Not Without Juliet - By L.L. Muir Page 0,19

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