Fic for oboetheres: Time is the Longest Distance Between Two Hearts, Part 1, Section 2/3
Chapter Seven
Another five, ten minutes of riding and they passed through the open wooden gates into a bustling outer bailey. People wore historical costumes that appeared way more authentic than Greg’s own. The earthy scents of farm animals enveloped him. People moved around, intent on whatever business they were about. The clanging of a blacksmith’s hammer echoed in the enclosed space and Greg flinched slightly with each blow until they’d passed by the man’s stall. They were taking this re-enactment thing quite seriously. He scanned the bailey walls and the roof lines. There wasn’t a utility pole or electric wire in sight. Not that he cared right now. He’d been found and that was the most important thing.
His escorts dismounted, and one of them took the horses to a sturdy-looking stable set against the bailey wall. Burly Bloke untied his wrists and stepped back while Greg slid off the ass. His knees almost gave out, and his thighs and arse ached from clenching to keep centered on the ass’s back. The bones throbbed from bouncing on the back of the scrawny animal for hours and hours, but he resisted the urge to rub them. He’d kill for a hot shower right about now, though. A young lad took the rope halter and led the animal to the stable as well. He hoped they gave that poor creature some extra oats or whatever. Greg couldn’t have been the easiest load it had ever hauled.
Greg rubbed his wrists where the rough rope had chafed his skin red. Thankfully, Burly Bloke didn’t seem inclined to restrain him again. With a nod and a motion of his hand, he gestured for Greg to follow. They passed through the inner bailey, up another small hill, and into a small fenced courtyard.
The castle was a vertical L. The tower was six stories high with a shallow-pitched roof, and the base of the L was two stories in height, with a more steeply pitched roof. There were likely floors below ground, too, housing the kitchens and laundry.
Burly Bloke led the way into the house through a side door, down a dim narrow stone hallway, and into a well-appointed room.
Half a dozen men stood on one side of a rectangular table and they went silent upon his and Burly Bloke’s entrance. Half a dozen heads swiveled around and half a dozen pair of eyes stared.
“Dé rud a tha ann?” asked a deep voice. It sounded familiar, but because of the Gaelic, Greg couldn’t place it. He fingered the wool of his kilt to hide the sudden trepidation, though for the life of him, he didn’t know why he suddenly felt as if he’d been dragged into the headmaster’s office.
The men parted like the Red Sea, leaving a lone man standing on the other side of the table framed by a huge hearth and dressed to the Highlander nines. Loose white linen shirt, dark green tartan and sash, fancy sporran, and intricate clan brooch. Thick auburn hair flowed from a receding hairline and small loose curls brushed his neck. Mustache and sideburns connected in a curved line from the sides of his nose to his ears and then extended down his cheeks, jaw, and the upper part of his neck in a well-tended beard. He was tall and on the skinny side. The laird-for there was no doubt in Greg’s mind that this was the laird-was a handsome man. And even more familiar.
A narrow eyebrow rose when the laird looked at Burly Bloke as if to ask the meaning of the intrusion. Burly Bloke tilted his head in Greg’s direction and the laird’s steely blue gaze landed on him. The laird’s eyes widened and his chest rose and fell. The annoyed expression morphed into stunned surprise.
A jolt of electricity sliced through Greg and his nerve endings tingled. All anxiety fled and outrage took its place.
Bloody fucking hell.
Greg’s eyes narrowed at the now familiar face. “Mycroft bloody Holmes. I should have known you were behind this. What the hell are you wearing and what the fuck is going on?”
Mycroft’s mouth opened and closed like a fish’s, eyebrows arching again. True surprise was very hard to elicit in Mycroft, but Greg took little satisfaction in it. Mycroft Holmes’s involvement in anything never boded well.
The other men in the room looked from Greg to Mycroft and then at one another, questioning expressions furrowing their foreheads and eliciting low murmurings. Greg didn’t know if they’d understood him or not.
There was no apparent recognition on Mycroft’s face, however. They’d met often enough and Greg was sure Mycroft had a dossier on him as a result of his association with Sherlock. Why wasn’t Mycroft acknowledging their familiarity?
“Ye be a man,” blurted Mycroft and blanched, obviously knowing the stupidity of his comment but unable to stop the words.
“Brilliant bloody deduction,” Greg snapped.
There was that fish impression again, with plush pink lips that Greg hadn’t ever noticed before. Mainly because Mycroft had never had facial hair to draw attention to them before. Christ. What the hell had come over him?
Things were getting more and more strange. Mycroft was acting as if they’d never met. There was that look of confusion again and a slight shake of Mycroft’s head. Well, if anyone had a right to be confused, it was Greg, because Mycroft was supposed to know bloody everything, right?
Greg was suddenly tired of the games or whatever else was going on here. After everything he’d experienced in the last who-knew-how-long, he wanted some answers. “What the hell is going on here?”
With a nod, Mycroft transformed. He stood taller, suddenly looked imposing. Greg felt the shift in the room. And an underpinning of not fear, exactly, but expectation, anticipation, respect.
“Falbh.” Mycroft didn’t raise his voice but half an octave and the command emptied the room. A shiver rolled down Greg’s spine at the authoritative tone. That was more like the Mycroft he knew.
While everyone filed out, Greg chanced a quick glance around. The chamber was large and square and, like the rest of the structure, made out of a pale gray stone. Subdued tapestries lined the walls. A cast iron candelabra hung over the table, fat candles in place but not lit. Standing candelabras stood strategically around the room. Several wall sconces held candles as well.
The last man out closed the door behind him, leaving Greg and Mycroft alone.
Time to get down to brass tacks. “What the hell is going on here, Mycroft? Are you living a double life? Are you on a secret mission? And why am I here?”
“How do ye ken my name?”
Greg frowned. “What do you mean, how do I know your name? You’re Sherlock’s brother.” Oh, fuck. Maybe it was a secret mission and the room was bugged.
“Ye ken my brother?” The confusion was back.
“Of course I know your brother. He’s the reason I know you.”
Mycroft was silent for several moments, and Greg could see the thoughts whizzing through his brain in the darting back and forth of his eyes. Eventually something seemed to dawn on him and he looked at Greg again. “What year do ye come from?”
Greg raised a brow. What the hell? “What year do I come from? What kind of bloody question is that?”
Mycroft’s lips thinned. “If ye could dispense with the profanities and just answer the question.”
Ah, yes, there was the cool, familiar tone of superiority Greg always associated with Mycroft Holmes. “You bloody well kno-”
Mycroft raised a brow. “The year, if ye please?”
~*~*~
Story note:
‘Dé rud a tha ann?’=‘What is it?’
‘Falbh’=‘Leave us.’
Chapter Eight
Greg swiped a hand over his face. He needed a shave. He preferred a bit of scruff, but it had grown longer than he liked and it’d started to itch. “It’s twenty fifteen, as you well know.”
An auburn eyebrow arced. “Do I now? And yer name, sàr?”
Greg’s own brows stretched for his hairline. “My name? Christ, we’ve known each other for the better part of ten years, Mycroft. You know my name.”
“Humor me.”
“Are you kidding?”
“No’ in the least.”
He didn’t look like he was kidding or the least bit amused. “It’s Greg. Greg Lestrade.”
“Lestrade. Fraingis. How interesting.” Mycroft spoke more to himself than to Greg. He poured himself a cup of wine and waved the carafe. “May I pour ye a drink, Maighstir Lestrade?”
Greg could suddenly use a stiff drink right about now. Mycroft’s questions made no sense. “Yeah, yeah. That’d be good. Thanks.”
Mycroft filled a second cup and pushed it across the highly polished wood surface. “Maighstir Lestra-”
“It’s Greg. Call me Greg,” he directed out of habit. Being called mister made him feel old and he sure as hell didn’t need any help. Not when his whole body ached like he’d played a full match of footy three days in a row. He wanted a shower, a meal, and a comfortable bed in a quiet room.
Mycroft canted his head. “If ye wish. Greg. Please, have a seat.”
Greg’s jaw dropped and he snapped it shut with an audible click. No matter how often Greg had invited Mycroft to use his Christian name, the man had steadfastly addressed him as detective inspector. Until now. And the mister…what was that?
They both sat, Mycroft directly across the table from Greg. The sturdy chairs were made of the same dark wood as the table. A crest, the Holmes crest he assumed, was carved into the back of each one. A needlepoint above the hearth echoed the carving but in colorful intricate detail.
“What I’m about to tell ye will come as quite a shock and I’m certain ye won’t believe me.”
Greg took a swig of whatever filled his-he studied the object in his hand-the goblet. There was just no other term for the ornately engraved pewter vessel he held. It wasn’t like any wine he’d ever tasted either. Not even the good stuff. “You’ve never been the most forthcoming guy.”
Mycroft mouthed the word ‘guy,’ brows dipping this time, then he cleared his throat. “Ye’ve traveled across time to the year of our Lord, fifteen hundred and thirteen.”
Greg’s eyes narrowed. “Bullshit.”
But even as the word exploded from his mouth-and he really did need to curb the cursing-his stomach sank and he went cold all over. What the hell was Mycroft up to?
Mycroft frowned. “I ken it seems fantastical. Traveling across time-”
“Too bloody right. There’s no way. Time travel-that’s sci fi, it’s fantasy. It only happens in books or movies or on the telly.”
“Aside from books, I dinnae ken what any of those things are. I can assure ye, however, that time travel happens, has happened for centuries. My ancestors have kept written records of visitors for two hundred years or there abouts.”
“Why should I even believe you?” Greg tossed up his hands and let them land on the table with a smack. His fingers flexed against the mild sting. “I mean, you could be making all of this up as some sick joke, although it’s my understanding that you usually don’t get your hands dirty. You send your minions to do that sort of thing.
“And setting all this up-a castle, the whole being taken prisoner thing, burning down some cottage-seems like a lot of hoops to jump through just to kidnap me. You could have simply plucked me off the streets of London at any time.”
“I can assure ye, I have no need to kidnap a sasunnach.” His reasonable tone and bland expression had Greg’s hands fisting with the need to punch something. Or someone.
“And the brogue and the Gaelic, you can cut it out.”
“What does ‘cut it out’ mean?” The eyebrow rose again.
“Are you kidding me?”
Mycroft shook his head slowly. “My apologies, I dinnae ken yer turn of phrase.”
Greg jumped to his feet, slapped his hands flat on the table, and leaned toward Mycroft. “Stop. Just stop. Whatever it is you want from me, just tell me. I’ll hear you out. I’ll do what needs to be done. Just stop this charade. Please-just dig out a phone or mobile and I’ll call for a ride.”
Mycroft stood, a mixture of exasperation and compassion now on his face. “I ken ye be confused, but I promise ye that I will do whatever it takes to convince ye.” He waved a hand at the ledgers and parchments at one end of the table and at the desk in the corner, also stacked with rolled parchments and leather-bound books. “I was in the middle of clan business when ye arrived and I must return to it. Please allow me to settle ye into a guest chamber and provide for yer immediate needs. We can speak more later.”
Greg straightened and looked to the ceiling. Everything that had happened to him, all his observations, his current surroundings, flew through his brain at the speed of one of Sherlock’s deductions. He blinked. “I…” He shook his head. Closed his eyes. Time travel? He liked Star Trek as much as the next bloke, but had never considered time travel more than a futuristic concept. He opened his eyes and met Mycroft’s unwavering gaze.
Whatever the man was up to, Greg would figure it out. Right now, however, he was exhausted, aching, and a bit overwhelmed. Certainly not at his best to investigate anything. So he’d accept Mycroft’s hospitality and try to make sense of it all once he’d gotten some rest. He nodded. “All right. Thanks.”
Mycroft came around the table and walked toward the door, gesturing for Greg to head that way as well. “Hugh will show ye to a chamber.”
“You were surprised at my arrival,” Greg said, reaching the door a step behind Mycroft.
“Nay, not at your arrival per se. There were signs. I expected a visitor.”
“You did look surprised though.”
“Aye. As far as I can remember, our visitors have always been women.”
Greg scrubbed a hand across his head. “Then why me?”
“Why indeed?”
~*~*~
Story note:
‘Sàr’=‘sir’
‘Fraingis’=‘French’
‘Maighstir’=‘mister’
‘Sasunnach’=‘Saxon/English person’
Chapter Nine
Mycroft pulled the door open and allowed Greg to exit first. The men who’d been in the room earlier stood in groups talking to one another, though they quieted quickly. The foyer or hall or wherever room they were standing in was made of the same stone as the office, though without tapestries. Wall sconces with candles hung on the narrow sections of wall between doorways. Another candelabra hung from the ceiling. A series of tall narrow openings, windows, Greg supposed, allowed shafts of sunlight to stream down the last flight of stairs. A slight breeze stirred the air.
The woman coming down the wide stone staircase caught his attention. Was that-?
“Ah, Anthea, come meet our guest.”
How many people from his real life was Greg going to recognize here in this supposed 1513? The more familiar faces he saw, the fewer reason he had to believe Mycroft. If he’d believed every mad thing he’d seen and heard during his time on the force, he’d never have been promoted past sergeant. Plus Holmeses. The pair of ‘em. Of course, Sherlock only shammed when he was trying to get information. And Greg couldn’t fathom any reason for Mycroft to suggest a scheme as barmy as this, much less participate in it.
Anthea crossed the space and curtsied.
“Greg Lestrade, this is my lovely lady wife and the mistress of Bassendean, Anthea.”
Greg raised a brow. “Anthea.” Mycroft and Anthea, pretending to be married? Could this situation get any more odd or suspicious?
She frowned for a moment, but Mycroft murmured something to her in Gaelic, and her face cleared and she smiled. “Maighstir Lestrade, welcome. I hope yer visit will be a pleasant one. Our Midsummer’s celebrations are tomorrow. We do hope ye’ll enjoy the festivities.”
“Yeah, thanks. Although, I really don’t have time for a party. I need to-”
Thundering sounded on the stairs and everyone turned to watch two young boys descending at a rapid rate. They stopped for half a second about two-thirds of the way down and leaped to the bottom. One of them straightened from his landing crouch and raced to Mycroft. The other boy lost his balance upon touchdown and rolled sideways before immediately clambering to his feet and joining the first boy moments later.
The young red-headed boy spoke in rapid Gaelic until he noticed Greg, his speech coming to a sudden halt. “Có leis bìoch?” He looked very much like Mycroft. Oh, man. Just what the world needed-a mini Mycroft.
“Ach, Rory, English, please. Our guest doesn’t speak Gaelic,” said Mycroft. “Greg, our sons, Rory and Owen. Rory, Owen-” He pointed to each boy in turn. The redhead first, then the brown-haired one. “-this is Maighstir Lestrade.”
Greg really didn’t know what to think now. Children who spoke fluent Gaelic? But whatever the sins of the parents, the children were likely innocent. “Ciamar a tha sibh?” Greg said, recalling a few of his Gaelic lessons.
“Ye do speak our language?” said Anthea with an arch to her brow.
“No, not really.” He shook his head, not wanting to get drawn into a conversation in Gaelic. He’d be lost in five seconds flat. “I learned a few helpful phrases, like Càite bheil an taigh beag? or Fònadh chun a' phoileis!, but that’s all.”
The boys laughed and then Owen frowned.
“What are phoileis?” asked Rory.
“And what’s fònadh chun?” asked Owen.
“Oh, come on? Kids your age know what police and phones are…”
Two wide sets of eyes peered up at Greg, both looking a bit taken aback by his outburst.
Okay, he’d give the little ones the benefit of the doubt. “My apologies. Police are a group of people who protect a community and investigate crimes.”
“Oh.”
“And a phone is a…well, it’s a…” How could he explain technology to someone claiming not to have encountered it? Little kids grew up understanding it better than those who’d been alive during its evolution. He still had a hard time grasping some aspects of it himself. The fact that these two had no clue? How did you begin to describe regular telephones, much less mobile phones, to someone who supposedly still relied on fire as illumination? “It’s a communication device.”
Rory’s brow furrowed. “Like a lion? There’s a lion’s head on our-”
“Don’t ye boys have chores to do?” asked Anthea.
Whew. Greg offered her a nod.
“Aye, Mama.”
“Then go.”
“But-”
“Chores first; explanations later,” said Mycroft.
With that, they scampered away and disappeared through one of the many doorways. A moment later, the dim corridor lit and darkened again as they opened and closed an exterior door. Sounds of voices and animals drifted in and then were cut off.
“How old are they?” Greg couldn’t remember ever seeing Anthea pregnant, but the boys looked so much like her and Mycroft, that they couldn’t have been adopted.
“Five last March.”
“Oh, twins then?” Of course. Not identical in looks, but almost identical in height and size.
“Aye,” said Mycroft. “We also have an infant daughter.”
Greg swallowed. “Mycroft Holmes with a daughter. Never thought I’d live to see the day.” This whole situation was-God he didn’t even know what it was.
Mycroft frowned. “What does that mean?”
“It’s an expression. It means I’m very surprised.”
“Why would you be surprised?”
Because I thought you were gay, Greg didn’t say. “Nothing, it’s nothing. Never mind.”
Mycroft’s mouth thinned and Greg knew that Mycroft knew that he hadn’t said what he’d really thought. But it didn’t matter. Not right now.
“Well then, I’ll get back to clan business. We’ll converse more later. If you’ll excuse me.” After a tilt of his head and slight bend at the waist, he re-entered his office and his men followed.
Greg, Anthea, and Hugh remained in the hall. Hugh stood off to the side, hands clasped behind his back.
Anthea was the first to speak.
“I have to confer with Mistress Phennel and Cook. Hugh will show ye to yer chamber and procure ye some fresh clothing. If ye would like to bathe, let him know.” After another curtsy, she turned and made her way through yet another dim corridor.
Hugh bowed and moved toward the stairs. Greg followed.
~*~*~
Story Note:
‘Có leis bìoch’=‘Who are you?’
‘Ciamar a tha sibh?’=‘How are you?’
‘Càite bheil an taigh beag?’=‘Where’s the toilet?’
‘Fònadh chun a' phoileis!’=‘Call the police!’
Chapter Ten
Five flights of stairs later, Greg was grateful to finally follow Hugh into a room. His calves and thighs burned and his knees cried in agony. He was going to get a bloody workout between now and when he returned home. He’d probably burn more calories getting to and from a meal than he’d consume during it. But hell, he’d been meaning to start working out ever since he and Peter broke up. Peter’s cooking had been to die for, him being a sous chef and all, and Greg had always had a hard time saying no to seconds. He patted his stomach. He could definitely stand to lose a few pounds.
Greg wandered around the well-appointed room. Hugh had said he’d return when Greg’s bath was ready-no showers apparently. Greg sighed.
A wardrobe sat to the right of the door and a large four-poster bed stood on the opposite wall. Tapestries lined both walls and sported intricate and-his eyes widened-rather carnal scenes. Interesting. The bed was large enough for two grown men to have a good go of things in it. God, if only. He put that thought away. He didn’t plan on being here long enough to worry about needing any sort of release. His hand would do fine if he got truly desperate. In addition to size, the bed also looked extremely comfortable. The events of the last day or two were quickly catching up with him, but he couldn’t afford to give in to exhaustion just yet.
Instead, he rolled under the bed and felt along all the supports. Nothing. The bed was too heavy to pull away from the wall and inspect the back side of the headboard, but there was enough space that he could get an arm back there and feel around. He stood again and was confident the bed was free from listening devices.
He opened the wardrobe and ran his fingers over every surface and in every nook and cranny he could find. No evidence of wiring or listening devices in it either.
A large fireplace filled the wall that the door opened parallel to. It wasn’t quite as tall as the one in Mycroft’s office, but its mantle was chest high. He inspected the inside of it and felt along the top of mantel, but still nothing raised any red flags.
On the outside wall, another thick tapestry had been rolled up to reveal six narrow windows, each about nine inches wide. Colorful shutters framed each one, and fresh air swirled around the room causing the gauzy fabric that hung between and down the bed posters to flutter in the breeze.
He skimmed the walls with his hands and his eyes, but spotted no indication of conduit or entry holes for cables and wires. The stones sat snug against one another and there was no evidence of tampering, not even behind the tapestries as far as he could see and feel.
He set his hands on his hips with a sigh and scanned the room again. He found the space comfortable, although he remained wary of trusting it.
Knocking on the door startled him and he jumped, his heart lurching. He took a breath and called, “Come in.”
The door swung open to reveal an attractive young housemaid. Though her clothing covered everything, there was no hiding the voluptuousness of her figure. Brown eyes perused him from head to toe. She met his gaze brazenly.
“Bath?” she said and there was no mistaking the silent invitation. If he were interested, he’d be mighty tempted to take her up on her offer. But he wasn’t. Ever since the demise of his marriage, women held little appeal. Peter had been his first relationship since the divorce. Greg hadn’t expected Peter to be the love of his life, but he’d hoped the relationship would have lasted a little longer.
Did he want some sort of grand passion-of course, he did. Who didn’t? But he’d accepted that not everyone found the great love of their life, and that he could still find joy and contentment.
“Sàr?”
He blinked and her pretty features came back into focus.
How well did she understand English and how could he turn her down without hurting her feelings or upsetting her?
“Bath, yes,” he said and followed her. Back down the hard stone stairs, his body jarring with each step no matter how lightly he tried to tread. If his calves could talk, they’d be cussing him out right about now. About halfway down, they turned into a set of stairs he hadn’t seen on his way up. Eventually, they entered a warm steamy kitchen and he followed the young lady into another small room.
Two large wooden tubs-large enough for a grown man-were lined with some sort of waterproof fabric. Metal buckets hung on hooks over the fire and steaming water filled one of the tubs. A pile of toweling sat next to a clean length of a hunter green tartan and a clean shirt. Knit stockings completed the offering. He saw no undergarments of any kind, and he didn’t know whether to be relieved or worried. He fingered the clothing. The tartan looked exactly like the one Mycroft had been wearing and he had a sneaking suspicion the clothing was Mycroft’s. Of course, who else’s would they be? Greg would have to find some clothes of his own. On the other hand, he didn’t plan on hanging around long enough to worry about it much. He just wanted to figure out what the hell was going on and then get home.
“Maighstir Lestrade?”
Greg pulled his mind back from its slight detour. “Thanks. I can handle it from here.”
“I get more water?” the young lady suggested.
“No, that’s okay. I’m fine, but thanks.” He nodded, not meeting her gaze for long.
Disappointment erased her smile, but she nodded back and pulled the screen across the doorway when she left.
The steaming water beckoned him, but he did a quick and quiet recon of the room. No pipes and no taps. Okay. He gave up for now.
Greg stripped and stepped into the perfectly heated water. He submerged himself to his neck and a long groan escaped him. Fucking hell, this felt good. His calves and thighs thanked him. His knees practically sang in relief.
Though it had probably only been a day, two at the most, it seemed like a week since he’d last been clean. He rubbed a hand over his jaw and frowned. He needed a shave and soon. He liked the short scruff and from his success rate at pulling, he guessed others preferred shorter as well. He’d be back at the hotel or back home soon, and then he could shave. He’d just have to deal with it until then. A bar of soap sat on a dish on a stool situated between the tubs and he scooped it up and sniffed it. It held a vaguely herbal scent he couldn’t identify, though it wasn’t at all feminine. Not that he cared. He was just glad to be getting clean. After a dunk of his head, he scrubbed his face and hair and then stood to soap up the rest of his body. He submerged to rinse the soap and then soaked until the water turned cold.
“Maighstir Lestrade, Maighstir Lestrade.” Twin voices called from the other side of the screen and Greg grinned. No matter what he thought about his circumstances, he had to admit the twins were cuties.
“I’m dressed,” he said, “you can come in.”
“Mama says it’s time fer dinner and that we’re to fetch ye,” said Owen. Greg thought it was Owen.
Rory pursed his lips. “Is that Papa’s tartan?”
Greg glanced down. “It matches yours, so it must be.”
“Is that yer tartan?” Owen asked, pointing to the tattered pile of blue plaid fabric in the corner.
“No, not really, no.”
“Then why were ye wearin’ it?” asked Rory.
“Because, uh, I borrowed it.” He wasn’t sure they’d understand buying a kilt in a tartan that wasn’t his. And certainly not for the purpose of fighting historical battles.
“Why?” asked Owen.
“I didn’t have one of my own.” Good heavens, was this what it was like to be tag-teamed? Thank God they were only five years old.
“Why no’?”
“I’m not Scottish.”
Owen’s brown eyes widened. “Yer no’?”
Greg chuckled.
“’Course he’s no’, Wen, he’s no’ speaking Gaelic. If he were a Scot, he’d speak Gaelic.”
“Oh. Aye,” Owen said, looking quite serious. “Are ye under Papa’s ‘tection?”
Greg’s amusement died, but what else could he say? “Well, yes, I suppose I am.”
“Why?”
“Didn’t you boys say something about dinner?”
“Uh huh.”
“Aye.”
“Well, I’m pretty hungry. Do you think you can show me where we eat?”
“’Course, Maighstir Lestrade, that’s why we camed.” Each twin took one of his hands and tugged him into motion.
“I thought it was to interrogate me,” Greg said, wryly.
“What’s ‘terragate?”
“Let’s eat first, all right?”
Chapter Eleven
Dinner complete, Mycroft led Greg into the office he’d seen earlier. Greg slammed the door. He wanted some damned answers. Mycroft stop mid-stride and turned around, eyebrows high over wide blue eyes.
“I want to know what’s going on here, and then I want to go home. This holiday has turned into some sort of strange episode of Quantum Leap and I’ve had enough. Get me back to Dumfries and I’ll get the train back to London. And then we’ll never talk about this. Ever.”
Mycroft took breath and his startled expression was replaced with sympathy. “I ken how mad this all seems to ye.”
Greg sighed. There was that brogue again. But he actually liked the sound of it, so he didn’t bother to say anything. If Mycroft wanted to go the effort, then by all means. Greg would enjoy the rolling Rs and the deep accent.
“If I could get ye back to this Dumfries, I would, but I dinna ken what or where it might be.” A look of realization suddenly came over him. “No, wait. I think ye must be referring to Dún Phris. Come.” He crossed the room to the unit of cubbyholes behind his large desk and rummaged through several of the square openings.
Greg followed and stopped at the front side of the desk.
“Tell me about what happened to ye,” Mycroft said, pulling scroll after scroll, reading its label, and putting it back.
“What difference does it make?”
“There might be clues on how to send ye back.”
Greg hung his head for a moment. Why hadn’t he thought to walk himself through the series of events? He’d been lagging half a step behind since being knocked out. Still, he should have been thinking more professionally. He should have his warrant card revoked.
“I went to Dumfries to participate in some historic battle re-enactments-” Mycroft threw him an incredulous look over his shoulder. “-but there was this Midsummer’s Eve thing at some local standing stones I don’t know the name of. I went there first to get into the spirit of things and get my holiday started off right.”
“Ah,” said Mycroft, holding up a parchment. He untied the string and unrolled the scroll. “Continue.”
“Well, I was curious about the stones, so I went to take a look at them. Then I touched one of them and…uh…everything got really loud and dark and then I came to with my head splitting and my cash, ID, and mobile missing.”
“Fascinating.”
“Really?” Greg asked, annoyed. His traumatic incident was fascinating?
“My apologies.” Mycroft had the grace to look abashed. “I’ve read the accounts of previous travelers and I dinnae recall any arrival being quite so dramatic. Anything else?”
“Well, the closure on my sporran and the chain it hung on also disappeared. Just gone.”
“I ken ye doubt still, but my guess would be that anything that we dinnae have here in 1513 couldn’t follow ye. Yer mobile device, for example…whatever ‘tis made of, we dinnae have. Yer ‘cash’? What is cash?”
“My paper money. Larger denominations of currency. Carrying a ten pound note is easier than carrying around 10 one-pound coins, yeah?”
“Quite so. We issue written receipts and vouchers and the like, but our currency remains in coin form. What about the sporran? Were yer closures made out of silver or iron?”
The more Mycroft talked, the lower Greg’s stomach sank. If he bought this time travel malarkey, Mycroft’s explanations would make perfect sense. He just…he just couldn’t. Not yet.
“No. Probably some sort of aluminum or chrome or stainless steel.” He shook his head, scratched his nails across it. “I don’t know.”
“I have nay heard of such materials.”
“Great, just great.” Greg sighed and tapped the parchment. “Why’d you get this map out?”
“I wanted to show ye…”
Greg recognized Scotland on the hand-drawn map.
Mycroft pointed to a small castle image close to the coast north of Berwick-upon-Tweed. “This is Bassendean.” Then he traced an oval pattern with his finger about the size of a golf ball with the castle at one end of the oval. “These are clan lands.” Then, he pointed to a spot Greg knew to be where Dumfries was located. Only the notation on the parchment read Dún Phris. “This is Dún Phris-yer Dumfries, aye?”
“Aye-I mean yes.”
Mycroft smiled kindly at Greg’s slip of the tongue. “I ken a circle of stones near there. The trip will take four or five days by horse.”
Greg looked at him wide-eyed and his arse throbbed in horror. “Horse?”
“’Tis the fastest way, I’m afraid.”
“I…I don’t know how to ride.”
“I imagine ye dinnae have much need in yer city then?”
Greg shook his head. “None at all.”
“Corc will assign one of his deputies to work with ye.”
“I…all right. I don’t even know what to say…”
“There’s just one issue. I cannae take ye back right now. The Midsummer’s celebrations begin tomorrow. I need all my warriors here to keep watch and protect the clan. I cannae leave. In four days’ time, we’ll go. I promise.”
Greg nodded reluctantly. What choice did he have? He didn’t know where he was, he didn’t have any money, and he had no way of contacting anyone who might be able to help. If he’d actually traveled back in time, then he certainly couldn’t expect Mycroft to bail on a huge clan event that had probably been weeks or months in the planning.
“Yeah, all right then. It’ll give me a chance to get my riding legs under me.”
Mycroft smiled again. “Aye. And now I suggest ye get some rest. Tomorrow will be a long day.”
Chapter Twelve
A good night’s sleep and a hearty breakfast had helped Greg’s attitude tremendously, although his body still ached slightly. He gazed, awestruck, at the sheer number of people and the amount of food and drink. How many supposed members of the Holmes clan had gathered at Bassendean to celebrate Midsummer’s Eve, Greg didn’t know.
The day had started early with incoming clansmen swearing fealty to Mycroft.
Greg still couldn’t figure out why Mycroft would be participating in this whole deception.
If it’s really a deception. Greg could admit that his doubts were being challenged. But time travel? It boggled the mind. Regardless of whether or not he’d actually traveled through time, though, there was this huge event going on for whatever reason.
Sometime around tea time, the swearing of fealty had ended and the partying had begun in earnest.
Laughter, chatter, and dancing carried on all around him. In a field outside the outer bailey, a huge bonfire lapped at the sky and was being monitored carefully and tended by several men. Children of all ages raced around the wagons and tents set up in the fields surrounding the bonfire. A group of teen-aged girls performed an intricate dance, not unlike the one he’d seen a few nights ago. Young couples looked for privacy. Women with babies and toddlers stood or sat around talking about whatever it was women talked about. Men, too, gathered in groups, guffawing and back slapping and chugging down mead or ale, both of which were available in abundance.
Inside the inner bailey, long tables were lined up and piled high with everything from cheeses and breads and cakes, to fruits and vegetables, to more kinds of roasted meats than Greg could identify. A bevy of women kept watch, keeping dogs and insects at bay, while families came to fill their trenchers.
Greg had wandered around most of the day, watching all the goings on, nodding and smiling at people. The entire thing appeared completely authentic. For a history buff like himself, this was better than a thirty-part documentary. He hadn’t spotted a single thing that remotely looked as if it belonged in the 21st century. There’d been no slip-ups, no evidence, no nothing. He was going to have to concede that traveling through time provided the best explanation of what he was seeing better than anything else did.
“Halò, Greg,” called Mycroft. “How are ye getting on?”
Greg started, not expecting anyone to talk to him, much less the laird. He’d been inundated by incomprehensible chatter all day and, honestly, he was starting to get a headache. “Can’t understand much. Seems as if most of your people only speak Gaelic.”
“Aye.” They walked a few steps without speaking before Mycroft said, “My official duties as laird have come to an end. I usually just wander around the grounds keeping an eye on things. I don’t have the luxury of getting drunk.”
“Ah, shame.” Greg raised his tankard and smiled. Since he couldn’t go anywhere today, he’d figured he might as well get plastered. He’d opted for ale and a pleasant buzz already hummed through him.
“Indeed.” Mycroft returned the smile. As they traversed the outer bailey in ever widening circles, he shared greetings and wishes of good health and prosperity with just about everyone.
Eventually the sun sank, leaving the bonfires to provide the only sources of heat and light. Folks gravitated out of the baileys and toward the fires, of which there were now three.
“I’d enjoy a conversation focusing on something other than children, crops, weather, and livestock. Would you care to indulge me?”
“What, um, sure. Where?” Greg’s stomach looped like the London Eye and he had no idea why. No, that was a lie. He’d watched Mycroft interact with his people off and on all day. Laird Mycroft was nothing like the British Government. He’d been benevolent and fair, though a bit like a distant uncle. A few issues seemed to have required discipline, but nothing required punishment, which was usually swift and harsh at this point in history. Much of a laird’s continuing power depended on his ability to dispense justice, from the smallest disputes to the most grievous offense. However, the rumble of Mycroft’s voice speaking Gaelic had done funny things to Greg’s insides and he’d looked quite dashing in his formal dress. Now this invitation for conversation. Greg would be wise to not read more into it than was meant. There was no reason to other than an instinct.
“Wander out the main gates. When you reach the fork in the road, take the left path until you reach a jumble of boulders. There ought to be enough light from the moon to get ye there.”
“What about you?”
Mycroft smiled. “I’ll find ye. Go now. Oh, and bow just a little before ye go. We’re being watched.”
Greg bent at the waist just slightly and inclined his head. “Laird Holmes.”
Mycroft tilted his head and turned toward the inner bailey and the castle.
~*~
Mycroft strode through the hall and down to the kitchens, his blood babbling through his veins like a cheerful little brook. As expected, the day had been long and boring. Fealty offerings were part and parcel of clan life, but they were tedious.
Thoughts of his guest had floated around the back of his mind all day, teasing him with all the knowledge to be learned. They’d never had a visitor from so far in the future, and he couldn’t wait to question Greg on any number of topics.
Cook didn’t look surprised to see him; she smiled and nodded but said nothing. He slipped into the bathing room and removed all accoutrements, leaving him in nothing but shirt, kilt, and sword. Back in the kitchen, he gathered up an assortment of foodstuffs and bundled them into a square cloth. He pulled a blanket from the linens room and exited the outer door of the kitchens.
The heady scent of burning wood filled the air, carried over the castle by the slight breeze. The sounds of the continuing merriment floated across the distance as well.
The moon hung low in the eastern sky, but provided enough illumination for Mycroft to find his way. He knew the lands immediately surrounding the castle intimately. When he had trouble sleeping, he would walk. When he had clan matters to consider, he would walk. When he was lonely, he would walk. He walked in all kinds of weather and at all times of the day or night. He always knew where he was by a quick study of the landscape.
Out here in the open spaces, he could admit that it wasn’t only Greg’s knowledge of the future that called to him. It was the man himself. Virile, comely, and yet wearing an air of dejection. The first two were not exclusive of the last by any means, but the variance intrigued him. Something about the man evoked a response deep inside Mycroft.
He hurried across the stark ground to a small stand of trees and then slipped quietly between the thin trunks until he could see Greg.
Greg sat on a round stone of about knee height. He gazed upwards, though it didn’t seem to Mycroft as though he were focusing on any specific star clusters. The moonlight bathed him in its silvery glow, making him appear younger than he had in the daylight. Mycroft hadn’t seen the man this free from doubt and worry since he’d arrived. The reality of random time travel seemed to have confounded him, so it was nice to see him looking a bit more relaxed.
The light and dark mix of hair at his temples indicated a certain amount of life experience similar to Mycroft’s own. Greg had large dark brown eyes and a mouth full of straight white teeth. His smiles had been few and far between and had only been directed toward the children. Given the circumstances, Mycroft could scarcely blame him. Perhaps, if he could find some sort of common ground, he could coax a smile or two from the man.
Mycroft retraced his steps and circled around the trees. “Greg?”