Heather House: The Witch of Threadneedle Street

by Carmen Caine

  “My lord?” a clansman called as he sprinted past him.

  Taran didn’t stop.

  The door to Euphemia’s chamber opened on the second volley of the assault. The moment the latch lifted, he knocked back the door and was through, striding across the darkened room to the bedchamber beyond, astonished women darting out of his path like frightened rabbits.

  Euphemia lay already in bed.

  In three strides, he was by her side. He yanked the covers straight off and grabbed her shift to lift her half off the bed.

  “My lord,” she squeaked, her eyes wide.

  Taran brought her face to his, so close, their noses nearly touched. “Where is she?” he whispered, his voice low and with a calm that belied the turmoil burning within.

  Euphemia’s lashes fluttered, “Who?”

  He arched a silent brow.

  Anger leapt into her eyes. “She’ll stay unharmed if ye do your duty.”

  Relief coursed through him at the words ‘stay unharmed’, but then the temptation to wring Euphemia’s scrawny neck nearly overwhelmed him. “Duty?”

  Euphemia’s lashes swept down over her eyes. “Bed me. Make me yours,” she breathed the words more than said them. Her hand dropped to his groin.

  He stared at her, repulsed. Was there no limit to how far she would go to attain what she wished?

  “I’ll never bed ye.” He gave a mirthless chuckle. “The thought alone summons bile to my throat.” He clamped his hand over hers, allowing his shriveled manhood to underscore that fact. Then, disgusted with her fingers closing around him, he caught her wrist in a vicelike grip and squeezed.

  She gasped and let go.

  “Nay, lass, ye dinna know just who ye’ve chosen to make an enemy,” he informed her softly. “I dinna need your father’s influence at court. If ye dinna do as I say, by the time I’ve finished, there’s not a man in Scotland, England, or the continent, as well, who will come within a mile of ye.”

  Even in the dim light, he could see her pupils widen.

  “Aye,” he said when it was clear she would say no more. “’Tis heartening to see we’ve reached an understanding. Tell me, what have ye done with Moll. Where is she?”

  She swallowed, and in the profound silence, he could hear every muscle of her throat work.

  Then, her shoulders sagged. “In the chapel.”

  Taran frowned, puzzled. His men had searched the chapel. He had himself. Several times. “Where?”

  Looking like the angry venomous snake she was, she spat, “There’s a priest hole, behind the alter. ‘Tis an iron ring on the floor.”

  He dropped her like a hot coal. “Never let me lay eyes on ye again.”

  He strode toward the door, pausing only long enough to shove her chair back with his foot, and then he left the room.

  Outside the ancient chapel next to the aviary, he grabbed a torch from the wall. Then, he was inside, running to the alter. He knocked the fat wax candle off the iron stand and jammed the torch in its place as he scanned the floor for the priest hole ring.

  He found it, between the alter and the wall. ‘Twas much smaller than he’d expected, and the stone covering difficult to move. His muscles strained, and he gritted his teeth, pulling hard until finally, with a sound of rock grating on rock, he shifted the stone, then sat back and shoved it aside with his feet.

  “Moll! Lass! Moll!”

  Silence met his call, then, a voice sweeter than heaven rasped, “Taran? Is that you?”

  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.

  Heather House

  They rode north, passing through forests and villages, some struck by plague and others by fear. The winds blew cold, and the further they rode, the thicker the mists became. On the evening of the third day, Doughall reined his horse at the head of the party and waited for Taran to join him.

  “What is it?” Taran asked.

  Moll stirred in his arms and pushed back the plaid from her face.

  “I canna see,” the gray-braided man growled as he pointed at the earth. “I’ve lost the path.”

  Moll glanced down. Instead of the road beneath their horses’ hooves, she saw only heather and gorse. The mists rolling around them were only growing thicker even as they watched.

  “I’ve seen these mists afore,” Taran murmured thoughtfully. “Though, ‘twas further north.”

  “There, to the left,” one of the clansmen called from behind. “’Tis a break in the trees.”

  Moll squinted toward the trees.

  She saw her then, a tall, willowy lady in a green gown and with her long, raven hair tumbling out from beneath a pearl-strewn net.

  “The Lady of the Stones,” Taran breathed softly.

  Moll held her breath. Her heart began to pound. The woman was a witch, as clearly announced by her eyes, but there was something unworldly about her as well.

  Almost as if in a dream, Taran nudged his horse forward as Moll sat ramrod straight in his arms.

  The lady waited until they were close, then turned and led them through the trees, floating over the forest floor like a wraith. Moll could only shiver and watch.

  After a few minutes, they left the trees and upon entering a woodland glade, the lady suddenly vanished.

  “Who is she?” Moll gasped, realizing only then that they’d all been struck dumb.

  As the men about her began to murmur, the mists in front of them parted to reveal a large stone circle only several yards away.

  “’Tis as I thou
ght,” Taran said in a low voice. “We are at Heather House.”

  “Heather House?” Moll queried.

  He shifted behind her and slowly dismounted, and then reached up to hand her down. As her foot touched the ground, a freezing gust of wind swept through the glade to clear the mists entirely away.

  “What is this place?” Moll demanded, louder as she searched the stone circle ringed by ancient trees.

  “You are home, child,” a voice sounded from behind.

  Moll turned.

  A blonde-haired woman swathed in a dark blue cloak stood next to the largest stone in the circle. Unlike the mysterious woman from before, this one appeared truly made of flesh and blood, radiating a timeless beauty, a grace and poise that spoke of patience and wisdom as well as unearthly charm.

  “Well done, Taran,” she said, greeting him with a warm smile. “Ye brought Moll safe to her own kind.”

  Taran bowed his head.

  “My kind?” Moll repeated.

  The woman turned to Moll. “I am Christine, the Witch of Heather House, a haven for our kind,” she said. “Welcome, lass. Here, ye’ll be safe.”

  Moll glanced about. “The raven-haired woman…I’ve seen her before.” Hadn’t she? In the laundry? Or had that been Bertha…or both?

  “’Tis the Lady of the Stones,” Christine replied. “She comes and goes wither she wills, lass, ever atween worlds. Ye’ll see her again, I’ve no doubt. Mayhap, as even a woman of great age.” A gleam of mirth entered her eye.

  So, it had been Bertha? But atween worlds? Moll shivered at the truth in the words.

  “Come now to Heather House.” Christine waved them forward. “‘Tis time for ye and the bairns to rest and heal.”

  Moll hesitated, her heart wanting to follow, but her mind still, as yet, unsure.

  “There’s naught to fear, lass.” Taran slipped an arm about her waist. “I was here afore, with my cousin, Alec, and Sorcha. Indeed, Heather House was her childhood home.”

  Christine smiled. “Heather House will always be a home to our kind.”

  She turned, and they followed her, silently, as she led them down a woodland path, and then to a stone bridge spanning a bubbling burn. On the far side stood a cottage with a thatched roof and a goat shed behind an ancient, spreading oak. ‘Twas a homey place, one that set Moll instantly at ease.