Not Without Juliet

chapter FIVE



Quinn woke to a painful throb at the back of his head. He was lying on a cold dirt floor, in the dark.

For a moment, he thought he was still stuck in his dream and waited for the softness of his mattress to register, but it didn't. Then, as he had hundreds of times in the last year, he remembered which century he was in. But this was the first time he'd awakened on the ground.

And it was still night?

His last memory was of going stir crazy inside the castle, of sneaking away without his young escort... And then he remembered the heather. He could still feel the scratches on his arms from gathering the branches. Then he remembered the scratches from sharp little knives.

"Shite."

He rolled to his side to take the pressure off the back of his broken skull, and every muscle in his body complained. At first, he wondered if they'd beaten him, after he'd lost consciousness, but then he remembered all those hours of kneeling at attention to keep those blades from breaking his skin. The pain from a beating wouldn't have gone quite so deep.

A smell wafted around him when he moved—the smell of a tomb where a body would have rotted away for years. The smell of stale urine was a pleasant relief—he only hoped the urine wasn't his.

No. His kilt was dry. Thank goodness the ground below him was dry as well. The blade was gone from his boot.

So, this was the famous Gordon dungeons. They were so close to the sea, he expected it to be damper—not that he was complaining. But if he was going to die here, he could wish for harsher conditions that might speed along his demise.

And even as the thought presented itself, his stomach tightened.

He remembered now. That moment at Gordon's table, when he realized he wanted to live. Lord help him, when had that happened?

Quinn sat up and searched the darkness, straining to capture even the smallest hint of a reflection. He needed to know what surrounded him, but he would not go feeling about. He could only wait for someone to come with a light. Of course, he might be able to persuade them to come sooner...

"Gordon! Gordon! You can either grant me some light or I shall have the devil call up a fire, here, beneath your home. Which do you prefer?"

There was movement, but he had no idea how far away it had been. Were there other's sharing his dark hotel?

"Who's there?" he said.

When there was no answer, he tried again in Scots. Still no answer.

The pain in his head bid him lie down again, and he did so, but gently. As he was just about to drift off to sleep, the room grew lighter. Someone must have heard him after all.

He suppressed a groan as he pushed against the floor and forced himself up to sit. There was nothing in his ten-by-ten cell to sit upon, so he stayed put. A young lad with bulging eyes carried a torch to light the way for a tall, thin man. At the entrance to the dungeon, about thirty feet off to the left, an old man took a seat. Considering the bandages across his eyes, Quinn guessed he was blind—a natural babysitter for a prisoner kept in the dark. He must have been the one to carry his message to The Gordon.

Quinn was also pleased when he recognized his visitor, Long Legs.

"Why Long Legs! What a pleasant surprise ye make."

The thin man laughed." Ah, but ye were not so pleased at our first meeting, were ye, Laird Ross?"

"Mmm. No. I can't say as I was,” he admitted, wishing now he had taken his stand back in the heather and perhaps gotten away before Orie could have come along.

"You were bellerin' for something?" Long Legs raised a patient brow and folded his arms.

"Yes,” Quinn said cheerfully. “The Gordon promised me a tour of his dungeons and I had no light by which to see it.”

"Well, then, look yer fill. I suggest you be quick about it.” Long Legs turned to go.

Desperate for a few more minutes of light, Quinn looked about him, searching for some topic of conversation. His eyes caught the white reflection of bare bone in the next cell.

“Perhaps ye could pass on a request to The Gordon,” he said.

It worked. The man came back, and his light-bearer with him.

“Aye, sure. What would ye like, yer lairdship? New straw fer yer mattress no doubt? A better wine with yer supper?”

Quinn gestured to his left, to the only other cell between his and the entrance. “A bit of housekeeping is in order, aye? Seems this one’s overdue for a grave. Was his crime the same as mine? Stepping on Gordon soil?”

Long Legs expanded as he filled himself with a deep breath. His eyes, in the shadows, flickered with some emotion Quinn could not identify. If it were possible, the young man grew taller and looked down upon him as a hawk about to rip apart the mouse in its grip. And Quinn found himself grateful for the bars between them. Otherwise, he might be forced to kill the man in defense of himself—that was, if he somehow found the strength to get to his feet. It had been a mighty mean blow he’d taken to the head.

The light moved as the small lad stepped to the side and raised the torch. Shadows quivered as the boy took in the sight of a skeleton wearing meager rags and even less flesh. It sat at the back of the cell with its arm raised, its wrist dangling from a ring in the wall.

Long Legs, Quinn noticed, turned his head away, but slightly. And though he refused to look at the body, it seemed as if he were concentrating on it just the same.

Quinn could not resist prodding. There was a story here. He would hear it.

"Would you look at that?” he said. “He's thin enough now to free his hand, and yet he willna flee. Perhaps he has come to love The Gordon's famous dungeons and prefers to stay."

Long Legs swallowed. When he spoke, his voice was heavy with emotion, though he tried for nonchalance.

"Famous? My father's dungeons are famous?"

So. Long Legs was a son. And here was yet another chance to mess with a Gordon's head. Besides, the damned prophecy, the one that had shaped his life, might make the difference for him. If they believed he had real power, they might free him in the end. He needed only plant enough seeds of unease. And if they wanted to be rid of the unease, they’d need to be rid of him. He only hoped they would believe it was safer to release him, than to burn him.

And Long Legs had already proven that he was a sucker for rumors.

"Aye. Famous. Five hundred years from now, folks will still speak of these dungeons by the sea. Tell me of this fellow,” he pointed to the skeleton. “Perhaps he is also famous. Or will be."

The light quivered harder than before. Apparently he'd done a better job of scaring the young one than an emaciated corpse had done.

Long Legs stood for a moment, staring into Quinn’s eyes. He opened his mouth once, but thought better of it, Quinn supposed, because he soon turned and walked away.

"Come," he said to the torchbearer.

The lad backed away, as if he was too frightened to turn his back on Quinn.

"Leave the light, Son of Gordon. I care to stay awake for a wee while. And I meant what I said, about getting firelight from the devil if I must."

Long Legs snorted and spun around. "It is my leave to deal with you as I will. You are my prisoner, not my father's. So I will leave you the light—if you answer my question with the truth."

"Ask it,” Quinn said, pleased a seed was already taking root.

Long Legs nodded to the lad who walked to the wall and dropped the torch into a loop, then he shooed him to the entrance and the lad hurried up the steps and away. "Leave us," he said to the old man, who followed, albeit slowly, after the boy.

Long Legs walked back to the cell but stood away from the bars as if Quinn might jump to his feet and get a hold of him. Quinn tried not to smile.

"You want to know if what I said was true, if the Runt's child ends up ruling your clan."

Long Legs shook his head.

"Truly?" Quinn was surprised. The sons of clan chieftains often fought wars over their father's power. Why would the Gordon’s sons, of all people, be different? "What do you wish to know?"

Percy shook a dismissive hand. "Cinead is an ambitious bastard. He has much to prove, as ye well ken. I was not surprised to hear his seed would one day rule the clan, but I would know how ye ken this is to be. And do not think me daft. I will hear the truth of it, not silly tales of the devil whispering in yer ear. For if the devil is all the threat ye have, ye'll get nothing, including yon torch. The devil will be easier to appease than my father."

So much for playing on the man's superstitions. But there was a weakness there, to be sure. If he told this man the truth, would he win an ally?

Suddenly he was struck with an idea.

"What is your name?" he demanded.

"Percy."

"Percy Gordon, I will tell you the truth, if you think you can bear it?"

The man smirked. Close enough.

The only sound was that of the fire, fighting itself at the end of the torch. Percy was as quiet as the guest in the next cell. Quinn felt the urge to cross himself against the blackness at his back, lest the devil feel he’d been invited, but he could not show such weakness.

"My name is Quinn Ross. I am from the future, from the year twenty-twelve. Muir witches brought me here, to stand in the stead of Montgomery Ross."

"And they changed yer face to look like the laird?" Long Legs looked unimpressed. He'd have to do better.

"There was no need to change my face. I am Montgomery's great nephew twenty times over. I carry his...looks." He’d almost said DNA.

Long Legs weighed the information for a minute. Indeed, a year ago, it took Quinn days to digest it all when Jillian MacKay disappeared in front of him, when she’d first slipped back in time to fulfill the prophecy. The fact they’d been standing in the tomb when it happened, had not made it any easier to believe.

"Even if this is true, how can you be of any use to me?" Percy stepped closer.

The man may not believe him, but if there was something in it for Percy, he would at least be hopeful Quinn was telling the truth. It might be enough to win the Gordon’s son to his side.

"Because I have the ability to move between the future and the past. I can change the future. Because I know what will happen, I can change it from happening."

Okay, that wasn't quite true and wasn't the most logical argument, but it was all Quinn could think of at the moment considering the bump on his head and the pain in his skull. His best chance of rescue might be from within Clan Gordon itself. And what better reason could Long Legs appreciate than to have Quinn change the future so that Percy Gordon ended up with the Gordon scepter?

"You think me simple." Percy shook his head and backed away. "I can change the future, simply enough, by slittiin’ Cinead's throat before he has his offspring."

Quinn wasn't about to point out the man's new bride might already be pregnant. He wasn't going to be the reason behind the murder of an innocent woman.

Or was it already too late?

He'd broken one of Jillian's sacred rules. He'd told the Gordon brothers who their enemy was, and now Long Legs was considering killing his brother to change the future. Quinn had promised Jillian a hundred times over that he would be cautious. She was going to kill him unless he thought of a reason why Long Legs and his brothers should keep their hands off The Runt.

Then he had it. God and Ewan might damn the Muir witches, but they were often the answer to his problems.

"There is one thing you should know, Percy,” he said gravely, “about the man who kills Cinead Gordon."

Percy took a deep breath and waited.

Quinn stared him in the eyes. "It's part of the prophecy."

Percy rolled his eyes. "What prophecy?"

"Oh, come now. Even the Gordons ken about the prophecy given by Isobelle before she died."

Percy nodded once. "I've heard a bit. Tell me the whole of it, then."

Oh, but that was the easiest request Quinn had ever heard.

He’d been an attorney, back in the real world of the twenty-first century, but after Libby died, he’d walked away from it, gone back home. And for all the years since his wife’s death, Quinn’s role at Castle Ross was to tell the tourists all about the prophecy. It was almost a relief to get to tell it again, even though he’d told it a thousand times before. It had been over a year since he’d done it last, and he was eager to see if he remembered the script. Of course he could not tell it verbatim. Percy Gordon would not know of Shakespeare and the tale of Romeo and Juliet.

“I will tell you first how the prophecy came to be.” Quinn moved to the side of the cell to lean his back against the bars there.

Percy walked toward the stairs and returned with the chair used by the blind man. He sat at an angle and Quinn got the impression the man did so to avoid the sight of the dead man more than to face Quinn head on.

“In the year 1494, the duty to one’s clan was far more important than any notion of love.”

Percy snorted.

“I must tell in the manner it was taught to me. You must bear with me if you would hear the whole of it.”

Percy nodded and waved impatiently.

“...far more important that any notion of love,” he repeated, getting a run at it. “Clan meant survival. Allegiances meant survival. And when our fair Morna’s hand was the price we had to pay for aligning ourselves with the powerful Gordons, Morna did her duty. Her true love, Ivar MacKay, understood. By the way, Ivar and Morna were not so understanding after all, but I’ll explain that later.”

Quinn returned to the script, to the part that always excited the crowds.

“Isobelle Ross was a witch...and Morna’s sister. And even though she was a strange and opinionated woman for those times, Isobelle loved her sister dearly. She would have changed places with Morna, but the Gordons would not consider a union with the wilder sibling who was already suspected of not being right in the head. But Isobelle couldn’t bear to see Morna suffer over the loss of her Ivar, so she placed an enchantment on a simple torque.”

Back in his day, Quinn would have pointed to a copy of the necklace they displayed upon a bed of black velvet. The crowd would have leaned in. Aye, but he missed the crowds.

“Isobelle promised Morna that one day soon a faery would claim this bit of silver, a faery bearing the Immediate Blood of both the MacKay and the Ross clans, one who would have the power to reunite our Morna with her Ivar. They needed only be patient.”

At that point in the show, he would have paused for a drink of water. He only hoped his little story would earn him the same when it was over.

“Unfortunately, innocent women were burned as witches, let alone strange sisters who spewed prophecy. Instead of Isobelle’s plan easing her sister’s aching heart, it broke the organ entirely. Word spread like the plague, and The Kirk came to put Isobelle to the witch’s test.

“Montgomery was laird and as such held some power. But there was no power to equal that of The Kirk in those times, or rather, in your times, Percy. Thus Laird Ross, my great uncle twenty-one times removed, was unable to spare his sister from condemnation. He was, however, able to change the manner in which she was to die.”

“The oddly shaped construction on the stone dais is truly Isobelle’s tomb, built by Montgomery for both his sister and the accursed torque, built there so she would always be near him. Isobelle was spared from a stranglin’ and a burnin’, but she could not escape her death sentence. Before the last stones were set, his very-much-alive sister and her offensive creation were sealed inside the wall by her brother’s hand.”

Quinn hoped that speaking of Montgomery as someone other than himself might help Percy come to picture them as two separate men. He struggled with the twist of his gut that reminded him that he’d promised never to tell the tale. But he wasn’t about to tell the most important secret of all. That secret would have to accompany him to his grave. He only hoped that grave was not destined to be a pile of ashes tossed into the North Sea, at the hands of a Gordon.

“Montgomery thought only to spare his sister the horror of being burned,” Quinn continued. “He had no idea that he’d sentenced them both to madness. Day after day he sat next to the tomb, listening for any sound from his sister within, tormenting himself, regretting his interference. But The Kirk would not allow him to take back the bargain he’d struck. And during that time, Montgomery would cross and re-cross that invisible line into lunacy, thrilling over every little sound Isobelle made, only to cry to God to end her suffering. More than once, he tried to tear down the stones to put her out of her misery, only to be halted by The Kirk’s henchmen who stood guard until the witch was clearly dead. After ten and two days, the little sounds ceased...and the haunting began.”

At this point in the presentation, the crowd would have been startled by the squawk of bagpipes starting up a melancholy set. The next part of the story involved himself.

“My family, in the future, will be caretakers of Castle Ross. It will be my duty to see that the history of Montgomery and his sisters is retold.”

Percy laughed. “Aye. I can see where ye have the gift for spinning tales, Laird Ross. But I heard no mention of my brother Cinead, as yet.”

“Ah, but I’m not finished with the telling. For one day, in my time—over five hundred years from now, mind—a lass comes to Castle Ross with the Immediate Blood of both Ross and MacKay clans runnin’ through her veins. With the help of a pair of Muir Witches—for there are Muirs in my time as well—we helped the lass into the tomb, gave her the torque to wear, and sent her back here, to save Morna and Ivar.”

He wasn’t about to tell The Gordon’s son that Jillian had actually reunited the couple and taken them back to the twenty-first century, since the Gordons believed that Morna threw herself into the sea. Nothing good could come from telling a mighty and prideful man that he’d been fooled by a neighboring clan, let alone a woman.

It was a cowardly thing he’d done, to tell Percy his own secret in hopes of saving himself, but his tongue and his wits were the only weapons left to him.

“And she failed, this woman from the future.” Percy snorted, but Quinn could tell the man was eager to hear the rest.

“Aye, her good intentions went terribly wrong. Even Isobelle came back from the grave to try and sort things out. Her ghost cried out from the tomb on the day Montgomery was to marry yer sister, as ye may recall.”

“I heard of it. I was not there.”

The sad note in Percy’s voice made Quinn look up.

The man was staring into the next cell. After a moment, he shook himself and turned his attention back to Quinn, who pretended not to have noticed.

“After Morna was brought back here,” he said, “ye ken what she did.”

Percy turned angry, but Quinn couldn’t guess why.

“Then the prophecy was not fulfilled after all,” the man snarled and got to his feet. “And whatever prophecy there might have been for the one who kills Cinead is worthless as well.”

Quinn shook his head calmly.

“Nay. As soon as Ivar heard the news, he came to Castle Ross and threw himself from the northeast tower. They were united. In death. Had the woman not come, they might have gone on, pining away for each other for the rest of their lives. The prophecy said nothing about reuniting them in life. Only that they would be reunited. And the rest of the prophecy states clearly that as compensation to Cinead Gordon for the loss of Morna—for he was destined to lose her, one way or another—a curse was placed on the head of the one who would spill his blood."

"Pah!” Percy paced for a moment, then settled back on his short stool. “Tell me this curse."

Biggest fear. Biggest fear. What did every man fear? What would make this man frightened enough to—

"Impotence." Quinn even managed to say it with a straight face.

"What mean you?"

"The man who kills Cinead Gordon will be impotent for the rest of his days. He will have no power. Over anything.” When it looked as though the word had little meaning to the man, he realized he must elaborate. “Neither will be able to bed a woman. Ever again.”

Percy's eyes widened and he stood and walked away. He was buying it. The only risk, which Quinn realized too late, was whether or not Percy was interested in bedding women. One never knew.

Percy paced, which stirred up the smell from the poor man in the next cell. He seemed to notice it too, for his nose curled and he stopped pacing. A moment later, he nodded, as if he’d come to some conclusion, then he walked to the torch and removed it from its ring. Instead of coming back to let Quinn out, which was too much to have hoped for anyway, he headed for the archway.

“Wait a moment,” Quinn called. “I answered your question. We had a bargain.”

“Nay, Ross,” he called, without turning back or slowing his step, “I have yet to decide whether or not I believe ye.”

Quinn was once again left in the dark.

He tried to remember the details of his cell and crawled to his right, putting as much distance between himself and the rotting corpse as possible. In truth, he was getting used to the smell unless someone stirred the air.

He rested his back again to alleviate the soreness of his stomach muscles. He was thirsty, but alive, and if all went well, his little prophecy would keep Cinead alive long enough for history to unfold as it was supposed to. And hopefully, he’d planted enough fantasy in Percy’s brain that the man would be coming back to place a request for the future—hopefully before Quinn was thin enough to slip through the bars, but too dead to do so.

He closed his eyes, content to sleep for a while.

***

Quinn hadn’t quite drifted off before the inside of his eyelids turned red, then orange. Someone was coming.

Only it wasn’t Percy. It was the violent little man, Cinead.

Shite!

Two large guards entered Quinn’s cell and took him by the arms.

“I’ve just saved your life, you know.” Quinn needed the future head of Clan Gordon to think kinder, gentler thoughts about him. The fact that the man had come so closely on the heels of his younger brother gave Quinn hope he might have overheard the end of their conversation. The rough handling by the guards took that hope away.

The small man seemed none too proud to carry his own torch and held it aloft while Quinn was brought before him.

“I’m aware of that,” he said. His voice was quite normal, though Quinn didn’t know what he’d been expecting. “Percy willna be killing me in me sleep, but that willna keep the others from killing me in the bright light o’ day, will it?”

So. The man had heard the conversation after all.

As Cinead stuffed a rag into Quinn’s mouth, he noticed swelling across the smaller man’s face. There was a good chance the curve of his nose was new.

Quinn nodded, accepting the blame for the other man’s beating. He just hoped Percy might share the prophecy with the rest of his brothers. Of course, if he hoped his brothers would become impotent in all things...

Shite!

“It’s time to meet yer maker, Laird Ross, be he god or devil.” Cinead led the way out of the dungeon, and as relieved as Quinn was to get away from the smell, he’d gladly go back and wait for Percy to come ‘round.

The little parade proceeded out of the castle proper, past the inner bailey, and into the wider outer bailey where a makeshift gallows had been erected in the moonlight. Next to the gallows, a pole rose out of a stack of wood and Quinn had seen the drawings of enough such constructions to know it was meant for the burning of a witch.

And witch burning seemed all the more barbaric when one found himself to be the witch in question. He should have kept his mouth shut. The Gordon hadn’t been impressed by his fortune telling but he’d recognized a grand opportunity to rid himself of an enemy. But why send Cinead to do the deed in the middle of the night? Or was it only that the little man wanted his own revenge and would take it out from under the old man’s nose?

Perhaps there was good reason Cinead Gordon would end up leading his clan.

The future laird looked up into his face and grinned.

“I know what ye think, Laird Ross,” he said. “But if we doona allow you to speak, you canna call the devil to your rescue, aye?” He stopped just below the noose and jumped up to swat at it, like he was proving he was tall enough to reach it.

But he wasn’t.

The noose hung perfectly still. The men holding Quinn stifled their laughter.

“Get on with it,” Cinead hissed. “Someone’s coming,”

Quinn tried to turn, to see if maybe Percy had finally decided to act, but the guards pushed him forward. One had a fist full of hair at the back of his head that kept Quinn from seeing anything but the closing proximity of his head to the noose. With his arms tied behind his back once again, there was only so much bucking he could do. His only hope was to bob and weave to keep that noose off his head. And pray for a miracle, of course.

A forceful blow stunned him for a wee second, but it was enough. The rough rope fell on his collar bone, then tightened against his neck as he plowed his body into one of the guards. Unfortunately, he picked the wrong guard. It was the second man who held the tail end of the rope, and he pulled down hard to bring Quinn to heel. The abrasive rope cut into the delicate skin below his jaw. The growth of two days’ beard did little to protect him.

“Climb up there,” The Runt demanded, pointing to a short stool.

Quinn just glared down at him, wishing with his eyes that the brothers would have beaten him to death and damn the future consequences.

“Just a moment, brother!” A woman’s voice came from behind, from the direction of the castle. “As his former fiancée, I would have words with the bastard before ye kill ‘im.”

Oh, jolly.

At least his death wouldn’t be in vain; the Gordon lass would have some closure. And while he waited for the woman to appear, he wondered what he might have requested for a last meal, had they offered him one.

A deep fried Twinkie sounded just the ticket.