Page 65 of The Witch of Threadneedle Street

As the morning bell chimed, Doughall met Taran at the door to the great hall.

“Moll’s safe and sleeping,” the man replied in answer to Taran’s unspoken question.

‘Twas not unexpected news. After all, the twins had brought him tidings the entire night through. “The pig-scalder?”

“’Tis a mystery, my lord,” Doughall grunted. “He’s yet to be found.”

Taran scowled. “Indeed, does the man exist?”

“We’ll find him,” the man swore.

Taran turned away and stalked to the high table.

The queen was there already, sitting in a massive carved chair—clearly, one of her own. She was magnificent, certainly looking every inch the queen that she was in her blue velvet, ermine-trimmed gown and a delicate gold net of jewels entwined in her red hair.

As before, Lord Haddon sat at the far end of the table, his gaze locked on the content of his cup.

Taran eyed him grimly.

The ladies-in-waiting glanced up as Taran approached the queen and executed the most elaborately intricate of bows.

“Lord MacKenzie,” Queen Elizabeth acknowledged with a dip of her chin.

Taran straightened. “His Majesty, King James of Scotland, has sent ye letters, Your Majesty. I’d be delighted to deliver them this very day.”

The queen’s nostrils flared, just enough to betray her anger. “’Tis far too early to discuss matters of state.” She waved a hand of dismissal.

He didn’t mind. He’d merely wished to secure her attention. Now that he had, he stepped sideways to address Lord Haddon in a loud voice, “And how fare’s your wife?”

Lord Haddon went stiff.

The queen’s head turned their way and her lips pulled down into a frown.

Abruptly, Lord Haddon rose to his feet. “If you’ll excuse me, Your Majesty,” he murmured, never taking his eyes from Taran’s.

Taran followed him out the door and well into the courtyard beyond.

Once they were safely out of earshot, Lord Haddon rounded on him angrily, “’Tis blackmail, then, MacKenzie? Do wish to bring the wrath of the queen upon my head? You know right well the truth of the matter.”

Taran locked a wintry gaze on the man. “I dinna wish to be your enemy, but ye leave me no choice but to use the weapon that will work.” He left the rest unsaid.

Anger darkened Lord Haddon’s face. “Then go now, and you’d best run. I’ll send the hounds of hell after you—”

Taran grabbed the man’s arm and yanked him close. “Nay, dinna be a fool. We’ve no cause to be enemies. Think, man.”

Lord Haddon’s eyes narrowed. He waited.

Taran nodded his chin in the general direction of the laundry. “Moll can save your lady’s life. Is that not what ye wish?”

The man’s jaw tightened.

“Free Moll,” Taran hissed.

“Ye know right well that we all stand in danger of the gibbet,” Lord Haddon grated.

Hardly. Taran suppressed a cold smile. He’d fight his way out of the castle, first, but aloud, he merely murmured, “Then, what have ye to lose?”

For nearly a minute, Lord Haddon simply stared, then, he warned in a voice so low Taran could scarcely hear, “You’d best pray my lady does not die. If she does, I’ll plant an arrow in Moll’s heart.”