Page 44 of The Witch of Threadneedle Street

“Nay, my lord.”

“Then, go. Return in a week,” Lord Haddon ordered, dismissing him with a curt wave of his hand.

The messenger wheeled his horse and galloped away.

Taran watched the man disappear around the bend in the road. There was little hope now of his own messenger returning. He could only hope the man had, indeed, escaped to France and wasn’t hanging from a gibbet by the queen’s gates.

“MacKenzie,” Lord Haddon grunted, acknowledging him at the same time as bidding him farewell.

Taran didn’t reply.

He resumed his walk on the wall, the wind pulling at his hair only served as a reminder he was not free but still trapped. He clamped his jaw, his sympathy for caged birds only increasing.

As the sun climbed the sky, he joined the others gathered on the wall above the courtyard where his men trained. Even though he was healing remarkably well, he was still a week away from joining them. As the crowds cheered and the buzz of voices followed as new bets were laid, he spied two familiar red heads bobbing through the crowd below.

‘Twas George and Francis.

Taran arched a suspicious brow. They moved, almost as if in a pattern…was one providing distractions for the other? As he watched, Francis slipped behind Sean the Iron Fist, a burly, pock-faced MacKenzie clansman with a particularly foul temper.

Suddenly, the man whirled, and his angry voice rose above the surrounding din, “Show me your hand, lad, afore I chop it off.”

The hum of voices died in an instant.

Taran straightened.

There was a scuffle, a short-lived one. Then, Doughall emerged, his gray braids swinging from side-to-side as he shoved George before him with one meaty hand and with the other, pulled Francis by the ear.

“My lord,” several MacKenzie clansmen called.

All eyes turned to where he stood on the wall. Taran nodded his chin at the great hall. Once. As his men bundled the twins through the crowd, the onlookers around him parted, opening a path to the stairs leading below.

Taran locked his jaw and descended, keenly aware of the calls of ‘thief’ and ‘pickpocket’ swirling around him. Just what had the foolish lads done? Why? Did they not know the danger?

As he strode toward the hall, a procession of onlookers formed behind him.

“My lord,” Sean the Iron Fist growled as Taran arrived.

George and Francis stood by the high table, surrounded by a mix of clansmen and guards as curious castle residents streamed in through the doors at the opposite end of the hall.

“Caught him with his thieving hand in my pocket, my lord.” Sean pointed an accusatory finger straight at Francis.

Francis raised his chin and boldly met Taran’s eyes. George stared straight ahead, straight-backed and stoic.

At Taran’s left, the crowd suddenly parted and Moll rushed forward, her face lily-white.

“Found this under the lad’s shirt,” a bulbous-nosed man standing next to George said, holding up a leather bag, plump and full.

There wasn’t a sound to be heard as he loosened the drawstrings and shook the bag over the table. A jumble of brass hinges, silver rings, along with a small silver spoon tumbled out.

“Why?” Moll gasped, stricken.

Immediately, the eyes of the crowd locked onto her.

“What’s this?” Lord Haddon’s voice boomed as he entered. “Thievery?”

Taran skewered the lads with a look. ‘Twas fortunate they’d only victimized MacKenzie clansmen.

“My lord—” Moll began in a strangled voice.