Spring
(A Sequel to "A Long Winter for Willie Loomis")
by
Mary E. Overstreet
- ONE -
A peculiar sound behind him, like a gust of wind off the ocean, made Willie Loomis stiffen with apprehension before turning around. He looked for Barnabas who had been holding the door to the Old House for him but could not see him anywhere.
He went back inside the house and into the drawing room, leaving his suitcase in the foyer. He turned his attention to the figure of Barnabas who stood rigidly, eyes staring ahead in the center of the room.
There was no sound, Willie noticed, when he spoke the other's name and could not hear his own voice. Already alarmed, he went for the door, not wanting his escape from Collinsport to be thwarted now after he had been through so much.
But he couldn't move his legs. He looked at Barnabas, seeing him still staring as if listening.
He heard a voice Willie could not hear, telling him to prepare himself for a journey. He saw nothing but blackness, unaware that Willie was standing a few feet from him.
Willie thought the ground had suddenly dropped from below his feet as the darkness descended upon him. It was like falling into an abyss. He tried to reach for Barnabas in his terror and confusion and felt his hands contact a sleeve.
He called out to him, holding onto his arm, but the words were absorbed before they ever left his mouth. Willie knew he didn't belong in this falling, silent darkness. He grew aware of the gale force wind seemingly blowing around him. He felt it tearing Barnabas' arm from his hands and spinning him around and around sickeningly. End over end he seemed to be falling, the sound of the blood in his ears as air rushed past them was suddenly noticeable. The deep blackness thickened rapidly after he lost contact with the other man. It pressed down on his mind till his consciousness fled.
*
Barnabas awakened to find himself in the woods, sitting on damp dead needles beneath a tall pine tree with his back against the trunk. He felt a little weak and unsteady, looking down at his booted feet. A quick survey of the area showed him a pile of charred sticks and wood—the remains of a small campfire—and a big bay gelding tethered to a nearby tree. The small, trim saddle for the horse lay on the ground beside him, and he was dressed in the New England style of the mid 1700's. He searched his clothes, finding a pouch hidden close to his body containing several hundred dollars worth of gold coins. Looking at them brought a shock—money had changed drastically since the eighteenth century—it had been so natural to see it for its value in this time. He felt a longing for his home and family. Perhaps that was why he was here. He had not been given the reason for this journey. It could be difficult and frustrating until he found out.
He got to his feet, brushing down his clothes, so much like what he had worn growing up. Approaching the horse reminded him how long it had been since he had ridden every day. True, on some of the time-traveling trips he had ridden horseback, but even that had been a long time.
The big animal nuzzled him affectionately, easing some of his worry. At least it knew him—but how? He prepared to saddle and bridle the creature, finding a pack under the saddle with a few toiletry items in it and an extra shirt. He had been well provided for, he realized.
Still, something was missing. A nagging thought that he was overlooking something kept coming to his mind. He searched the campsite for clues and found nothing.
Trying to put it from his mind, he swung the saddle over the horse's back atop the blanket. His sleeve caught one of the stirrups suspended in the leather. As he yanked it loose, he remembered something. He had felt a tug during the process of traveling time. Only it had been more than that. His mind seemed to open up. Willie! It must have been Willie trying to prevent him going. The more he thought about it the more he remembered. Willie had been hanging onto him desperately. He had been about to take the younger man to the bus station for a final farewell. But where was he now?
They had been separated, he remembered—there was no telling where he was, or even if he had gone back to the same time. But surely whomever or whatever had arranged this would not have made a mistake.
With little confidence in the competence of the time manipulator Barnabas set out to find Willie and whatever he had been sent back for. But he needed information first and that would be most easily acquired in the nearest town, wherever that happened to be.
*
Willie came to, feeling sick and light-headed, to discover he was lying sprawled in dead grass so wet he could feel where it had soaked through his clothes. He sat up and held his spinning head in his hands before daring to look around him.
There was nothing familiar about the well-kept lawn and eight foot stone wall in front of him. A further look showed him that he was in the yard next to a huge mansion, nearly comparable in size to Collinwood from what he could see of this side of it. Enormous ancient trees were scattered about the yard, some giving no shade from the sun with their leafless branches.
Willie got to his feet, holding his stomach as if that would make the nausea go away—another side effect from the time with Barnabas—a weak stomach. Seeing that he was on one side of the house, he thought he should move around the corner to what he thought would be the front. Perhaps he could ask for help or directions.
He shifted his jacket more comfortably around him. It was cold and the side of his black work pants where they had gotten wet felt icy against his skin. He got as far as one of the trees before his breakfast, eaten at Wyndecliffe that morning, came up. He was bent over and down on his knees when he heard a scream. Caught in the throes of a heave, he could not look up.
When he was able, he stood up to see two women at the front of the house wearing voluminous dresses and adorned in heavy fur-lined capes. They were looking at him as if in terror, and he shook his head, sensing a panic coming on him far greater than theirs.
Feeling "better", Willie backed up and turned, running away from them to find an escape through the wall. He could hear shouts from behind him and leaped to try to scale the wall. His hands caught the top of it, and he pulled himself upward slightly and looked at the figures running toward him. He almost lost his grip at the sight of four men dressed in eighteenth century garb, two in rugged pants and coats and two in much finer clothes. He thought for a split second he was in a movie and none of this was real.
Willie pulled himself up, getting one arm over the upper edge of the wall before rough hands jerked him loose to fall to the ground again. He realized they were talking to him as they dragged him to his feet.
"What do you think you are doing?" said one of the more elegantly dressed men. He was tall and slender with ice blue eyes and a long thin nose and neatly-trimmed, curly blond hair.
Willie stared at him, disbelief at the situation and residual nausea made it hard to think of a plausible answer.
The two more coarsely dressed men were holding him by the arms. They shook him a little. "You'd better answer," said one.
"I-I-I'm lost."
"You seem to have found your way onto my property. You're trespassing." He made an obvious gesture of looking Willie up and down. "What kind of scoundrel are you? Your clothes are. . .very peculiar."
"I-I'm not from around here."
"What were you doing in the yard? You were seen approaching the house. You have frightened the ladies with your revolting display. Answer me, what were you doing?"
Willie couldn't think—he still felt so light-headed. "I-I. . .I was lost."
"Come on, mate. You'd better give Mister Townsend a better answer than that," said one of the men holding him.
"That's correct. We usually shoot trespassers. You did not come through the gate, you must have climbed over the wall." He looked at his shorter but equally aristocratic-looking companion. "I think you had a little robbery on your mind."
Willie was shaking his head. "No, I was lost. I was goin' to ask directions. I gotta bad memory—sometimes I forget things. I don't know how I got here."
"Hah!" the shorter one said. "I think we should see what you're made of, 'sir'." He made a grab for Willie's shoulder, but, even held between the two men, he managed to back away from it.
"No, I haven't done anything wrong. I was lost, I tell ya. I don' remember goin' over the wall." Fear clutched him inside. He couldn't let them beat him up. If his lungs got messed up again, he might not be able to survive it, or he'd catch pneumonia and die. He wanted more than anything to live as a whole person. After everything, he wanted a chance for himself.
"You were trespassing, and you have offended the women of this house. I should shoot you."
Willie shook his head. This pompous bastard was making him angry despite his fear. He took a deep breath, trying to find his old street confidence. He wanted to outwit him, but didn't think he stood much of a chance, not knowing where or when he was.
"What is your name?"
He lifted his chin defiantly. "William H. Loomis." He thought "Willie" was too common, they'd never respect that.
The second gentleman eyed him as coldly as the first. "If you weren't intending to rob us, why did you run away?"
Willie tried once to shake off the other men's hands. "I'm sorry I scared the women. I didn't want them to think I was gonna hurt them." He looked from one man to the other. "Look, I'm lost. Can't you help me?"
"Yes, I believe so." The tall Mister Townsend gave a conciliatory smile to the others. He was fairly young to be wielding such authority, thought Willie. "I think you are a robber. My good friend Martin Elkin concurs."
"But I'm not!" Willie protested, fear reasserting itself in spite of his attempt to quell it.
"Do not interrupt me," he said sharply. "I would be within my rights to shoot you. However, I would be content to see you punished. Martin, do you think we should take him into town and let the magistrate decide?"
Obviously, this was going very badly. "Look, don' do that. Jus' let me go. I wasn't doin' anything wrong. I swear."
Ignoring him, Townsend spoke to one of the other men. "Jackson, go saddle our horses and bring them to the front. And bring a length of rope."
"Yes, sir." One of the two on either side of Willie, released him and hurried off. The other strengthened his grip on his arm.
"You're makin' a mistake. I don't remember how I got here!" He pulled against the man holding him as they headed off across the grounds to the front gate. Willie didn't want to start any violence, but he could not just let them take him. He stopped and jerked hard on the man's arm, swinging him around to try to dislodge his hands.
He went down, pulling Willie after him, and only letting go when he had him on the ground. A hard punch with his fist knocked Willie flat to the grass, his arms thrown up to protect his face from a second blow. He rolled away from the man and tried to get up to run, but Elkin and the servant laid their hands on him, the latter pulled his arms back and the former back-handed him across the face.
Willie knew in a fraction of a second he would have to avoid the next blow, certain it would land on his chest or stomach. He went limp, sliding to the ground. "Okay, okay," he panted.
"What? Does this mean you give up?" said Townsend, who had stood back and watched the struggle.
He nodded, slowly rising to his feet. "Yes." He touched his mouth, finding blood when he looked at his hand. He followed them across the lawn, the servant behind him, pushing him every few steps to make him walk faster. Willie felt unsteady and his head ached. His bruised face was cold and smarting in places.
He looked up from the ground suddenly, a flash of hope in his mind. "Hey, do you know Barnabas Collins?"
The two men in front of him ignored the question till Willie repeated it in a more forceful tone. A disdainful, "No," floated back to him. He wanted to knock both of them senseless. Instead, he followed them to a massive iron gate at the end of a gravel drive.
"Listen, you're makin' a mistake. I haven't done anything wrong," Willie said as they waited for the horses to arrive.
"I disagree," said Townsend. "And I want to see you punished." A cruel smile touched his thin lips, and he looked at his friend. "I fancy a flogging, don't you, Martin?"
"We could take care of that here, while your fa—" Elkin began.
"No." He cut him off quickly, glaring briefly at him. "I want it to be public. Set an example for anyone else who might dare to trespass this estate."
"You're makin' a mistake," Willie groaned under his breath. A flogging? This couldn't be happening. He shut his eyes, trying to will it away. Not now, please, he thought, this kind of thing was supposed to be over.
The sound of shod horse hooves on gravel disrupted his internal lament. Jackson led two well-kept horses over to them, giving the reins to their owners, Townsend a big chestnut mare and the other black gelding. Willie was just realizing there was no horse for him when Jackson made a grab for his hands.
Rather than get into another hopeless fight, he allowed the two servants to tie his wrists with rope. But he made it as difficult as possible. When they had his hands secured together, they tied the rope around him once and handed the end to Townsend.
Both men mounted their horses, the taller one fastened the rope to the pommel of his saddle and turned his horse to the closed gate. Willie braced himself, hoping they wouldn't run. He intended to try to knock Townsend from his horse if he could.
When the gate was opened, the men spurred their animals to a slow canter—too fast almost for Willie to keep up with. He had spared himself a needless bruising by running ahead as soon as they moved. But keeping up was hard. The cold air felt like it was burning his lungs after a moment, and his usually comfortable leather shoes pinched and bit his feet as he ran behind the horses. His feet were soon soaked through as he splashed through puddles of water in the crude dirt road. He was not up to this, he knew. While he was healthy enough, his body had not had any recent activities to build stamina and muscle tone. He clung to the rope, trying to keep from being jerked forward or tripped and dragged.
Desperate because he didn't know how much longer he could keep up at this fast pace, he moved as far as he could to one side of Townsend's horse, the side the rope did not fall on, and let it cross behind the mounted man. He braced his arms to stop or at least slow and gave the rope a hard pull.
Townsend was pushed nearly from the saddle, but hung on and stopped his horse. Elkin pulled up also, and they turned to look at Willie who stood gasping and bent over. His chest hurt like it was full of splinters, and he knew there must have been rope burns across his back and arms where it had tightened.
Townsend, whose face was cold with anger, started his horse forward abruptly, pulling Willie off his feet and dragging him through drying mud. He stopped after a few yards and brought his horse to stand over him.
"I'll drag you every step if you try something like that again. Now get up."
Willie lay on his back, mud and dirt smeared all over. His back and ribs hurt where the rope had pulled him forward against it, and his breath came in deep, painful inhalations. Slowly he turned on his side, then his knees, then got to his feet. He'd rather have stayed with Barnabas than go through this.
They started forward at a trot this time. Willie jogged behind. Numb from the cold, his face, hands and feet hurt less than the rest of him. The effort of running was making him sweat as well. The sun when it reached through the trees to shine on him felt almost hot. He didn't know how he kept going, even after his second wind had run its course. He never dreamed his shoes could be so uncomfortable.
What seemed like twenty miles to Willie and was in reality only three, was at last over when they reached a small New England village. Too thoroughly exhausted to do anything but walk mechanically behind the horses and take in heavy deep breaths, Willie noticed none of it, not the people who bustled about in their eighteenth century clothing, carrying buckets or sacks or riding horses or in carriages. Nor did he see the curious stares or hear the questions asked Townsend and Elkin about him.
With dried mud in his hair and on his clothes, he was led inside a building on the main street across from the town square. Willie looked up, watching as Townsend went to speak with an older man, some kind of town official behind a huge wooden desk. In a few minutes, Willie was taken before him, still bound by the ropes which he started trying to loosen.
"This is a small matter, we shall settle it here and now," the magistrate was saying. He looked at Willie's disheveled, muddy and bruised appearance. "What have you to say for yourself."
He was still breathing hard, but he met the man's eyes steadily. "I was lost. I don' remember how I got in his yard. I was feelin' kinda sick." He did not feel very well now either; his muscles trembled with exhaustion. But the warm dry air of the room was helping.
"He made a revolting display of it in the presence of Mrs. Townsend and Miss Elkin," the tall man said.
"I couldn't help it. I didn't know they were there!"
"Had we not been standing by, he could have—"
"No! I wouldn't've done anything," Willie cut him off. "I was lost. I needed help—not this." He held up his bound wrists for a moment.
"Nonetheless, you were on his property without permission. He could have killed you for that. I think what Mister Townsend has suggested is quite lenient." He opened a big, leather-bound book on his desk, dipped the quill end of a feather pen into an ink well and wrote in the book.
"This isn't right. I haven't done anything wrong." His tone was bordering on pleading. He could not bring himself to beg. It would not have helped anyway.
"What is your name?"
Willie stared at him till he looked up from the book. "Don't. Look, do you know Barnabas Collins?"
"No, I do not. Your name, please."
Elkin jabbed him in the ribs. "Answer."
Bruised from the rope, Willie flinched. He obeyed, again using the full form of his first name, as if that would help.
The man wrote it in his record book, then stood up. "You are hereby sentenced to ten lashes, to be administered at midday tomorrow, April 7th, in the year of our lord seventeen-hundred and forty-one."
Willie was still absorbing the part about the ten lashes when he realized he knew the date now. This was before Barnabas' time. He wasn't even born yet. How the hell was he going to get out of this?
"Take him to the constable where he can be locked up until tomorrow."
"No! You can't do this—" Elkin jerked on the rope, forcing him to come with them. "I didn't get a trial!" He suddenly knew why—America was not yet independent of England. He didn't know what his rights were.
They took him outside, and he looked around this time. Maybe Barnabas was here and he might see him. But no one looked at all familiar, and he was soon in a neighboring building, the "Gaol". The constable seemed more than happy to lock him up in the one small cell. He was searched for weapons and personal possessions of which they found none, then pushed rudely in and told to put his hands back through the bars if he wanted the rope off.
He couldn't rub his wrists when they were freed as the skin was raw and sore. Instead, he turned around, looking at the primitive conditions. A large man sat on the cell's single wooden bunk, and straw was scattered over the brick floor. There was a small ceramic pot in one corner and a narrow barred window in one of the two crude brick walls. Willie moved to look out it and air flowed in on his face from the outside, but he didn't look away. His only hope was to find Barnabas. Already he felt congestion starting in his lungs. If he didn't get out of here he might get really sick.
"You'll catch your death standin' in that window," said his cell mate.
Willie turned only to glance at him.
"That may not make much difference to you," he added. "Maybe you're already gonna hang."
"No," Willie said, shaking his head.
"Not me either. I'm goin' to prison though. Woulda been there by now, but for some trouble with the wagon."
Willie stopped listening and stared back out the window. He tried to ignore the aches and pains plaguing him and the uncomfortable chill from the window. Finding Barnabas was his only hope and that galled him. He leaned against the wall, exhausted and afraid, his forehead resting against the bars.
He spent a long time watching the people go by, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. The sun, having passed its zenith, became obscured by clouds. Willie was about to give up and try to warm his face when a figure on horseback caught his attention. His weariness slipped away in light of a new hope. He watched the man, gripping the bars of the window hard. Desperate enough to risk being wrong, he shouted, "Barnabas!"
About to enter the tavern across the street, the man turned to see who had called him.
"Over here! Barnabas!" Willie was rewarded with a look from the other.
Barnabas led his horse across the street, tying it in front of the jail and walking into the alley where the window to the cell opened. "Willie, what're you doing in there?" He was happy to see him, but disturbed by the circumstances.
Willie never thought he would have been so glad to see Barnabas. "Barnabas, you gotta help me. They're gonna whip me tomorrow. They think I was trespassin', but that's where I showed up, in this yard, an' I was dizzy, an' I got sick, an' they thought I was gonna rob 'em—"
"Slow down, Willie, please. It's going to be all right." He noticed the bruises on his face and the rope marks on his wrists. Unfortunately Willie was still dressed in his twentieth century suede jacket, shirt, and slacks. "Now, whose yard did you find yourself in?"
Even desperate as he was, he was annoyed with Barnabas for talking down to him. He explained what happened, including his feeble excuse about not remembering how he'd come to be in the yard.
"All right, Willie, here is what we'll do." He kept his voice low. "I'll talk to them and tell them that you had a severe shock, and you lose your memory from time to time. I'll bribe them if I have to. Don't worry. I'll get you out of this."
"You know, I don't think I'm even supposed to be here."
"I know. I'm sorry you were pulled in with me."
"Yeah, me too." Willie could not keep from blaming Barnabas for his predicament. All the old and not so old bitterness came up. Barnabas had better get him out of this.
"Well, I'll go now. You'll be out in no time." He was less confident than he sounded as he walked away.
The constable proved to be no help whatsoever, insisting he go see the magistrate for permission to release Willie. Barnabas went there, feeling a kind of desperation for his friend.
"I'm sorry, sir, I cannot release him."
"But he's innocent, Your Honor. He suffered a traumatic shock a fortnight ago, and since then he has had memory lapses. He's never been anything but a loyal servant to me. I never have to punish him." Saying his last words did not set right with Barnabas, but he had to have a story. And Willie's appearance was that of a common man, it seemed only logical for their relationship to be that of master and servant, especially in this time.
"Well, Mister Giles Townsend wants him to be punished. If he is willing to drop the charges against your man, we'll release him. If not, the sentence will be carried out. It isn't so severe, I don't know why—"
"Begging your pardon, sir, but Willie deserves no punishment. If he did, I would administer it myself." He knew he was getting nowhere with this.
"Then you'll have to speak with young Lord Townsend."
"Where might I find him?" From what Willie had told him, he did not think Townsend would be willing to let him go, but he had to try.
"Three miles outside of town on the East road."
"Thank you," he said, already starting out.
It had been a long time since he had judged distances on horseback, but he could not have missed the huge ornate gates and magnificent mansion behind them. Less sprawling than Collinwood and out of red brick, the house stood at least three stories and was trimmed in white.
After getting through several formalities—being admitted, having his horse attended to, and being announced within the house—Barnabas was allowed inside a parlor near the front by an older woman. He felt a pang of homesickness at the sight of her in a dress much like his mother had worn. He bowed politely to her.
"I'm sorry, my son is not here to receive you," she began, "with his father away he spends little time at home."
"I understand. Do you know when he will return? It is rather important to me that I speak with him."
"I doubt it will be long. Dinner will be ready soon." She sat down on a plush divan. "You may wait if you wish."
"Thank you. You're most kind."
"Please be seated, Mister Collins, and tell me where you are from."
"Thank you. I have traveled from Collinsport on the northern coast." Barnabas had discovered that the town of Brickensburg was somewhere southwest of Portsmouth in the New Hampshire territory. "It's near Bangor."
"I haven't heard of it. Does it take its name from your family?"
"Yes, madame, it does. My ancestors were the founders."
She nodded approvingly and was about to speak again when her son and his friend came into the house. She and Barnabas rose to their feet. He remained where he was as she went out, and in a moment the young aristocrats entered the parlor without her.
"What might I do for you?" Townsend asked, shaking Barnabas' hand after introducing him to his friend.
"I have come on behalf of my servant, Willie Loomis." He watched the other's eyes narrow slightly. "First, let me offer you my most humble apologies for his behavior. He has been through a severe shock recently and is not himself yet."
Townsend looked him over, and turning away thoughtfully, said, "He was found in the yard outside, frightening the ladies."
"Yes, I know. And I'm deeply sorry. He has never done anything like that before."
"Then he should be punished this time."
"That is what I would speak with you about."
"Yes?" He looked at Barnabas calculatingly.
"Please consider dropping your charge against him. He has been through so much of late, I would hate to see him suffer more."
"It's only ten stripes," Elkin spoke up. "Hardly anything."
"That's right. It is but a light punishment. I do not wish to have him freed of it. Perhaps it will help his memory," said Townsend.
Barnabas saw what was in Townsend's eyes—he was in this for the power. And his friend was along for the ride. "I would pay reparation charges, if you will release him."
"He had no time to steal or damage the property. I'm sorry, Mister Collins. I think we have nothing further to discuss."
Barnabas knew a dismissal when he got one and vowed to pay Townsend back in some way for his arrogance. He looked at him coldly. "You will regret your cruelty," he said as he left. He didn't know how he could save Willie now. He wished he had come back to the past as a vampire. He would have enjoyed teaching Townsend a real lesson in cruelty.
In the jail cell, Willie had joined the other man in sitting on the bunk. He tried to warm his face with his hands, but they were cold, too. He bent over his lap, aching and miserable. Barnabas had better get him out of this, he thought. If only he hadn't gone back inside the Old House. He might not have been able to leave Collinsport on the next bus, but at least he wouldn't be here and in this trouble. Even if there wasn't the whipping to worry about, he had the potential health problems, the soreness in his throat and the tightness in his chest. He knew his nose could have been running from having his face in the cold. He hoped that's all it was.
He and the other man spoke little to each other. As the light slowly dimmed, he tried to think of a way to talk him out of sleeping on the bunk, since it was obvious he would not get out of here tonight. But he could not imagine one reason the other might want to lie on the dirty, straw-covered floor. When two pans of thin, meatless stew were passed into the cell, Willie had no intention of touching his, and almost gave it to his cell mate, without thought. But he stopped himself and spoke up.
"You can have mine if you'll let me have the bunk tonight," he said.
The other looked at him. "Did you freeze your brains in that window? This slop ain't worth a night on that, though I've seen worse."
He hadn't expected it to work, but he was annoyed anyway. "Okay. Have it your way." He got up and slung it out the window. The broth spilled down the inside wall, leaving that which remained on the ledge to give off slowly rising clouds of vapor.
"Fool. You shouldn't've wasted that."
"You had your chance." Willie sank to the straw, his back against the bars, and leaning his side against the cold brick which formed the outside wall. Foul odors rose up to him from the floor, and he put one arm across his knees, burying his nose in his sleeve to warm it and block out the smell.
Barnabas must have failed, he was thinking. Knowing him, he would not even consider breaking him out. With the guard seated at a desk next to a large fireplace across the room from the cell, he didn't think it was very plausible. The idea of breaking the law in this time period bothered him because of the possible consequences if they were caught, not because he would be doing wrong. Trying to escape an unfair, unwarranted punishment was not wrong. He was just not up to taking risks any more. This was some test, he mused. It all made Wyndecliffe and his nervous problems seem like just a bad dream. But when he thought about it seriously, he knew he was not over it. The fact he was to be trussed up and beaten made the pain come up. He just wanted to go back to New York and lose himself. He could find Cherrie maybe. No, he couldn't do that yet. He wasn't settled enough.
He closed his eyes, crossing his arms on top of his knees and sinking his face into the dirty suede sleeves. With one hand he reached back into his hair and began breaking up the dried mud and pulling it out. What a miserable place, he thought. Willie was surprised he was taking his predicament so calmly. It certainly wasn't due to his faith in Barnabas. A lot of his fear and paranoia were gone, and he could think clearly now. Maybe not enough to think of a way out. He could wait till the guard fell asleep and pick the lock, but he had nothing remotely resembling a tool to use. Getting the guard to come close enough to the bars or even inside the cell was an idea, but there was no reason for him to approach now. And he had already tested the bars on the window.
Willie sighed. If Barnabas didn't get him out of here before noon the next day, he would never forgive him. Right now his list of grievances was pretty long. He could find no forgiveness in his heart. He still ached with shame and until that went away, he wanted nothing from Barnabas except freedom.
Cold seeped into him, and he had to get up and move around. He heard it start raining outside and stared out the window at the dark lamplit street. He was surprised when their guard came over and passed a blanket between the bars. Torn and thin, it was better than nothing. Willie thanked him and scraped together as thick a pile of straw as he could manage over by the other corner where the bars met the wall. Further from the window, and not against an outside wall, it was a little warmer. He sat in the straw, wrapping the blanket around him, and curled up in the corner.
The sound of the rain soothed him and his sore muscles relaxed. The stiffness in his chest did not go away, nor the aching of his back and sides. He tried to sleep, but such eluded him for hours. He had been practically immune to cold for years, but Barnabas had changed that, too.
In the Big Hearth Inn on the outskirts of town less than a mile away, Barnabas was also trying to sleep, but his success was even less than Willie's who managed to doze after a while. His warm bed was infinitely more comfortable and he had no real bodily pains to distract him, just soreness in his legs from riding, yet he was not suffering from the complete exhaustion and exposure the other had. His insomnia was the result of his failure to have Willie released. If he couldn't find a way to stop the flogging tomorrow, he knew Willie would perhaps hate him even more than he already did. And it would be difficult to discover why he had been sent back in time if he were tied to this village while Willie recovered. He wondered if this was even the place he was meant to come. He could have taken the other direction and been in a different town. He would not have discovered Willie in the jail, but he might have found some clue as to why he was here.
Speculation and worry nagged him for hours. He needed to make provisions for Willie whatever the outcome of the following day. He would need period clothes and a horse and more careful attention if he were to be whipped. Barnabas thought he should have gone to see Willie this evening, but he had not wanted to bear the younger man's reaction. He might have been able to make him more comfortable by getting a blanket or tending to his rope-burned wrists. Willie had looked cold and miserable, he thought, and he knew he should have helped him. Only doing so, would be almost to admit defeat. And he just did not know Willie any more. Since the other man had faced a devastating personal crisis and come out of it far wiser and more resentful than he had ever been, Barnabas did not know what to say to him. Willie held him responsible for the hurt that lingered in him, and rightly so. The former vampire had faced his guilt, he understood some of Willie's attitudes, but he could not guess his reactions. He hadn't been with him but a few hours when they were taken back in time. And why had that even happened? Who was responsible? Angelique? Or some other with sufficient power? He and Angelique held no more hatred for each other. How was he going to find out? And how much time did he have here to discover the purpose?
The thoughts wouldn't go away. He resigned himself to a sleepless night and started making plans for the next day.
* * *