Percy

by L. L. Muir

  The Gordon hadn’t cared much for what she’d looked like at fourteen, only that she wore an orange and purple skirt that proclaimed her loyal to him. Percy had convinced himself his father had been drunk to act as he had, pawing at the lass and urging her closer. He thought he could draw the man’s attention away from Shona long enough for her to get away, then slip out of reach himself…if the man was deep enough in his cups.

  So he’d stepped up to the man and demanded that his father order Dunc and the others to cease stealing from him—something they hadn’t done for years.

  Of course the laird of the clan didn’t care what he’d been complaining about, or even who he was. The cat only cared that his mouse had gotten away. And to make matters worse, he hadn’t been drunk at all—a fact that became clear when he landed the first blow to Percy’s middle.

  While bent in half, Percy grabbed at the man’s belt to keep him from going after Shona, which only earned him a blow to his back. But it hadn’t mattered. As he’s lain on the stone floor trying to suck the wind back into his lungs without inhaling dirt, he’d heard his father roar with frustration.

  The lass had gotten away.

  And there she was, fleeing again.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Percy stopped her with her name. “Shona Marr!” There was only the slightest pause in her step, then she hurried on.

  He shouldn’t blame her. When her father had learned that she’d caught the laird’s eye, he’d hurried her away, out of the keep, never to be seen again. But why, then, would she show up now?

  “I’m sorry,” he shouted. “I will not say yer name again.”

  Though she could be in no trouble for being who she was, he had to acknowledge that she might not want to be recognized any more than he did.

  She slowed, then finally stopped and let him catch up with her. When she finally looked up at him, she blushed. “Hello, Young Percy.”

  Watching the pink flood her features gave him more pleasure than he expected. So did the fact that he fairly towered over her. When they were younger, they’d been of a height.

  “Hello again.”

  She nodded and looked down at her basket, then looked behind them and relaxed a bit, though the silence was no less awkward.

  “I heard, long ago, that yer father took ye away from here.”

  She nodded again.

  “Though I never heard where…”

  One pretty shoulder lifted. She wasn’t going to confess anything. If he wanted to ken where she lived, he might just have to follow her home.

  “I’ve heard something is amiss at the keep…”

  She frowned up at him. “Ye’ve heard?”

  “I’ve been away for nigh a sennight, I reckon. Was on my way home when I saw ye.”

  “Then ye’ve not heard? That yer brother is dead?”

  The memory of William’s death was like a freshly dug grave in his heart, so he dreaded what she might say. But then he realized that, like him, she was now in a time when William was long gone.

  “Which brother, then?”

  “Duncan.” She said the name on a sigh, as if she was relieved to be able to declare it, which made him suspect his eldest brother had likely caused problems for her long before his father noticed her.

  And though they shared a father, he was probably just as relieved as she was. “Did ye hear how he died?”

  “The Runt—I mean to say, yer brother, Cinead, found him at the bottom of the keep steps two nights ago. Said his neck was broken. Said he begged to be put out of his pain. So he did.” She swallowed awkwardly, then started inching away from Percy as if she just realized he was a threat.

  “Easy, Shona. Ye’re in no danger from me. Surely ye ken it.”

  She nodded, but the nod was a lie. And looking at her now, he realized that, to a woman as lovely as her, any man seemed a threat. So, to put her at ease, he retreated a step himself. Then he started talking again, as if that awkwardness had never been.

  “Sounds as if The Runt has found a clever way to eliminate one of his competition for father’s heir.”

  Shona gasped. “He can’t think to take yer father’s place, surely.”

  “Oh, aye. He does. For when Laird Ross was held captive here…”

  “Barely a sennight ago?”

  “Aye.” He had to wait for a moment for the stories to settle in his mind. He had a clear memory of Montgomery Ross predicting the future in the great hall, and spinning wild tales in the dungeon, his other memories proved it had been Quinn Ross, and not Monty, who had been the guest of Clan Gordon—and he’d been the one to capture him.

  It seemed there was even more proof of how loving and forgiving his foster parents had been, to forgive him for so much wrong done to them.

  “Percy?”

  He shook away the distracting memories in favor of making new ones. “Forgive me. I was but recalling the prophecy given by Laird Ross. He said that it will be Cinead who rules Clan Gordon, in the end. So it seems that prediction has given my wee brother ideas.

  Shona gasped again and clutched his forearm. “Then ye must be verra careful, Percy. Though ye be a younger brother,” she looked him over for the second time, “he cannot help seeing ye as an impediment as well.”

  He laughed off her concern, then leaned down to whisper. “Dinna fear for me, lovely Shona Marr. I do not mean to stay long in this place. I will take my sister and be gone long before The Runt works through the rest of my brothers.”

  “Oh, aye? And why is that?”

  He might have detected a touch of regret in her voice. Or he might have imagined it.

  “My sister has always been good to me. She does not deserve to have to live the violent life my father provides here. And there are much happier places in this world than Gordon Keep. I would find such a place for her, and keep her safe.”

  Looking down into Shona’s wistful face, he could not help wondering what sort of lot her father had been providing for her.

  “Lass?”

  “Hmn?”

  “Did yer father find ye a good husband, then?”

  She laughed. “He had little chance before he died. But he left me with a place in the hills I can call my own. A safe place.”

  Percy cocked his head. “How safe can ye be, if ye must come to Gordon Keep…” He peeked into her basket and discovered it was empty but for a folded shawl. “To sell yer wares?”

  She blushed even pinker than before and looked away. He tugged her elbow until she turned back.

  “If ye must know, Percy Gordon, I was told The Gordon lost a son. I but came to see…if it had been ye.” She pulled her elbow out of his grasp and started down the road again.

  He had to run to catch up again. “Lass! Lass!” He waited for her to look at him. “I must know. Are ye pleased it wasn’t me?” He knew the answer, but he craved a kind word from her.

  “Aye, I’m pleased. God help me, but I will shed no tears for your brother. For any of them.”

  “Nor will I,” he admitted. “So God forgive us both.”

  She nodded, then looked down the road. “If ye ever manage to get yer sister free of this place, I could give ye shelter… While ye decided where to take her, mind.”

  “Where? Tell me.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Percy fairly flew back up the road to his home, his feet touched the ground so briefly. He was that pleased he had a plan for getting his sister away. And now he had no reason to wait, thanks to Shona Marr.

  Shona Marr. She made him unreasonably happy he’d chosen to return to his old home. And by heavens, he would see her again! He only needed to collect Betha, find the opportune moment, and be off.

  He neared Aulay’s wagon and hoped the man wouldn’t notice, but his old voice stopped him.

  “Was that Shona Marr, then? The pretty lass?”

  Percy groaned to himself. The man either had keener eyesight than he was led to believe, or he’d heard Percy calling out to her. “Nay. I was mistaken. So
me peddler’s wife.”

  “Ye spoke for a long time, aye, to this peddler’s wife?”

  Percy dared not walk away until he’d disabused the tanner of the notion that Shona had come back. “She told me how Duncan Gordon died, is all.”

  “And will Percy Gordon miss his brother? I’d care to know.”

  The old man was too clever by half.

  “He will not,” Percy said, for to lie would do no good at all. “And he would prefer it if no one ever mentioned the name Shona Marr again.”

  Aulay laughed. “I wager he would.”

  Percy’s hand went to his sporran, where thankfully, he found a pair of coins. He put them onto the high side of the wagon and did so loudly.

  “Pray tell, what are those for?”

  “Yer silence.”

  Tucked into the corner at the ale master’s house, Percy bided his time and feigned sleep while he listened to the other patrons speaking to one another in hushed tones. A funeral fit for a Viking jarl was planned for that night. Half the men of the castle were expected to join the procession to the harbor that opened onto Dornoch Firth, where Duncan Gordon’s body would be sent to either Helgafjell or the Christian Hell.

  But if Helgafjell was a sacred mountain, why would The Gordon be sending Dunc’s body out to sea?

  Percy would take it as a good omen if Betha stayed behind with most of the women. But after the sun was gone, as he stood watching from the curtain wall, he recognized his sister’s form near the front of the march, just a few steps behind their father and dangerously close to wee Cinead.

  With his hood in place, Percy joined the throng.

  It didn’t take long to know that the seven days of drinking had already begun. The clan and all its septs would be expected to join in the celebration of Dunc’s less than worthy life. But there was no doubt—no doubt—that they would be drinking to his less than heroic death. A vicious bully, trained up by a vicious bully, Dunc might have gone down in history as a monster even more evil than his father.

  What was not to celebrate?

  A low, wide-bellied Viking ship, complete with a rough-hewn dragon’s head waited at the dock for Dunc’s body to be placed on it. A two-foot high pile of small sticks was waiting for him. Kindling, waiting for a log.

  A very silent Laird Gordon stood with hands on hips while the ship was pushed away with long poles. The tide had turned and happily obliged, pulling the vessel directly opposite the shore. Five of Percy’s brothers hurried to the end of the dock and flung their torches. Three of them fell into the water, woefully short of their target.

  “If the other two had missed,” murmured a man beside him, “I wonder if their father would have made them swim out to bring the ship back.” He chuckled quietly, then coughed to a stop when Percy removed his hood to reveal who he was. “Beg pardon, my lord.” Then he scurried away, into the crowd of shadows.

  Someone else whispered his name. Then another, and another. It became a wind that blew in a circle until all eyes had turned to him. All eyes but his father’s, who was still watching the ship being swallowed by flames.

  The others quieted and waited for the wide shoulders of their laird to turn. Then they held their breath.

  Those cold grey eyes were alive with the reflection of a hundred torches. Or perhaps it was the scene of the burning ship that lingered there. Were there tears? Did the mean man regret the death of his spit? For, other than Duncan, none of the other brothers were so like The Gordon in appearance. Perhaps he wondered how many of the others had truly been his own.

  “At least ye were here for this,” his father said. Though he spoke normally, his voice carried easily across the thirty feet of now empty space between them.

  “I followed the Ross’s body home, father, to make certain he was good and dead. I suspected he wasn’t, but I was wrong. I was held there for five days before Ewan Ross released me.”

  “A fine story,” Cinead suggested. “But perhaps Percy shouldn’t be left to wander while we send someone to Ross, to see the truth of it, aye?”

  Percy gasped. “Why would I lie?”

  Cinead put his hands on his hips, mirroring their father. “Because someone broke Dunc’s neck last night. And the rest of us were accounted for.”

  Their other brothers nodded, as if they’d chosen their new leader. Father noticed, and his fierce frown showed his disapproval before he turned back to Percy. “What do ye say for yerself?”

  The glee on Cinead’s face chilled his blood. This had obviously been his plan all along. Instead of being one step ahead of his family, it seemed Percy was two steps behind. And staying out of his wee brother’s line of sight was no longer an option. There was nothing for it but to attack.

  “I am sorry I was not here, Father. I had nothing to do with Dunc’s injury. Nor did I execute him, though I hear someone did. Someone…perhaps who intended to kill two birds with one stone. Or kill two brothers with one thrust of his blade?”

  Cinead feigned outrage, but with his back to the family, they couldn’t see that he was grinning through his whinging. “Father!” He finally faced the others. “My whereabouts have been accounted for! I demand ye send Percy to the dungeon while we send word to Clan Ross. When ye see he’s lying, ye’ll wish ye would have added him to the ship, as the dog at Duncan’s feet!”

  His brother’s screeching echoed in the moist air while they waited for The Gordon to react. At long last, the man sighed, dropped his hands away from his hips, and started up the incline as if he would say nothing at all. When he reached Percy, however, he muttered six dreaded words without skipping a step as he strode past.

  “To the dungeon. Like his brother.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  The rest of his brothers pushed Percy ahead of them and marched him away from the dock. The Runt stayed close, probably to keep him from speaking to his new co-conspirators. But Percy was in no mood to hold his tongue.

  “Did ye help him do it, lads, or did ye simply provide his alibi?”

  Nemon growled at him, though Percy couldn’t tell if he were insulted, or just pretending to be.

  John leaned close to Meldrum. “What’s an alibi?”

  Percy leaned toward John. “It means ye lied for him, to say he was not capable of breaking Dunc’s neck because he was with ye.”

  “Oh!” John brightened. After he had a moment to think, he winced and moved to the end of the pack, as far away from Percy as he could get.

  “‘Tis no use,” Cinead said boldly. “My brothers willnae lie for ye, Percy Aiken.”

  “Like that, then, is it?”

  “Wheesht, now. Do ye not recognize wisdom when it’s offered?”

  No doubt weary of walking double-time just to keep up, Cinead whistled and a lad brought his horse so he could ride the rest of the way.

  Though Percy tried to get his brothers to confess that they were scared their necks might be next, they admitted nothing. So he walked in silence. When the ground rose again, he caught sight of Betha walking behind Father once more. But no matter how long he watched, she never turned to look at him.

  She couldn’t be angry, even if she thought him capable of murder. To her, Dunc was nothing but a dangerous man to be avoided. But no matter what she believed, she should at least be worried what was to become of her youngest brother.

  Unfortunately, he knew.

  Ewan Ross wouldn’t have any reason to verify his story. For all the man knew, Percy was now a ten-year-old laddie who had just been swallowed by Isobelle’s tomb, never to come out again. If the Gordons accused him of keeping Percy hostage for five days, he’d deny it. And when that denial reached the Gordon chief’s ears, Percy would be hung or left in the dungeon to rot—yet another example set for his sons, that their father required complete loyalty.

  But still, not so much as a piteous look from Betha.

  It was almost a blessing when the ground leveled and he could no longer see her for the mass of bodies marching between them.

&n
bsp; The trek through the baileys gave him that same thrill of the familiar that it had given him earlier that day. How long had it been since he’d walking that path, he could not guess. A week, was it? Four years? Or five hundred?

  With each step that took him closer to his father’s dungeon—and the far side of the bars—it felt like decades at least.

  As he and his brothers reached the top of the steps and entered the keep itself, the words came naturally. “I forgive ye, lads.”

  To a man, each of the five stopped in his tracks and gave Percy an odd look, as if they did not recognize him. And why not? He was not the same young man as the Percy who had left the week before. But neither was he the fourteen-year-old that had wished to go home again.

  Only one Percy, Wickham had said. Only one Percy now. And so, by accepting he was also the old Percy, he accepted that he had been one of the Gordon’s lads—mean-spirited enough to snatch up Laird Ross and deliver him into his father’s wicked hands. He could only hope that God would see that he would have turned out differently raised in the home of Quinn and Jules Ross, and perhaps make allowances for it.

  There wasn’t enough sackcloth and ashes, however, to make him worthy of wee Emmie’s love now.

  The last staircase lay at his feet. He could already smell the rot with a dozen more steps to go. Cinead was there to follow him down, and when he heard that one’s high-pitched sniggering, Percy wondered if he might be about to break his neck the same way Dunc had.

  “Dinna fash, Percy. I wouldn’t want ye out of yer misery so quickly, aye? Surely ye’ll want to stretch out yer martyrdom as far as William did. Shall we make a wager? If ye last even one day longer than he, I will let ye go. Twelve days, was it? Ye need only last thirteen. Only it will be more difficult without Betha bringing ye cups of water now and again, to draw things out. Do ye think she knew she did more harm than good?”