lass, ye’ll never go back. I swear upon my life, Moll.”

  He was so warm. Steady. Like a rock. If only she could stay in the circle of his arms, safe.

  “Never,” he repeated firmly.

  Taran was strong and clearly, after everything she’d seen, a true man of honor. Yet, even he couldn’t overturn the law and the church. Bitterly, she wrenched free from his embrace and sent him a wounded look.

  “There’s naught even you can do.” She closed her eyes. There was no choice but to run. This very day.

  “Dinna doubt me, sweeting.” Taran’s breath caressed her ear. “He’ll never have ye, I swear.”

  She couldn’t let herself feel the hope those words unleashed. Clenching her fingers into fists, she drew her lips into a thin, determined line. Her mind already beginning to race. She had to run, but the children? Charlotte was weak, still abed. Perhaps, Francis or George could steal a horse?

  Taran’s hand dropped on her shoulder and his lips brushed her forehead. “Dinna fret, Moll. Hie yourself off to the room while I settle the matter, aye?”

  She nodded. ‘Twas best to let him think she would simply comply. She could only sneak out easier that way. She didn’t want to, but she had to leave. ‘Twould be the best for them both.

  As the sound of his boots moved away, Moll allowed herself one last look. ‘Twould be the last time she saw him. Not so many days ago, she’d entered the castle, suspicious of the man and his every motive, but even then, she’d thought him handsome. Strangely, even from the first moment, she’d instinctively felt safe in his arms. Lord help her, she loved him. She knew that now. She loved him. She always would.

  She stared at his departing form until he vanished into the great hall and then drew a ragged breath.

  ‘Twas best she left. Now, this very moment. There was lichen aplenty she could gather to put the guards to sleep. She could easily sneak out the gate. She needn’t worry that their drugged bodies would be found in the morning. She and the children could be long gone.

  Chewing her lip furiously to keep back the tears, she headed up the stairs.

  Truly, ‘twas just as well she left. After all, how could she stay? Taran was destined to wed a lady and seeing him with another woman would only break her heart.

  She’d nearly reached the landing of the second floor when she heard the metallic clang of weapons and a woman’s voice.

  “Hurry. Be quick.”

  A queen’s guard swept down from the stairs above.

  “Pardon me,” Moll murmured, flattening against the wall.

  To her surprise, the man didn’t pass her by. Instead, he grabbed her arm. “I’ve got her, my lady.”

  Moll blinked as a familiar blonde, statuesque figure appeared on the steps behind him, descending slowly.

  ‘Twas Euphemia.

  With eyes glittering colder than ice, the woman said, “Take her away.”

  The Wheels of Fate

  So. This was Eldric. Thomas. The tailor of Thread Needle Street. The thought of Moll suffering under his hand made Taran’s rage burn. What father would willingly wed his daughter to such a man? Such a man had no place touching Moll. By God, he’d see justice done.

  The man stunk. His flesh hung off his bones, the lack of muscle announcing him a creature who avoided an honest day’s work. He grinned at Taran, nervously, and with the demeanor of a coward as he groveled on the laundry floor.

  The image of Moll’s
bloodied lip and the despair on her bonny face arced across Taran’s mind. Anger rose like bile in his throat.

  “Up, ye coward,” he spat, grabbing the tailor by the collar and bodily hefting him to his feet.

  “My lord,” Thomas squealed.

  A wave of stench—swine, vomit, and spirits—rolled over Taran’s face. ‘Twas the last straw. He’d spent the better part of an hour hunting the man down. They’d only stumbled upon his hiding place by accident. He’d hidden in a cupboard with a bottle of wine. They’d only discovered him when he escaped to filch another. Now, ‘twas time he talked. No doubt, silver would convince him readily enough to agree to an annulment but rewarding the man with silver simply seemed wrong after the torture he’d so clearly inflicted on the lass.

  Taran’s fingers tightened of their own accord.

  Was it the shadows cast about the room or had the grizzled tailor’s face darkened to a deep purple?

  “Ye’d best let him breathe, lad, unless, ye mean to finish him off,” Doughall murmured from where he leaned against the laundry table, his arms loosely folded across his bear of a chest. “Though, from what I’ve heard, ‘twould be a service to mankind, I assure ye.”

  Through a sheer act of will, Taran forced his fingers to relax, enough to let the man take a strangled gasp of air. ‘Twas time to finish the matter. He’d spent only minutes in the man’s company and couldn’t tolerate a moment more.

  “I know who ye are—” Taran began.

  The door bounced off the limewashed-wall as the captain of the queen’s guard and two of his men strode into the room, their armor jingling as their boots struck the floor.

  “Eldric?” the captain snapped.

  “Aye,” Doughall answered upon the tailor’s behalf.

  “Take him.” The captain nodded at his men.

  Taran narrowed his eyes as the men lunged forward, each to grab the tailor by an arm.

  “Why?” Doughall heaved off the table, his gray braids swinging to his waist.

  “He’s an imposter,” came the man’s clipped reply. “If the rumors are true, he’ll be swinging from the gibbet before morning.”

  Alarm ripped through Taran.

  “My lord?” the captain turned to him. “What business do you have with the man?”

  Taran cocked a brow. He owed the man no explanation. “Take him if ye will.”

  The captain shot him a look but bowed. ‘Twas clear he knew better than to press the matter further. “If you’ll excuse us.”

  He strode out the door and his men followed, taking the tailor with them.

  “Seems the man will hang either way,” Doughall grunted when they’d gone. “The queen’s captain has been itching to use his fine gallows since the moment he had them built.”

  ‘Twas exactly what Taran feared. Let the tailor meet his own fate, he didn’t care a whit—as long as he didn’t drag Moll down with him. Taran ground his teeth. How quickly the world had changed. There would be no long, boring winter within Haddon Hall’s walls. The castle was no longer a cage but a trap, and a trap he had to escape before its iron jaws closed tight.

  They had to leave. He couldn’t wait until the queen chose to let those within free as she most likely would within days. With the tailor likely squealing already, every hour counted.

  All that mattered was that they left. ‘Twould result in a scandal, of course…not that he cared. The king would likely brand him an outlaw when he got wind of the matter. The clan? He drew a sharp breath. Aye, they’d choose his cousin to succeed him. He bowed his head. ‘Twould only be fitting when he’d placed his own welfare above theirs.

  “My lord?” Doughall’s deep voice queried.

  Opening his eyes, he met Doughall’s questioning gaze with a cool, steady one of his own. “Follow Eldric,” he ordered curtly. “See he doesna speak of Moll.”

  The Highlander cocked a brow. “And why would he now?”

  Taran shrugged. The less the man knew, the better. As a clan elder and one of the most influential, he couldn’t ruin Doughall’s standing by dragging him into this particular affair.

  “Aye then,” Doughall muttered, then paused and said, “I trust ye well enough, lad.”

  Taran left the laundry. Four queen’s men now protected the postern gate instead of Lord Haddon’s usual two. ‘Twas impossible to take out four men by himself, silently and all at once. He’d have to find another way.

  Gritting his teeth, he sprinted to the north tower and headed up the steps. Once outside the gates, he’d need horses, saddled ones, in order to make good his escape. But the children? ‘Twas unlikely they knew how to ride…and even if they did, wee Charlotte’s delicate health only complicated the entire affair.

  Taran paused before his bedchamber and rested his forehead against the door.

  ‘Twas impossible. There was no escape, at least, not so quick a one. Yet, what choice did he have? With Queen Elizabeth, he had no power. The risks were far, far too great. If she chose to hang Moll…he couldn’t finish the thought.

  Charlotte looked up with a grin as he stepped inside the room. ‘Twas a sight to see and one that warmed his soul, and for a blessed moment, he simply let himself enjoy the wee lassie’s delight.

  “Athair!” She held out her small hands. “I’ve missed ye so.”

  “And I, ye.” He smiled and then glanced at the children arranged in various locations around the chamber. “Where’s Moll?”

  “She’s with Lady Haddon,” Francis replied from his post near the window.

  Taran drew his brows into a line. Again? Or had she never returned? A new complication was the last thing he needed. Wishing to avoid upsetting the younger children, he nodded at the door and murmured to the twins, “Lads, follow me, will ye?”

  “We’re leaving,” he announced the instant the door clicked shut behind them.

  The twin’s eyes glittered in the dim light of the corridor as their chins snapped up, alert.

  “’Tis Thomas.” ‘Twas difficult to even say the name. “He’s here.”

  “Thomas?” George repeated.

  “Not the tailor?” Francis asked, astonished. “But he’s dead.”

  Taran gave a harsh laugh. “Nay, he’s not, and now he’s been deemed an imposter. No doubt, he’s squealing like a pig already—”

  “Has he seen Moll?” Francis cut in, alarmed.

  At Taran’s nod, both lads hissed. “We’ve got to leave. Now. Afore he unleashes them on us all.”

  “Does he know ye lads, too?” Taran’s heart sank.

  George’s face darkened. “Only too well.”

  “I’ll ready the others,” Francis offered. “We’ve got to run. We can distract the guards—”

  “No, ‘tis Moll,” George interrupted quickly. “She can brew a potion to set the men to sleep. She’s sold them in the market afore.”

  ‘Twas an interesting thought and one that just might make the entire plan feasible. “I’ll fetch Moll,” Taran said, then pointed to the door. “Ready the wee ones and wait.”

  As the lads hurried back into the room, Taran took off at a run.

  He’d just entered the keep when he spied Lady Haddon emerging from the stairs with her maid, Bridgette, at her side. He could only stare in wonder. ‘Twas a miracle. Color bloomed on her face and there was a spring in her step as she held out her hands in greeting.

  “Taran. ’Tis wonderful to see you.”

  “’Tis a delight to see ye so hale and hearty, my lady,” Taran bowed over her hand.

  Lady Haddon squeezed his fingers. “I’ve only Moll to thank. She’s a miracle.”

  Taran cast a curious glance at the empty hall stretching behind her. “I’ve come to fetch her.”

  “Fetch her?” Lady Haddon’s eyes widened in concern. “She isn’t here. She left some time ago.”

  Biting back a curse, Taran wheeled and sprinted out the door. What had the tailor done? The thought Moll might be lying somewhere, hurt and in need of aid, lent an extra urgency to h
is step.

  After dispatching several of his men to begin the search, he ducked into the laundry, but finding it empty, headed to the great hall next.

  The feast had already begun. Voices buzzed. Servants scurried to and fro. Taran scanned the faces gathered within, but Moll wasn’t there. At the high table, Queen Elizabeth sat with Lord Haddon on her right and Lady Haddon on her left. At the end of the table, Euphemia sat next to an empty chair. The chair was, no doubt, reserved for himself. ‘Twas ludicrous she’d expected him to sit by her side and share a meal.

  Euphemia’s eyes followed his every move as he strode down the length of the hall. He didn’t care. He’d hardly scurry to her side. Reaching the far end with no sight of Moll, he turned and surveyed the place in one last look.

  ‘Twas then he noticed Euphemia, watching him with a smirk. Irritated, he gritted his teeth and strode out of the hall.

  An hour passed, and then another.

  He paced the walls, waiting for word from his men while still continuing his own search, but he cast an uneasy eye at the gallows. ‘Twas with relief he spied them each time, empty, silent, in the dark winter night air.

  As the clouds parted and a pale waxing crescent moon rose in the sky, a heaviness grew deep inside Taran’s chest. Something ill had befallen the lass. ‘Twas clear…but what? At times, his clansmen passed him on the wall. The message was short. She had yet to be found.

  He should have throttled the tailor while he’d had the chance, to wring what had become of Moll and afore he could talk even more.

  Frustrated, he averted his gaze into the inky night. What ill had befallen the lass? He relived their last encounter, again and again. If only he’d stayed a wee bit longer…but what was the use of thinking such things now?

  He passed his hands over his face, again, searching the great hall in his mind’s eye. She hadn’t set foot in the place. The queen’s folk had taken the table she’d usually sat at with the children. He sifted through his memories…then tensed.

  Euphemia’s smirk.

  ‘Twas a smirk that meant something. He was sure of it. His blood began to boil.