by L. L. Muir
He took another step, wondering if he might be able to reach out to the younger boy and ease his pain, if only a little.
Wickham held him back. “Neither of them can see ye, aye? Ye can do nothing for him. This tableau is done and gone. Set in stone. There is no changing it.”
“Then why have ye brought me here? I wanted to go home, to be home. Not just to see it, but to be a part of it.” He looked at his father. “I want him to see that I’ve grown, that I will be as big as my brothers someday. He’ll like me well enough, when he sees…potential.”
“I am sorry,” Wickham said. “But I cannot leave ye where ye’ve already been. What good could come of yer father seeing two Percys before him. He’d curse his eyes and send ye away. Tell me he wouldn’t.”
Wickham was right, but that still didn’t explain why he’d been brought to that exact place and time. Why, instead, couldn’t he have seen his mother alive and well?
He put the question to Wickham.
“Trust me, lad. Ye’ll want to remember her as the woman in yer heart, not the woman who suffered here. Remember her soft hand in yers as ye attended Mass. Remember her tender words. Forget the rest.” He nodded sharply. “Think of a more pleasant time, and that is where we will go next, so ye can put this behind ye.”
The blackness swirled again and blocked out the scene of the nine-year-old Percy. But it quickly dissolved, leaving them right where they’d been.
“Percy,” Wickham chided. “Forget this.”
“It’s not over!” Percy followed his younger self out of the great hall. The lad stepped through the doorway and was immediately dragged to the left. When Percy rounded the wall, he found his brother, William, holding the lad close.
His sister held her hand over his mouth. “Dinna greet until we are outside, do ye hear?”
The boy nodded and tears spilled onto her hand.
Percy followed the young trio until they finally reached the lower bailey. Betha would have been eleven at the time. William, fourteen.
The herdsmen and tradesmen paid them little mind. To the west, they followed the wall for a bit, then collapsed into a row with their backs against it. The lad landed between the other two.
“Is it true?” he demanded. “Is my mother dead?”
“Aye.” William’s voice was much higher than Percy remembered. “Ye shouldnae be sad for her. Ye should be glad she got away from him.”
Betha reached across the lad’s chest to give William a whack. “Of course he should greet. Just...not for long is all. And stay out of the hall if yer eyes are red. Father will pick on ye, to be certain ye grow up to be as mean and heartless as he is. But ye must resist, do ye hear? No matter what happens, ye must remember yer mum. Remember what she taught ye, what she taught us all, that we must always hide hope inside us, where no one can take it.”
She tormented the lad relentlessly, until he promised to remember. Though, by the time he gave in, it looked as if he’d forgotten what it was she was asking of him. His mother was dead. The priest was gone. There would be no more masses. His life would have no pleasant bits to give him hope.
He remembered thinking that, if it weren’t for William and Betha, the devil might as well collect him and be done.
Wickham’s hand once again descended on Percy’s shoulder. “I have more to show ye, aye?”
The black mist came, whether he wanted it or nay.
Chapter Nine
The smell of horses and stale hay hit Percy before he saw anything. And even after the blackness was gone, they were still left in the dark. Even so, he knew the stables well. It was where he slept most nights in the summer months, when the weather was fair.
Wanting to stir his memories further, he left Wickham behind and climbed to the loft. He might have left something of himself there…
And what he found was, surprisingly, himself.
At first, he wondered if it might be one of his older brothers. But the Gordons born to his father’s first wife were much rounder, all of them, than the one lying in the corner. He was all bones and hair. There was even a bit of scruff on his chin.
“Is it myself?” He glanced at Wickham, who’d appeared at his side. “Truly?”
“Aye. Ye were sixteen years here.”
That meant in two years, he would look like this? He withheld judgment for the moment, hoping the lad would look better once awake.
Wickham pulled him back as the barn was lit from below. Someone was coming.
Percy looked for a place he might hide, then remembered that he couldn’t be seen. He’d already been there, was there still.
They both turned to watch William—an older version than Percy remembered—coming to shake him awake. When he rolled the younger lad over, a black eye and a damaged lip gaped open. The lad groaned in protest.
“Come,” said William. “I am taking ye away from here. If Father decides to beat ye again, I fear he willnae stop until ye’re dead.” He pulled one lanky arm over his shoulder and lifted. The lad sucked in a breath and tried to help.
After a drawn out struggle, they both stood on the ground, clutching each other. “What of Betha,” the lad whispered.
“She’ll not come.” William pulled him toward the door. “She has been promised she will one day marry Montgomery Ross, so she is content to stay. Once she is the lady of the clan, she promises to send for us. But until then, we can take care of each other, aye?”
William pushed the door aside and jolted to a stop. A mob of brothers grinned back.
The oldest, Dunc, pushed at his shoulder. “Won’t Father want to know what ye’re doin’ with Mary Aiken’s rat?”
“I’m taking him to see the healer.” William tried to push past, to pretend he expected to be allowed to go on his way, but Dunc moved to block him.
“What if The Gordon doesn’t want him healing, eh?”
“Try to think, Dunc. Ye’re the oldest and need do what is wisest. Now, who do ye suppose Father will beat if Percy is gone. Eh?”
Dunc shrugged. “That’d be ye, William.”
“And on up the line.” William gave the rest of them a nod, then tried again to push around Dunc’s hulking form.
“When there are only two of us left,” Dunc sneered, “then, I’ll take action. As for now, we’ll be asking Father.”
The mob dragged and pushed them along, forcing them into the keep and the great hall. Unfortunately, his drunken father was still awake. A nervous maid was tending to his bloody hands and a shiver ran up Percy’s spine when he realized how familiar the scene was to him, from his tenth year and before.
Dunc was happy to explain what had happened in the barn. “He said he was taking Percy to a healer, but we all ken he was stealing him away.”
William stood as tall as he could while still holding up a slightly coherent Percy.
“We all ken the penalty for stealing.” His father’s voice was all gravel and spit. “But we’ll spare him his fingers, for pity’s sake.” He eyed William, then lifted his nose in the air when he noticed his son was not sufficiently cowed. “Off to the dungeon with him, lads. Let him rot until he kisses my boots and blesses me for sparing his hands.”
“No!” The beaten brother cried out, not from pain of having his support stripped from him, but because he could see enough through the slit in his swollen eye and he understood what was happening, that William was going to be punished for trying to help him. “Take me instead.”
William hissed at him to stop talking, but as it happened, he couldn’t have said another word. He slumped into a puddle at Wickham’s feet.
Dunc waited for the others to drag William away, then addressed The Gordon. “Did ye mean it, that ye’ll pardon William’s insolence if he but kisses yer boots and thanks ye?”
“Dinna be daft unless ye wish to join him. Think on it. How can the fool kiss my boots if he’s down there and I’m up here?” The man made a dismissive noise. “When I said let him rot, I mean he is to have neither food nor water.
His corpse will be a lesson to the rest of ye.”
Dunc kicked the still form of the unconscious one. “Do ye want the same for this one, then?”
“Oh, I think not. Lock him in the north tower so he cannae help his brother. Dinna let him out until the first is dead. I’ll turn him into a Gordon yet.” He rubbed his chin for a moment. “And let it be known, I’ll cut out the tongue of any in my keep who dares utter the name of William again.”
Percy turned desperately to Wickham. “It’s not true. He couldn’t have left William to starve! Tell me Father changed his mind!”
Wickham’s expression was his answer, and Percy howled into his hands. He felt fresh claw marks across his heart, from the monster he called Father. How could the man do such a thing to his own flesh and blood? How could his brothers have gone along with it? If he could do it to one, he could do it to more—especially with so many sons to spare.
There was no need to pinch himself. There was already pain. He could believe it.
The black mist swirled and washed the horror away. Percy closed his eyes and wished, silently, that he could stay there in that limbo a bit longer. Then he realized that Quinn might have known about William.
“This was one of those things Quinn wanted to spare me, wasn’t it?”
Aye, lad. But ye’ll need to see this.
The north tower. He knew the smell well. The only window was sealed with rock, and with no wind from the sea to clean it, the smells remained, steady and noxious, since he’d first been sent there as a wee lad. His mother had been beaten for freeing him, but she’d kept him well hidden until his father’s ire had passed.
Already he was regretting his choice to come back, but he hadn’t come back for himself…
He couldn’t see Wickham, but he knew he was there. “Tell me what happened to my sister.”
“She’s coming now.”
The clank of keys was followed by the sound of metal scraping metal. The door opened on squeaking hinges. Natural light fell through the opening from the arrow slit in the stairwell. Percy’s same thin form rose from the floor looking even worse for wear. The black had gone from his eye, but there was still a wound beside his mouth.
Betha glanced to the side, to warn him they were not alone. “I’ve been sent to set ye free, Percy. Will… Our brother is dead.”
That other Percy nodded, but said nothing. He stood still and waited for instructions with no sign of emotion, even when he looked at his beloved sister. Percy shifted closer and finally saw what Wickham had intended him to see—that anger and hatred that simmered deep in the other Percy’s eyes.
That was the Percy Quinn had once known. And for the first time in a year, he actually believed that his foster father might have been right—that there was no reason to suspect he’d ever see that look return.
Without thinking, he reached out to touch the dirty shoulder, wishing he could do something to take away the pain that had given birth to that fire. But the truth was, he was feeling it too. For him, it was the first he’d known about William’s death. This time, however, he remembered the half-hearted promise he’d made to Betha against the bailey wall—that no matter what happened, he would keep a reserve of hope deep inside, where no one could take it from him.
The Percy shuffling out of the tower had forgotten. But he would not.
Chapter Ten
Percy shouted into the blackness. “Wickham!”
“Aye?”
“We must go back and save William.”
“It cannot be done.” His quick answer said he’d expected the request. “Yer brother is lost to ye. I am sore sorry.”
The darkness faded again. Percy was getting used to it, paid it little mind. He was almost relieved to recognize the great hall at Castle Ross and his clenched stomach muscles relaxed a bit. What he wanted was to climb the stairs and find his cubby where he might be alone for a wee while and mourn William.
“I am disappointed…in myself.”
“In yer other self, ye mean?”
“Aye. I should have tried harder to escape.”
“Ye did try.”
“I should have killed myself.”
“Ye tried that too, hoping yer Father was only punishing William to hurt ye, and that he might let yer brother live if he knew he could torture ye no longer. But yer father threatened to harm Betha if something happened to ye.”
Percy gasped. “Why did the man hate me so? I only ever tried to please him.”
“Ye’ve just seen what pain can do to a man, aye? Yer father knew pain long before yer mother came along. But even if ye cannae forgive the man, at least ye might understand him now.”
No. He could never understand that. Pain alone couldn’t make a monster like that.
“There is one last thing ye should know…” Wickham nodded to the dais before them. Human forms started to define themselves all around him. “When Quinn and Monty traded places, so that Monty could join Jillian in the future, he wandered onto Gordon land. It was that other Percy who captured him and delivered him to The Gordon. And in his desperation to escape yer father’s dungeon, Quinn convinced that Percy that he had magical power, that he could move back and forth through time, and change the future if he wanted.”
“Was that how he escaped, then?”
“No. But ye needed to understand that, so ye would understand this.” Wickham waved a hand and they were relocated to the cellars below the great hall. A door stood open before them and familiar faces crowded inside.
The hulking figure of Ewan Ross knocked Monty on the shoulder. “Up with yer sorry arse, then.”
Monty hefted himself up into Isobelle’s tomb. The tallest man Percy had ever known, James Ferguson, was next to climb inside.
“Oh, aye,” he said. “Plenty of room still. Come on, Juliet.”
Jules was there too. She shook her head. “Quinn first. I’m not taking a chance on this elevator leaving before he can get in.”
Another body slipped past Percy into the little room. Quinn laughed and jumped on the barrel, then he looked at Jules in horror. Monty and James already had a hold of his arms and were lifting him up.
“Wait! Stop! Let go!” he shouted.
Percy poked his head into the room to see what was going on. Jules tried to run, but that other Percy pulled her back against him, subduing her with a knife at her throat.
Back on the barrel again, Quinn held out his hands. “Percy! Percy, don’t hurt her. You can have whatever you want. Just don’t hurt my lass.”
“Just what a man likes to hear,” his other self snarled. “In truth, I’ve come to tell ye I’ve made me decision. I’ve decided to believe ye, that ye are able to change history. When the big red bastard turned aside to stab yer heart, so no one could see how deep the blade went, I kenned ye’d cheated death yet again. It’s a charmed life ye live, aye?”
“History is written by the folks that write it,” Quinn said. “I can write whatever history you wish. Is it your ambition to replace yer father, then? Or make certain the Gordon clan will be ruled by your children? Whatever you wish. Just let her go.”
Quinn squatted on the top of the barrel. He started to lower a leg to the ground, but pulled it back when Percy hissed.
The knife bit into Jules skin, but she kept still.
“I’m no’ daft, Quinn Ross,” said Percy. “I’ll not take yer promise and let ye flee. Besides, it’s no’ the future I wish to change, but the past.”
Quinn frowned. “I canna change the past, Percy. What’s done is done.”
His older self made an odd noise, then stiffened. “I don’t believe ye. If ye can change the future, ye can change the past. And for yer sake, ye’d best think of a way to do it. Or for her sake, that is.”
“What is it, Percy?” Jules spoke calmly. “What is it you want to change?”
Percy looked both pissed and confused, and though he opened his mouth a couple of times, he was having a hard time speaking.
“It’s all right,
Percy. Take your time,” she said.
Quinn nodded. “This is about your brother.”
Percy sucked in a breath and held it. When he let the air go, it came out in a rush. “William. His name is William. We’re forbidden to say his name. William,” he said again, like it was a relief to say it. He sobbed once, caught his breath again. “He’ll never be allowed to leave the dungeon. My father’s no better than Montgomery Ross, refusing to bury his dead. Keeping them close. Killing us all.”
Jules tried to look at him. “You want to bury your brother?”
Percy grabbed her hair and yanked her closer to him. “Eegit,” he hissed. “I want him to never go into the dungeon in the first place! I want Quinn Ross to stop it from happening. Six years ago. Ye’ll find him hale and healthy six years ago.
“I’ve been here for days, listening. I heard enough from ye all to ken ye can move from one year to the next. So ye must go back. Go back and stop m’ father. Bring William to...now. Hang a plaid from yer battlements when ye have him, and I’ll return yer woman. Fail to save him by Samhain, and that day she begins to die—the same death me brother suffered, alone and with nothing. In an oubliette. Ye’ll ken not where.”
It sounded like something his father would say. Something he would do. And it made Percy sick, and not just because it was his mother being threatened.
“Wickham?”
“Aye?”
“Tell me it all works out. Tell me Jules won’t be hurt…by me.”
“Jules is fine, son. Ye ken it. Ye never harmed her. And neither did this other Percy.”
That other Percy lifted Jules off her feet, carried her into the hallway, and blocked the door shut.
“Percy. Please. Don’t do this,” she said.
“Enough!” He dragged her down the corridor, in the wrong direction, a torch replacing the dagger he’d been holding. His other arm he kept tight around her neck as he dragged her up close to the wall that was a combination of barrel parts, wood planks, and mud. He seated the torch in the wall, then took hold of a metal ring in the end of one of the barrelheads. It rotated and a small door swung open—a door made of barrel tops!
