Demon Sword

CHAPTER ONE

Sir Torquil had offered ponies, which Rory had refused, much to his companions' relief, but half a dozen young Campbells had ridden off, presumably to clear the way. Leather capes were another matter — Torquil had insisted on providing them, and no one had argued very hard. He had wanted to donate shoes also, muttering about walking on shingle. Everyone knew that shoes would soon cramp feet unaccustomed to them, so the shoes were declined with thanks.

A short walk brought them to Loch Fyne — forty miles long, Hamish announced, reaching all the way to the Mull of Kintyre and the Isle of Butte. As the rain hid everything out of bowshot, Toby was not impressed by the information. He had never seen the sea before, and found even the smell of it intriguing. The tide was out, exposing smooth gray rocks coated with strange weeds and barnacles. He would have liked to see the ships that Hamish insisted would be anchored off Inverary, but had to be content with bobbing gulls and the little boats that lay on the strand near every cottage, surrounded by intriguing tackle.

"Fishing nets," Hamish said, unnecessarily. "Lobster creels. They dry fish on those racks, don't they, Master MacDonald? And see yon harpoon!"

According to Rory, they passed within a mile of Inverary Castle itself, but the rain obscured it totally. Few folk were mad enough to be about in such weather, and any who had reason to watch for strangers must have been discouraged by the Campbells of Shira. The fugitives saw hardly a soul.

Their way lay east, a crude trail where the hills met the sea. At high tide, it might have been impassable. Hamish quartered like a questing hound, trotting back with shells and crabs and jellyfish to show.

The world was starting to offer novelty. With a cape to keep off the worst of the rain and free of his weighty sword, Toby was having a better day. Better was a relative term, of course.

They reached the mouth of the River Fyne and turned south, still following the shore. At the hamlet of Cairndow, two men emerged from the rain to interrogate the strangers. Rory stalked on ahead to speak with them, and they reacted in the now familiar fashion, doffing bonnets and bowing. The travelers were allowed to pass.

They crossed a river on stepping stones that were mostly underwater. They turned inland.

Miraculously, the rain had eased to a drizzle, revealing a straight glen ahead, almost narrow enough to be called a gorge. On the left, beyond the river, the hill was an imposing wall, soaring into the clouds without a break. It was not quite a cliff, although a man would need go up it on all fours. The near side was more gentle, although still too steep for any use but cattle. The river might be just a peaty burn most of the time, but days of rain had turned it into a roaring brown torrent, which had taken over the track in places and was washing it away in others. It frothed and thundered over boulders, setting Toby's teeth on edge with a sepulchral rumble of rocks rolling along its bed.

"Where is this?" he demanded after a while.

Rory said, "It's Glen Kinglas—" and stopped.

Toby looked back, seeing a glimpse of Loch Fyne framed in the glen mouth, with hints of the hill beyond like a wall of mist. "Then here we part."

Silence, except for rain and wind and the growling of the river.

He had calculated well in bringing Meg along. Now the moment of farewell had arrived, the other men were reluctant to desert him, even though they knew they could give him no aid.

"Go back," he said. "This is my battle. You have done more than was required, by many a mile, all of you."

"Just because you have escaped the woman before, Tobias…" Father Lachlan began, but he did not finish. What he meant was that there was no spirit of Glen Shira here, no hob of Fillan. Toby was alone.

He had always been alone. He always would be. Strong men could stand alone. The time for running away was over.

"Go back," he repeated, speaking to Rory's angry stare. "If you had a warband at your back, you could not help me now. Find a warm hearth down there in Cairndow, or somewhere. Or go back to Sir Torquil's."

"The tide is in!" Rory snapped. His pride was burning him alive. He was the leader. Sons of chiefs did not stay behind when their followers went into danger — he regarded Toby as his man, even if Toby refused to bend a knee to him.

"I am sure you have other friends close, to offer you shelter, Master… MacDonald."

That hint made the gray eyes glint dangerously. "Father Lachlan, you take the girl and the boy and—"

"No, my son," the friar said quietly. "This battle is not for you. Remember your grandfather."

"I'm going with you!" Hamish announced — bravely enough, although there was a strange whiteness around his eyes.

He was a puppy yapping at a bull, but Toby was touched. The courage of the Campbells of Fillan was very real to the teacher's son, and not to be mocked now. He squeezed the boy's shoulder. "Thanks, my friend. I know I promised you we would hang on the same gallows, but I'm not headed to the gallows today."

"Go with our prayers, Tobias," the friar said. "You can follow the trail without trouble, over Rest and be thankful—"

"What?"

"A pass. That's its name, Rest and be thankful. Then down into Glen Croe, between the Cobbler and the Brack, to Arrochar. You'll be only a mile or two west of the Loch Lomond Road, then. When you get to Dumbarton, ask at the sanctuary for Father Gregor…"

If he got that far. Toby braced himself. He had never reneged on a promise before, but in this case it was a distasteful duty. "I must ask you for your oath, Father. Promise me that Meg Campbell—"

The friar cried out. "Where is Meg Campbell?"

Meg Campbell was a tiny figure in the distance, trudging along the road, indistinct in the rain. With a roar, Toby took off in pursuit. He heard feet slapping in the mud behind him. How had she managed to get so far without them noticing?

He caught up with her and grabbed her arm. She swung around furiously.

"Take your hands off me!"

He took his hands off her.

She started walking again. He tracked beside her, fuming. "What the demons are you doing?"

"Going where you go. I told you."

She was being so stupid that he didn't know where to start.

"Meg, I'm an outlawed murderer, a demonic husk, a penniless vagrant. I've got a price on my head, a hexer at my heels…"

She glanced back at the posse. "Yes, but I feel safer with you than I do with Rory. Oh, Toby, I can't explain… I trust you. I more than just trust you, I…"

"You what?"

"Never mind. Rory frightens me!" She smiled suddenly, seeing his shock. "I don't mean he threatens me. He's witty and charming and attentive. But… I am afraid when I'm with him. Not afraid of him, so much as afraid of me!"

"What does that mean?"

Again she glanced back at the pursuers. "I don't know. I mean, I don't know how to tell you without hurting you."

"Try me!" He had never seen fiery little Meg Campbell so off-balance, so unsure of herself. Rory would be here in seconds.

She bit her lip. "He's so devious! He could steal a horse's shoes without lifting its feet."

"He's clever and I'm not, you mean?"

"Oh, you know that's not what I mean! He promises… You really think he's a rebel?"

What in the world was she trying to say?

Then Rory came splashing up to them, obviously furious that his followers were not following as he expected. Hamish was close behind him, handicapped by his bundle. Father Lachlan would come in a distant fourth. Below his leather cape, the hem of his white robe flapped madly, like a housewife's duster.

"Meg, you are being foolish!" Rory said sharply. "You go on, Longdirk." He reached for Meg's arm.

Toby struck his hand away. "She goes with me if she wants."

"To face Valda? And demons? Are you out of your minds, both of you?" Again Rory reached for her arm. "Come with us, Meg. You go on, Longdirk. We'll talk sense into—"

Again Toby smacked the rebel's hand away. "I am not your man and she is not your woman."

Rory stared at him incredulously and drew. "By the demons of Delia, I have taken all I can from you, you ignorant ox. Now I am going to teach you some manners!"

Toby edged away from Meg, clutching his bundle in both hands before him. It was the only weapon or shield he had. He ought to drop to his knees and beg forgiveness, but he would rather drop dead.

"Armed, this time, my lord? The last lesson misfired, didn't it? Your match was a little damp."

He had been a fool to rile a swordsman, a noble. Rory would be within his rights in chopping off an ear or two. Indeed, if Rory just ran the churl through, then who would bring justice against him? Who would seek vengeance for Toby Strangerson? He had no clan, he was no man's man, whereas Rory was a very important personage indeed.

"Or are you just annoyed that an ignorant ox managed to work out who you were? Managed to see through all the childish lies!"

Meg shouted, "No! Stop this!" She tried to move between them, but Rory dodged past her, pushing her away.

"Stay out of this, woman!" He advanced slowly on Toby again, lips white with fury, silver eyes shining, steel glinting. Any moment he would leap forward and lunge.

Toby continued backing away. Spirits, let me get in one good punch! Let me just smash his nose, if I have to run up his sword to do it… "If you're so good with a sword, Master MacDonald, then why didn't you draw on the bogy? You didn't even hit it with your lute, did you? You were going to drown, Master—"

He stopped, his feet stuck. They looked all right, but they felt as if they were buried in mortar.

Rory, too, was staring down in dismay.

Hamish screamed, "Valda! It's the woman!"

About half a mile up the glen, a line of riders was advancing toward them. Five — no, six. Where had they come from?

"Well!" Rory said, sheathing his sword. "Do you suppose that's just the local cattlemen's association holding its annual meeting?" He had switched instantly from fury to icy calm.

Meg cried, "Toby!"

Again Toby tried to move, but his feet stayed rooted to the road. Trapped! He glanced over his companions and saw that they were all transfixed. He had promised to guard Meg and then led her into more danger than her father could have dreamed in his worst nightmares. With a howl of fury he hurled his bundle away from him.

Shift…

He looked down at the five mortals. They stood in a loathsome pool of demonic power. He blew it away. Apart from that, they were unharmed.

Dum… Dum… Dum…

He looked up the glen. The mounted six trotting along the road… The hexer smiled gloatingly as she led her odious pack along the trail. Their horses were dead — ridden to death and beyond death. The other woman lived, but her mind had been tormented away to nothing. Two of the males were corpses, their resident demons fully occupied in running the decaying bodies they inhabited. They could contribute nothing. Of the other two, one was directing the horses and also had an overriding directive to protect the hexer. That left only one fully operational, and even that one was encumbered by shackles of gramarye.

Back to the five… The big one, the witchwife's lad, the curly-haired one… he grew. He swelled to a giant, a mountain, looming over Glen Kinglas. Ignoring the clouds and the rain, he surveyed the hills: the trail, heading straight for big Beinn Ime and then bending right to find the pass, gentle Beinn an Lochain on the right, and the sheer, straight face of Binrein an Fhidhleir, soaring up two thousand feet without a break on the left.

Weapon?

Dum… Dum…

Roll boulders on them, the teacher's boy had said. Why not?

He reached out a cloud-sized arm and sank fingers into the slope above the riders, clawing at it. The soil was sodden and saturated by so much rain. It moved easily.

This game was fun! Too late, the one available demon sensed the opposing power. It rose like black smoke to give battle, and then paused with evil glee as it saw the ploy. The damage was already done, anyway.

The side of the hill slid away bodily. Green slope became a carpet of brown mud, slithering downward, ripping up bushes, tearing out rocks, picking up speed. The ground moved in waves. Unbearable sound filled the valley. A gale roared ahead of the landslide. Valda looked up and screamed. The demon fled back to aid her. On the far slope, long-horned cattle stampeded in terror.

The mud slide poured down the mountain, burying the river, burying the road, rushing partway up the opposite slope. In seconds, the heap rose like brown dough, filling the gorge, building a mountain, spreading out sideways along the trail. Boulders bounced free ahead of the advancing wall. The thunder was a palpable presence, paralyzing the mortals. They could do nothing but stare at the approaching cataclysm; and then the hurricane bowled them over, hurling them to the ground and rolling them — all except the big one, who leaned into the wind.

The mass steadied before it reached them, the muck bubbling and writhing like a giant slug as it settled in place, its deathly roar fading to a steady, comforting beat: Dum… Dum…

Fun! Fun! More! Farther up the glen were other wet slopes just waiting to roll down…

CHAPTER TWO

"Toby! Toby! Are you all right?"

Dum… Dum…

The first thing he noticed was Meg's face, all black with mire around two white, staring eyes: comical. That had been Meg shouting. Her cape and dress were thick with mud. Rory and Hamish were helping Father Lachlan to his feet, and every one of them was slathered in it, like human pigsties. Funny.

He was all right, just wet.

"Are you all right?" Meg repeated urgently.

"Yes, I think so…" He was mortal again… merely mortal, back in the cold and the wind. He had a waning sense of loss, of heady power lost. Clouds mantled the hills again, but he could still taste the savage joy he had felt when he clawed down a mountainside to destroy a foe.

The glen had fallen silent. A wall of glistening mud blocked it; the air reeked of wet soil. The river flowed no more.

Father Lachlan wiped his spectacles on the sleeve of his robe, and put them on again so he could peer at Toby over them.

"Was that your doing, my son?"

Toby looked down at his hand. There was no dirt under his nails, but he felt as if there should be. He could remember the strange sensation of digging his fingers into the hillside. He had soared with the eagles. He had looked down at the hills.

"Mine? How could I do that?"

"I suppose the rain could have set off the slide," the acolyte muttered uncertainly, as if trying to convince himself.

"It was a very fortuitous rescue," Rory remarked shakily. "Is she dead?"

Toby faced four incredulous stares. They were not fools, none of them. They were all smarter than he was. They could not have seen what he had seen — Toby Strangerson grown to the size of a mountain. If they had seen that, they would be fleeing in all directions. But they must have noticed him behaving oddly, and if he tried to explain, they would flee from him now. He was possessed, demonized, uncanny. Leper!

"Dead? Valda? How should I know?" He did not think she was dead. The demons had been trying to save her. Even if they had succeeded, though, she must be in disarray. No, she was not a threat now — but he dared not say so.

"So it was Valda?" Rory snapped.

Toby shrugged. "Your eyes are as good as mine."

"We had best get out of here!" Father Lachlan said. "There may be more slides ready to fall."

Not unless Toby arranged them. If Meg had not called him back when she did… He did not want to think about that.

"We'll have to turn back," Rory said. "The road's blocked. No reason not to now, is there?"

"Is the danger over?" Father Lachlan asked, still sounding shaky. He meant: Is Valda still there? He did not believe Toby's denials. None of them did.

Toby said, "We could get by. We can go on to Dumbarton."

"In this weather?" Rory growled. "There's no hurry anymore, is there? Demons, but I'd like to get out of this rain! I have friends here. I can lead us to a warm, dry house and some civilized comfort. I didn't dare go there as long as I thought there was a hexer after us. If we're safe now, then that's where we ought to go before we all freeze to death. We're not in a hurry, are we? Only Sassenachs to worry about now?"

He stared challengingly at Toby.

Toby looked at Meg. Her lips were white. She had done marvelously well. For two whole days, she had survived cold and wet and hunger and physical torment. To submit her to more days and nights of those would be deliberate cruelty. He had promised to look after her, and he must not gamble her life just to safeguard his own skin.

"All right!" he said. "All right! Yes, that was Valda. I don't think I killed her, but I probably destroyed her maid and at least two of her demons, possibly three. She's not going to be a problem for a while." He glowered at the horrified faces and waited for the panic.

Rory smiled at having his suspicions confirmed, but it was a sickly imitation of his customary smirk. "You brought down that slide?"

"My demon did."

Still the panic did not come. They all exchanged glances, but they did not flee in terror, as they should.

"Beautiful!" The rebel laughed. "Attaboy, Little Man! Oh, what we would have given to have had you at Parline Field, when the bowstrings broke in our fingers and our gunpowder turned to salt! Come on, then, all of you — I know where we can find dry beds tonight. Longdirk, you're a hexer after my own heart!"

He moved as if to go, expecting his followers to follow, but everyone just stood. He frowned and folded his arms.

Hamish chewed his lip. "I don't think you're a hexer, Toby." He did not look very certain, though.

"I do," Toby said.

"Don't say that!" Meg screamed. "Don't even joke about it!"

Father Lachlan was adjusting his spectacles, waiting patiently.

"They were all dead!" Toby said. "Almost all! Dead already, I mean. The two men I killed earlier, and all the horses. And the other woman… she was breathing, but not… not thinking. Valda was laughing." His voice was becoming shrill. He felt sick.

"The spirit saw no evil in you, my son. Tell me what happened."

"What did you see?"

"Nothing. You just stood and stared."

"That's all?"

The acolyte pulled his hood up as the rain began to grow heavier again. "You did have a strange expression on your face."

"A grin? A sort of idiot simper?"

"I suppose so." He reached up to pat Toby's shoulder ineffectually. "You can tell me later. What matters is that you have chased the evil away, at least for a while. The spirit said you might, remember?"

It had also said that his troubles would be just beginning.

"It was different this time, somehow. It's never quite the same twice. The demon must be learning how to control me better!"

Father Lachlan frowned anxiously. "I still do not believe you are possessed, my son. You cannot be a hexer, for you do not use the rituals of gramarye and you have no demonic creatures at your command. I admit that I do not understand. You seem to fit none of the rules at all! I have studied the lore of demonology for a lifetime, but if an immortal could not fathom you, then how can I hope to? Now we have won time to get you to Glasgow. The tutelary is very benevolent, very wise. I am sure it will help you."

Toby turned away. Did he even want to be helped? He had enjoyed that brief blaze of omnipotence.

"Master!" Hamish shouted. Even under the mud, his face showed alarm. "The river's stopped flowing!"

Rory glanced at the channel, silent pools in a nightmare of boulders. Then he looked at the barrier upstream. "Well, of course it has! Tiny Tim, there, has given Scotland a new loch! Loch Strangerson, the bastard loch?"

"But, sir! That's just mud! This happened somewhere down in the Borders a few years ago, didn't it? A slide? Then, when the river runs over the top, or when it just builds up behind…"

"Spirits save us!" Father Lachlan said. "The boy's right! Near Roxburgh somewhere. If that dam bursts, there's going to be a flood!"

Rory stiffened, then turned to look down the rainy glen. "Cairndow! Demons! We must warn them! We must get them out of there! Come on!" He started to run.

CHAPTER THREE

Iain lowered the sail and Rae held the tiller as the boat drifted in to the jetty. Iain was a towhead, old Rae was dark as a Castilian, but they would both be Campbells. The pelting rain had turned the surface of the loch to mist, so that it was hard to tell where the sea ended and the air began. Water swilled around in the bottom of the boat, glittering with fish scales.

The passengers sat along the sides. Father Lachlan looked old and tired, although that might be just by way of contrast with Hamish, who had not stopped jabbering questions at the two sailors since they left Cairndow. Toby faced them, with Meg beside him, not quite close enough to be asking for an arm around her. He should have put an arm around her anyway, and all the way across the loch had been cursing himself as a coward for not doing so. But he was very conscious of Rory on her other side, and those deadly, silver eyes. He could throw their owner overboard if he wanted, but that would do no good — the arrogant louse could probably swim like a shark. To strangle him first would require fighting three Campbells at the same time, and probably Hamish as well.

Hamish was very impressed, even awed. He had confirmed from someone in Cairndow that Rory MacDonald was really Gregor Campbell, the master of Argyll. That ranked him just below the sun, and so far above Toby Strangerson that it was amazing they could even see each other. So what if he was? He sat down to shit like anyone else, didn't he?

They had sounded the alarm in the hamlet. The inhabitants had fled away from the river, carrying possessions, driving livestock. The master had commandeered a boat for the trip down to Inverary and met no argument. He had ordered his companions into it, never doubting that they would obey. They had obeyed. Only the sight of Meg, huddled and shivering, explained to Toby why he had come, but in truth he had had no alternative. He was totally at Rory's mercy now. Gregor's mercy. What mercy?

Inverary Castle loomed out of the rain, far larger and grander than Lochy, towering over a sprawl of buildings, cottages, animal paddocks, orchards, and vegetable gardens, a sizable village. One of the corner towers was framed in scaffolding, being repaired or still under construction. The Sassenachs would have spread the word. How big a garrison would they have placed in a fortress this size? Their warrant would be known here in Inverary.

Toby leaned around Meg. Rory stared back with dislike, raising a pale eyebrow.

Toby said, "Didn't you tell us that the earl of Argyll was a traitor who licked English boots?"

The helmsman overheard and gasped in horror.

Rory chuckled — doubtless for the eavesdropper's benefit — but there was murder in the silver eyes. He removed his bonnet, took the black feather from it, and placed it in his sporran. Then he put his bonnet on again. "One has to remain in character."

"And the Sassenachs want to hang me!"

The master's mouth twisted in a familiar sneer. "Who can blame them? Getting nervous, are you? Well, you have no cause to worry. Just because Lord Robert is such a notorious boot-licker, the English haven't posted a garrison on him. No fusiliers here! He's in Edinburgh, as you know. His mother, Lady Lora, is a most formidable lady, and a rabid patriot. And then there's me." He wasn't sure if his disguise had been penetrated. Getting no reaction, he smiled benevolently and added: "Nobody hangs one of my men without my permission."

"I am not your man!"

The boat jostled against stone steps. Rory shrugged. "Then I offer you hospitality as my guest, as I offer my home to your charming companion. Nobody hangs my guests, either. Not even me — it's bad manners. Miss Campbell?"

He handed Meg ashore, then offered help to Father Lachlan, who shot Toby a disapproving and warning frown.

Toby and Hamish were left to manage by themselves, following up a paved road to the castle, bent against the driving rain. The few people they met on the way all recognized their leader. Bonnets came off. Men bowed, women curtseyed.

Hamish walked at first in worried silence, clutching his muddy bundle. Then he muttered, "Toby, you'd better take care! He's the Campbell's son! He's the heir to Argyll — that's what 'master' means!"

"I know that! And I would still like to ram his teeth down his throat!"

"Toby!" Hamish's voice rose to a batlike squeak. "He'll have you beaten! Or branded! He can throw you in a dungeon."

"That's no way to treat guests, either. And he wouldn't dare now!" That hurt more than anything — nobody would dare threaten the hexer who could haul down mountains. Inhuman! Leper! "You know what he wants of me, don't you?" Getting no reply except an unhappy nod, he said, "Well? He thinks I'm an adept. He wants me to hex the bloody Sassenachs for him!"

And what did he want of Meg?

Hamish mumbled, "Maybe."

"What else, then?"

"Earl Robert's one of King Nevil's strongest supporters in Scotland. What's his son doing running with rebels? And do we know that he is a rebel at all just because he wears a feather in his cap? Or is he trying to find Fergan and betray him?"

Toby thought about it as they hurried to the barbican. "You worry about that," he concluded. "I don't care either way."

By then, Hamish had forgotten the problem and was gaping up at the towers and battlements. "This is one of the strongest castles in Scotland. It's never been taken."

No Scottish lord had cannon to blast a way into a citadel like this, so of course the earl would be on the side of the English. And strongholds made good prisons. Toby saw the arch with its daunting portcullis like a giant mouth about to swallow him whole. He was an outlaw, with every man's hand against him. His only possessions were the sodden clothes on his back, a few coins, and a pretty stone in his sporran. It was too late to run, though, and he had nowhere to go.

"You suppose a great castle like this would have a library?" Hamish muttered.

More to the point, would it have a gallows?

The archway cut off the rain at last. Two guards stood in their path, but they were Highlanders in plaids and leathers, shoes and steel helmets; they held pikes and wore swords. They jumped to attention and saluted — which was a surprising courtesy to offer a band of mud-plastered vagrants — but they seemed more interested in Toby than in their chief's son. Why?

"Bran!" Rory said cheerfully. "How's Ella? The twins all right? Inform Lady Lora that her favorite headache has returned, will you? And Sir Malcolm." He glanced around at Toby and Hamish. "You'd better come along, too. Leave your trash here."

CHAPTER FOUR

The hall was larger by far than Castle Lochy's. It rose clear to the roof. The windows were tiny, but glazed, and on this miserable day they gave less light than the blazing pile of driftwood in the great stone fireplace. A long table for feasting occupied the center of the floor, flanked by benches. Chairs like thrones stood on either side of the hearth, but the visitors were all too muddy to sit in them. Meg and Father Lachlan and the master had gathered before the flames to warm themselves.

Toby and Hamish stood back at a respectful distance, wriggling their toes in the rushes. Hamish was gazing open-mouthed at the minstrel gallery, the banners hanging from the rafters, the collections of weapons adorning the stonework. Toby just watched Meg. She seemed content enough, smiling, laughing at Rory's banter, but he remembered what she had told him, and amid all the splendor he saw her as a tiny bird in a cage.

She had wits and spirit — she had her head on straight, as the acolyte had put it. All true, but she was only a tanner's daughter. Rory was master of Argyll, heir to power and wealth. He promises, she had said. I'm not afraid of him, so much as afraid of me. He could promise, he could even threaten, and no one would hold him to account for whatever happened. How long could a poor country lass resist him?

Why should it concern Toby Strangerson? There was nothing a penniless outlaw could do to deflect one of the most powerful men in Scotland — except try personal violence, and even that was unlikely to achieve anything except his own death. His promise to protect her was worthless against an opponent like the master of Argyll.

"Rory!" boomed a new voice, reverberating from the high stone walls. Astonishingly, it seemed to originate from the very small lady now sweeping into the hall with an escort at her heels. This must be Dowager Lady Lora, the earl's mother.

So "Rory" was a family pet name for Gregor. How cute!

"Just look at you, you terrible bairn!" It seemed impossible that so tiny a person could be so loud. Her hair shone pure silver, yet her face was barely wrinkled and she still displayed a delicate charm that testified to the beauty she must have been long years ago. She wore a gown of fine violet velvet; she had jewels on her fingers. Followed by maids, pages, and a dozen armed men — all of them much larger than herself — she was as unobtrusive as a volley of artillery.

"Father Lachlan! How wonderful to see you again! You honor our house."

Toby's attention settled on the man at her side. He was big, gruff, red-bearded, and solid as the castle walls. He wore a gleaming leather jerkin under his plaid. His helmet and sword were grander than the others'. He bore a pistol and powderhorn on his belt. He was appraising Toby with eyes like green pebbles, and with more than trivial curiosity.

Lady Lora turned to Meg and raised carefully tended brows.

"Miss Meg Campbell of Tyndrum, Grandmother," her grandson said, sweeping a bow. "Maiden in distress."

"You poor child, you must be frozen! Have you walked far? Trust that Rory… I am not surprised you are in distress if he has had anything to do with it. I'm sure you would like a hot tub and some fresh clothes and something to eat before…"

She registered Toby and the echoes died away into silence.

He overlooked every one of her burly warriors handily. She herself was no bigger than Meg.

"Toby Strangerson of Fillan," Rory said innocently. "Youth in distress. Lora, Dowager Countess of Argyll."

Toby bowed.

Lady Lora gave her grandson the sort of look a mother gives a tiresome two-year-old. Then she turned to the man at her side, as if he had emitted a silent warning. "Sir Malcolm?"

"We received a communication this morning concerning a man of that name, my lord." He produced a paper from his sporran.

Rory beckoned Toby with a nod of his head. Then he took the paper to read and his eyebrows rose.

Toby walked forward with Hamish at his heels. The warriors clasped the hilts of their swords. He bowed again.

Rory looked up, thunderously displeased. "How well did you know the Sassenachs at Lochy?"

"Fairly well, my lord."

"Is one of them an artist?"

"Gavin Mason can draw."

Rory nodded angrily. "Somebody can draw. This is a printed poster with a woodcut of your face on it. It's a fair likeness, except it makes you look like a starving wolf. The description is clear enough: eighteen years old, over nineteen hands tall, heavily muscled, brown eyes, curly hair, and extremely dangerous. Fits you to a tee, doesn't it? A convicted murderer, suspected of conjuring demons. There's quite a price on your head, Longdirk — one hundred marks!"

"What?" Toby howled.

"Dead or alive. You're worth more than I expected."

The guards were smiling.

Rory shrugged. "This is the man, Malcolm. The official story lacks a few details, which I shall be happy to supply at a suitable time. Meanwhile — just to discourage gossip — perhaps his presence here should not be advertised."

"Lock him up, you mean?"

"Why, not at all! He deserves our famous Inverary hospitality. So does his accomplice. Grandmother — Hamish Campbell of Tyndrum."

Hamish bowed until his head almost vanished under his plaid.

Lady Lora boomed a laugh. "Welcome to Inverary, kinsman! Rory, trouble is your shadow. See to his men, will you, Malcolm? Come along, Father… and you, Miss Campbell."

The moment her back was turned, Toby found himself surrounded. No one barked orders, no one laid a hand on him or drew a weapon, and his attendants did not actually march him off — but he went without argument and he kept his fists at his sides. A hundred marks dead was easier to deliver than a hundred marks alive, especially when it stood nineteen hands tall. Hamish strode along, head high, smirking blissfully at having been described as one of Rory's men.

Their journey was short: out a side door and into a kitchen hardly smaller than the great hall. Its well-scrubbed tables would have fed half of Clan Campbell without crowding. Boot heels drumming on flagstones, they passed fires where two carcasses were already turning on spits in preparation for the evening's festivities and counters where women were chopping vegetables and kneading dough. Sir Malcolm led the way along a somber stone corridor, past many oaken, iron-studded doors. If their destination was not to be a dungeon, it would serve as well, Toby thought. Then a door was opened and steam gushed unexpectedly forth.

Their guide's green eyes had lost none of their vigilance or suspicion. "You will have the bathroom to yourselves at this time of day. The gentry have their own water, so use all you want. I'll send towels, plaids… We'll see what we can do about shoon." He looked Hamish over and turned to one of his men. "Come here, Ken."

One of the guards stepped forward, slipped off his boot, and laid his neatly socked foot alongside Hamish's muddy one.

"Aye, that's about the size. As for you…" He looked despairingly at Toby's feet and shook his head.

"Fishing boats?" said a whisper in the background.

Sir Malcolm obviously heard but pretended not to. "Go get the aches out, then, lads."

Toby lurched into the bathroom, mumbling thanks, too astonished to articulate properly. Through the fog he could see benches, peat glowing under a giant copper boiler, half a dozen wooden tubs large enough to launder a plaid. The garrison at Lochy enjoyed no such luxury. As the door closed, Hamish muttered, "Spirits!" and in one fast movement was naked.

One would get you twenty that guards stood in the corridor, but who cared? After what felt like a lifetime of wind and rain and cold, the warmth was sheer rapture.

Toby eyed the boiler uncertainly. "Do we climb into that?"

"I don't think so. I think we fill tubs and sit in them."

Hot water — enough to bathe in? Would that be healthy?

"Soap!" Hamish squealed. "Real soap! Smell it — lavender!"

Toby stripped to the skin, then almost stripped that off as well when he tried to fill a bucket with water and got a blast of scalding steam instead. He jumped back and let Hamish work out the mechanics of the taps. It was necessary to mix cold water with the hot to obtain a bearable mixture — more complicated than he had expected. No matter, they were soon kneeling in whole tubfuls of hot water, soaping themselves, basking in the sheer sensuous luxury of it.

A hundred marks would buy a herd or a cottage. The earl's men-at-arms lived better than the farmers and artisans of Fillan, but it would only take one, even if the master ordered them not to talk.

Without warning, Hamish burst into song. His treble voice was surprisingly tuneful, and the stone walls reverberated nicely.

Toby gave him the verse about the piper and repeated the chorus. Hamish responded with the two shepherds. Toby was halfway through the improbable accomplishments of the three sailors when a guard came in, scowling through the steam. It was probably not just the quality of Toby's baritone that was upsetting him, because one of his colleagues stood watch in the doorway with a drawn sword. He deposited a pile of bleached cloths on one of the benches and backed out again, still watching the extremely dangerous outlaw.

Eventually the singers ran out of lovers for the promiscuous lass and just lay back, soaking blissfully, heads against the stone wall, arms and legs dangling over the sides of the tubs. Another man delivered a plaid, shirt, socks, shoes, bonnet. He said, "For you," to Hamish, but he, too, kept his attention on the murderer, and again another man stood by, ready to intervene if there was trouble. Trouble? The monster was almost asleep. Now if they would just commute his death sentence to life imprisonment and let him die of old age right here…

A third man brought in two muddy bundles and dropped them distastefully on the floor.

Hot water, they found, had an annoying tendency to cool off. Hamish was up and yipping about the towels being real linen, and Toby still had to shave. He hauled himself from the tub and admitted that the towels were very enjoyable, whatever they were made of. Having dried himself as well as he could in the steamy air, he found his razor in his bundle and set to work reaping stubble. By then Hamish was dressed and eager to go exploring the castle in search of books. It would be interesting to see how far he was allowed to wander.

The door opened again, this time to admit the red-bearded Sir Malcolm himself. He closed it behind him, shutting himself in with a dangerous outlaw wielding a razor, but his green eyes smiled warmly. "Is everything satisfactory, Master Toby? Anything more you need?"

Toby was so startled by the change of attitude that he almost cut off his upper lip. "Everything's fine, sir," he admitted.

"I'm Malcolm Campbell, the castellan. If there is anything we can do to make your stay here more enjoyable, see you ask me right away."

Bewildered, Toby glanced at Hamish for clues. He was wearing his owlish look, which meant he was a step or two ahead.

"Now the best I can do for wear for you at the moment, sir," the castellan continued, "are these." He laid his burden on a bench. "The shoon we think belonged to Wee Wilkin, a great warrior who fell at Parline. I'm sure he would be honored for you to have them. If you'll just leave your plaids here, the women will get them washed and dried by morning. I'm afraid the shirt'll be snug, but they can run up something for you by tomorrow, and we'll find furs if you need to go out."

This sudden change of heart must be some sort of trap, but Toby could not see how, or what, or why. Hamish, damn him… if he looked any more owlish, he would fly away and hunt mice.

"The evening meal's still an hour or so off," Malcolm proclaimed cheerfully. "But I expect you'd enjoy a little something to keep you going until then. Have you any preference in whisky, Master Toby?"

Toby shook his head, causing the soldier to nod his.

"Then I'll see something is laid out for you and, er… your friend. If you'll just come back to the mess whenever you're ready." He reached for the door.

"What do we do with the water?"

"Oh, it gets ladled back into the boiler. But don't you mind it — I'll send a lad."

The door closed.

Toby rounded on Hamish. "What by the demons of Delia is going on? Why this sudden back-slapping, nothing-too-good, long-lost-brothering?"

The owl blinked. "You don't trust him, do you?"

"Of course not!"

"Do you ever trust anyone, ever?"

"Tell me what's going on!"

"Why ask me? How can you trust what I tell you? I'm just…" Hamish's smirk wavered and he backed away as Toby advanced menacingly on him. "Well, think about it! They knew what you did."

"So?"

"Now Sir Malcolm knows how and why." With an impudent grin, the kid added, "You're a big hero, Longdirk!"

Toby resisted the urge to dunk the kid's head back in the bathwater. He was probably right, as usual. Any story coming from Meg would be well embroidered. Rory's might have no resemblance to the truth at all. He might as well go out and see what sort of trouble the two of them had gotten him into. Besides, it was a long time since breakfast at Sir Torquil's.

The shirt would have to go on first. He pulled it over his head and then tried to put an arm into a sleeve. The tussle ended in a sound of ripping as the stitches surrendered.

"You'd think the Campbell could afford better seamstresses!" Toby discarded the remains. Who needed a shirt? The plaid was smaller than his own and smelled unpleasantly of soap, but a plaid was an accommodating garment. Best of all, it was dry. He wiped mud off his belt and sporran with the remains of the shirt and struggled into the unfamiliar socks. Wee Wilkin's feet must have been longer and narrower than his, but the shoes would do if he did not have to walk far.

When the two still-faintly-damp visitors emerged from the corridor into the kitchen, at least fifty of the castle guards were assembled there, lounging around on the stools and benches. Sir Malcolm was waiting at the entrance. He took Toby's hand, but instead of shaking it, he raised it overhead. The men surged to their feet in a tattoo of boots and a fanfare of scraping furniture.

"Huzzah!" cried the castellan. The ensuing cheer rippled the banners overhead. "Huzzah!"

Toby felt his face going red, redder, reddest. He was being applauded because he had misjudged a blow and killed a man? That was ridiculous! This was rank hypocrisy. No matter how lustily they shouted for him, some of them must be planning to become rich off him before tomorrow's dawn. Earl Robert was known to favor the English governor; his men could not possibly all support Fergan — a few perhaps, in secret, but not all of them! Yet here they were making public rejoicing at the death of an English fusilier. Some of the guard would certainly rat. It would only take one. And even if none of the guard did, what of the hundreds of servants in the castle? Where was their loyalty?

Phonies!

The cheering ended, the castellan conducted the guests to a table laden with food. Hamish set to with a will, but Toby was beset by men twice his age coming to shake his hand and laud his heroism in tackling an armed soldier with his bare hands. They made him feel like the biggest idiot in the history of the Highlands.

Eventually the procession of admirers ended. Most of the guard departed. At last he could do justice to the cold pheasant and blood sausage. He drank only water.

CHAPTER FIVE

He was distracted by more scraping of boots as the remaining men again rose to their feet. This time they were acknowledging visitors. One of them was Rory, almost unrecognizable in the dandified dress of an English gentleman — hat, kid buskins, embroidered shirt, fur-trimmed, full-skirted surcoat, and his legs encased in stocks of contrasting colors, one blue, one striped red and green. The outrageous outfit must be the latest fashion in Sassenach-loving Edinburgh. Even a woman whose taste ran to popinjays would never class him as handsome, surely? Damn him!

And the lady on his arm… Demons! It was Meg, decked out as if she had just arrived from the court, looking five years older and a hand taller. How could she even stand up in all that material? — laces and stitchery, flounces and puffed sleeves, plumes and pleats. The braids had gone and her hair was gathered in a silver net. She was a child playing at dressing up — no woman could have a waist that slender! Realizing that he was the only man in the hall still sitting, Toby staggered to his feet as she approached on Rory's arm. That neckline? How did the dress make her look so, er, buxom? That night he had rescued her, he had seen… There must be some sort of padding to push her up like that.

She was certainly enjoying the attention. She simpered. She curtseyed. She had a brief struggle with her gown, and then perched on a stool.

At the far end of the mess, the kitchen staff decided the young lord was here to stay. They unobtrusively started work again as quietly as they could.

Rory took the end of a bench beside Meg and looked up reprovingly. "Longdirk," he murmured, "it is permissible to notice a lady, but that gawky ogle is overdoing things by far."

Toby was the only one still standing… he sank back on his stool.

"Better!" the master said. "Now close your mouth and dry your chin."

"You approve?" Meg asked, her cheeks bright pink.

Toby gulped and stammered helplessly. The only word he could find was, "Gorgeous!"

Rory frowned. "I came to issue a warning. Hello? Can you hear me?"

Toby tore his eyes away from Meg. "Yes."

"Sure? Noose? Gallows? One hundred marks, dead or alive, remember? We have a small problem."

"What sort of problem?"

"Grandmother has a house guest."

"What sort of house guest?"

"A gentleman, of course. Master Maxim Stringer — an English merchant. He owns an import business in Dumbarton. He may not take quite the same attitude toward outlaws as we natives do."

Reality began to seep into Toby's churning wits. "The natives? Does one more matter? Somebody here is going to squeal to the Sassenachs."

"No."

"A hundred marks—"

"It's tempting," Rory said sharply. "One or two may be tempted, but the Campbells won't betray a guest. Lady Lora has already made her feelings known, and so has Sir Malcolm. Believe me, any man who tips off the English won't live long enough to enjoy his reward. So you needn't worry about the chief's men, nor the house staff. But Master Stringer may be different. He won't care as much for the money, you understand, but he is English, poor fellow. His servants are living on the ship or billeted in the village, so they're no problem. Just him."

"I should leave!"

The master shook his head impatiently. "And go where? You're posted on every tree now. Even the Campbells can't shield you in Oban or Glasgow or Dumbarton. You stand out like Ben Cruachan, laddie."

Toby clenched his teeth. "So I have to stay here?"

"Not indefinitely. When the weather clears, Master Stringer will be sailing back to Dumbarton. Other ships, too. Father Lachlan's convinced that he must get you to Glasgow before you start causing terrible damage."

"What? What sort of—"

Rory shrugged. "Ask him. I think he's floundering. But that doesn't solve the long-term problem, does it? You're an idiot, but an interesting idiot, and not unlikable. You saved my life in the bog, even if you did provoke the bogy's spite in the first place. I owe you a debt, and I pay my debts. I want to see you settled, Master Strangerson."

He smiled reassuringly at Meg. Oh, he was very sure of himself now, was Rory! No one could call him to account in Inverary, except his father, away on the far side of Scotland. He could even parade around in the motley of a court jester without making a mess hall full of Highlanders collapse in earthquakes of mirth. There had been grins, yes, but no more. He must have proved himself a demon of a fighter at some time to have earned such respect.

He had the woman he lusted for trapped in his web. He could afford to be generous to the serf who had assisted in arranging this desirable turn of events. He could patronize him now.

"Muscle is no substitute for clan or land, boy. The law says you're a vagrant, even without the price on your head."

So again Toby faced the question: Whose man will you be?

"Which side are you recruiting for today?"

His insolence brought a welcome flush to the master's handsome cheek, and a most unwelcome stare of dismay from Meg. Rory's voice did not waver, though. He has charm, she had said. There was no need for him to lose his temper now, no need to resort to swords to keep the foolish girl from running away.

"Do not discuss politics in this house! Never! Only the Campbell himself decides such matters. Clear?"

"Yes, Master."

"Good. I'm recruiting for Inverary. My father can adopt you into the clan. Sir Malcolm is always looking for strong young men. So you'll be Pikeman Toby Campbell of Inverary, and then the Sassenachs can stuff their warrant in a bombard and blow it to hell."

Hamish made a noise perilously close to a whistle of astonishment. Meg beamed ecstatically.

Everything a man needed: a name, a job, a home — a master.

"Just pikeman? Not official Clan Hexer?"

Rory stared at him through a long silence. "Can you?"

"No. Whatever wonders happen around me are not my doing. I don't call them."

"That limits your value, but I won't believe it's all just luck. If I was marching into battle, Longdirk, I'd rather have you at my side than all the MacDonalds in the Isles."

"Wouldn't he be better protection in front?" said Meg.

Toby winced. The ice in her eyes said he was being unnecessarily mulish.

The master guffawed at her humor and then returned to business. "It's time to make up your mind! Whose man do you want to be?" He adjusted a lace cuff thoughtfully. "Of course, you are the king's man. Every man is the king's man first. Every bond of manrent excludes fealty to His Majesty."

Toby could only nod. In theory that was true, although it did not prevent the earl of Argyll from deciding which king his people would support.

"Which king, Longdirk?"

The tables had been turned.

"You just told me not to discuss politics here, my lord."

"May I intrude?" Meg asked, intruding. "When an ox can't be led, it can sometimes be driven. Lord Gregor has made you an incredibly generous offer, Toby. You spurn it. What do you want?"

He scratched his head. "You safe in Oban, to start with."

Rory smiled like a well-fed wolf. "You need worry no more about Meg. My grandmother is even now writing a note to her parents, and it will go by runner tomorrow. They will know that she is safe."

Safe from whom? Meg had lowered her gaze to the forgotten food on the boards. Her parents would be enraptured at the news. The tanner was a rich man in Tyndrum, but the humblest scullery job in Inverary Castle would be a great advancement for his daughter. Toby was relieved of his promise.

"Next wish, Longdirk?"

"To be free of my hex, or demon, or whatever it is."

"That means Glasgow. And after that?"

The ox was being driven. "I don't think Valda's dead." Mindful of Meg's reproach, Toby added, "That's why I can't accept your offer, my lord. If I stay here, she'll find me, and I may not be the only one who suffers then." That was true, if only part of the truth.

"It would have been tactful to say so sooner," Rory murmured. "I told you I'm grateful. So what do you want? What will you be when you grow up, Little Toby? Soldier? Farmhand? Miner? Shepherd? Highwayman?"

The barn door closed. He said the words he'd never spoken aloud before. "I'm going to be a prizefighter." He saw Meg shudder. "It's all I've got! I'm big, and I can box. I can't do anything else. There's good money to be made in the ring in England."

Even Rory seemed disappointed. "There's also gambling, and cheating, and criminals. A very low crowd."

"Making a living by hurting people?" Meg said. "Breaking bones, smashing faces? And what do they do to you? In a few years you'll be a pug-ugly, shambling hulk with no brains at all!"

"Note that I refrain from making funny remarks here," Rory said airily. "Prizefighting sponsors I cannot produce. The best I can do is to refer you to Sir Malcolm. He has some of the finest trainers in Scotland. No boxing instructors, so far as I know, but you can brush up on your holds and throws. They need work."

He rose, graceful as a swallow. "Come, Miss Campbell. We must leave the lads to their meal and go see what Grandmother has provided for us. Our solar is greatly praised, but your beauty will transform it." He offered her a hand. "Hamish — you want books? I'll show you the library."

Hamish sprang to his feet, food forgotten. "That would be wonderful, my lord!"

"There's about a thousand volumes, I'm told. Reading is not my favorite pastime. Help yourself. You, Knuckles, have to keep under cover. Master Stringer is another idiot, but stay out of his way if you value your cervical vertebrae."

Toby's nails dug into his palms. "For how long?"

"Until the storm blows over and the boats can leave. Then we'll ship you and Father Lachlan off down to Dumbarton. It's a good idea to let a hue and cry die down — people always assume after a week or two that the fugitive has fled to foreign parts, and they forget. Do keep your mouth shut."

Rory nodded a mocking farewell and departed, with Hamish tagging at his heels like a puppy and Meg on his arm in her courtly gown.

Damn him! Damn him! Damn him!

CHAPTER SIX

Toby was trapped. Even if he was allowed to leave the castle, he would never escape from Campbell country against Rory's will. In any case, he could not desert Meg, although she had not asked for his help and probably never would. He must just accept the master at his word and wait for the Atlantic to stop throwing gales at the coast. Then, if Rory were to be trusted, he could risk his neck in Dumbarton, seeking an exorcism at the sanctuary.

So he had time to kill. The Campbells were respectful but distant; he must not talk politics with them and he had nothing else to discuss. Meg and Rory and Father Lachlan could float amid the gentry, hobnobbing with Master Stringer and dining with Her Ladyship. Hamish would be happy to eat, drink, breathe, live, and sleep books. Not Toby! Reading had always been torment for him, one plodding word at a time.

Much as he disliked admitting a debt to Rory, the idea of wrestling lessons had a strong appeal. The next morning, he accosted Sir Malcolm.

The castellan scratched his red beard as if perplexed, but a twinkle in his eye hinted he had already been warned. "Just wrestling? How about a few of the other manly arts as well? Fencing? Musketry? We can't do much on archery or horsemanship without going outdoors. That's true of artillery, too."

"All of them!"

"Then all of them you shall have. If you'll just come with me, Master Toby." Sir Malcolm led him upstairs.

Toby followed, wondering if he had been overly brash. He might have chopped down more than he could saw up. "This is very kind of you, Castellan."

"Not at all. Good for the lads. I always tell them that instructing's one of the best ways of learning, because it shows you what you thought you knew and don't really. This is the armory. The man with the shoulders is our wrestling champion, Neal Big, and that antiquated spider over there is Gavin the Grim, who can still chop any man into sausage filling in the twinkle of an eye."

Thereupon Sir Malcolm set the entire Campbell warband onto Toby, or so it seemed. Baby-faced recruits no older than Hamish knew more about swords and guns than he did, while the old-timers knew more about everything than he could ever dream of knowing. Every man in the castle could teach him something and seemed eager to do so. He intrigued them — he was a hero, a fugitive, and a baby giant. They came at him in relays. The day became a blur of locks and throws… longbow and crossbow… pistol and musket… saber, rapier, and short sword… matchlock and wheel lock.

He soon realized that they were making a game of it, seeing who could work him to exhaustion. Fine — just let them try! They couldn't, of course. He had the stamina of a mule, always ready to go again as soon as he caught his breath. With blades he won polite praise and a few heady compliments about being a natural athlete, but he lacked the speed ever to be a top fencer. He could already handle a quarterstaff, and he took to wrestling like a bat to bugs. Along about what felt like noon, he realized that night was falling already. By the time he retired to the little tower room he shared with Hamish, the candles were burning low and his roommate lay fast asleep, flat on his back with an open book spread on his chest.

Morning dawned in one solid ache, but the first ten minutes on the mat with Neal Big limbered him up again.

That afternoon, as he hammered short swords with Gavin, he observed the dumpy shape of Father Lachlan perched on an empty powder keg in a corner of the armory. When the fencing paused for a breather, Toby trotted over and dropped on one knee beside him, panting.

The acolyte beamed at him over his spectacles. "From the breadth of your grin, I take it you are enjoying yourself, my son?"

He nodded, that being easier than speaking.

"No bad dreams?"

Head shake.

"You are certainly working hard enough. Do you know, Tobias, from one cause or another, I don't think I have ever seen you totally dry?"

Toby chuckled. "What… you mean when… told Rory… I might… cause terrible damage?"

"Ah." The little man frowned. "I am concerned. You have displayed superhuman powers, but they are not under your conscious control, are they? You don't will them to happen. So far they have been restricted to effecting miraculous escapes, but can we count on that always being the case? Suppose Sir Malcolm and his men try to arrest you?"

That was an uncomfortable thought. He wiped his forehead with an arm. "I might hurt them?"

"Perhaps. You might just disappear out of their reach, or you might haul down the castle on their heads! I don't know, and neither do you." Father Lachlan pushed his glasses up his nose. "Listen to this, as a theory: Lady Valda attempted to put a hex on you, and something went wrong. The arts she practices are very dangerous, so that's not too surprising. As I told you, she cannot compel you directly. She would order a demon to make you do whatever it was she wanted of you. She might have included instructions to the demon to protect you from outside interference, right? And somehow those orders have taken precedence, so that the demon defends you even from her? Frankly, Tobias, I don't believe you are in any great danger from the sentence of death that has been passed on you — but I think anyone who tries to carry it out may be very surprised indeed!"

There were flaws in that theory, surely. Where did "Susie" come into it?

The old man saw his hesitation. "It is only a suggestion, and I admit objections. Demonic powers have a limited range. If the demon she invoked was imprisoned in the jewel on the dagger, then she must have planned to give you the dagger to carry with you — but she didn't, did she? So where is the demon? How does it stay close to you?"

"I don't know, Father."

"Neither do I! But I still believe that we must get you to a sanctuary as soon as possible, before something bad happens. Now I see that poor old man is waiting for you to stop shirking."

"'Poor old man?' Gavin? He's got more stamina than a billy goat!" Toby went back to fencing.

The next day he was pleased to see that the weather was worse than ever. He had begun to worry about Meg, wondering why she was not coming to see him, as he could not seek her out. He determined to ask Hamish, but he did not see Hamish all day, either.

The two of them shared a small circular room at the top of one of the towers. It was drafty and furnished with nothing but two straw mattresses, but none the worse for that. That night, as he was turning his plaid into a blanket, he heard a sleepy murmur of greeting, the contented purr of a bookworm who has spent a whole day digesting books and expects to spend more days doing so.

"Awake?"

"Mmph!" Meaning no.

"Hamish, do you know how they corn gunpowder?"

"Mmph!" Meaning yes.

Toby rolled himself into a bundle. "Do you know how an arrow is tuned to a bow?"

There was a pause. Then a slightly more alert boy said, "Yes, again. Why? Why do you want to know?"

"I don't. I know already." He stared miserably at the darkness.

Hamish misunderstood, which was not surprising. He yawned extensively. "Go ahead and tell me if you want to, but I read about it once."

"I don't want to tell you."

A note of irritation. "You woke me up to tell me you don't want to tell me how an arrow is tuned to a bow? Have you been planning this for long, or did it just come to you on the spur of the moment?"

"Sorry. Have you seen Meg?"

"Not to speak to. She went walking with Lady Lora this afternoon, when the sun came out. I've heard her singing in the hall." Yawn. "She's fine."

"Oh. Good. I was just wondering. Sorry to wake you. Go to sleep."

"Sleep, is it? Go to sleep? Now? After you start acting…"

"Start acting what?"

"Oh, nothing. G'night, Toby."

The room was small. Toby leaned a long arm across and took an ear between finger and thumb. "Do you want this? It feels loose."

"Owww!"

"Should I pull and see?"

"All right! Let go! Thank you. What do I have to talk about?"

"You were about to tell me about noticing me acting strange."

"Oh, I would never be that crazy!" Straw rustled and Hamish chuckled from the relative safety of the far side of his pallet. "I've hardly seen you since we got here! But… why did you ask about corning and the arrow thing?"

"They're interesting," Toby said stubbornly.

"But it's not like you to find 'why' sorts of things interesting. I'm the scholar; you're a doer." He fell silent for a moment, then turned a white blur of a face in the dark. "That's what you meant, isn't it?"

"Yes," Toby admitted. "They tell me things — and I remember them! I even care! I never did before. Your Pa used to say I was the worst student he'd ever had."

Hamish laughed aloud. "That's a ridiculous understatement! I'll never forget my first day in school! I must have been five. You would have been about eight, right? I know you were the biggest boy in the school even then, and that day Pa was trying to teach you the four-times table. I knew it already, of course — I could read when I was three — and I couldn't believe a boy as big as you could be finding it so difficult. Neither could Pa! I had never seen him really angry before. I hardly knew him. I was weeping because my Pa was behaving like that — screaming and yelling at you, cuffing you, beating you. All the kids in the village were sitting there, waiting to be taught, and he spent more time on you than on all of the rest of us together, but I don't think you knew one more fact at the end of the morning than you had when you walked in late, and you'd had at least a dozen strokes of the birch."

"Only a dozen? I always felt I'd wasted the day if I couldn't drive him up to twenty." He was bragging, of course, but not by much. "Five years of struggle! I kept hoping he'd admit I was unteachable and expel me."

"But he knew you were faking, so he wouldn't. I don't know how you stood it, though."

"I knew how he used to go home and weep — Eric told me. That kept me going — knowing that he wept and I never did. I still sleep facedown, even now, just out of habit."

"When you left school, Pa said you'd won, he hadn't taught you a thing."

That was gratifying! "Oh, he got a few facts into me," Toby said modestly. English, for example — even as a child, he'd known that English mattered, so he had let himself be taught it. That was what the school was for, why the government decreed it. "But I soon managed to forget them. Now look at me! I'm remembering things! I'm learning things! That's not like me! I must be hexed."

"I don't think it's that," Hamish said sleepily. "You never wanted to know what Pa was trying to tell you. Anytime you learned something, you felt you'd failed, right? But what they're telling you here are things you want to know. So when you learn something, you feel you've won. That makes all the difference in the world! I'm interested in almost anything, especially if I can read it in a book — all 'cept family. Anytime Ma tries to teach me her cousinries, I turn stupid. Stupid as Toby Strangerson, she says."

"Really? Is that what they say?" It would be nice to think he still had that reputation in the schoolteacher's household after all these years.

"It's what everyone says. Your ignorance is a byword in the glen, big man! But I think you're just very choosy in what you want to learn. You're not stupid; you only learn what you want to know."

Toby said, "Mmph!" into the pallet. That was a farfetched notion. It would be very odd to think of himself as not stupid. A few moments later, Hamish said something more, but he was too far away to hear…

The next morning the rain had stopped, but a northwester was raising whitecaps on the loch. Sir Malcolm suggested riding lessons. Toby exchanged plaid for trews and jerkin and accompanied him to the stables. By lunchtime, he was clearing five-foot gates.

"Totally fearless," the castellan said.

Toby hadn't the heart to tell him it was just lack of imagination. There were advantages to being stupid.

When he hobbled into the mess hall, he saw Meg sitting at a table with half a dozen of the younger guards buzzing around her like flies at a cowpat. She was smiling tautly up at them: Pretty Will and Iain of Clachan and others. Toby strode over at a moderate gallop and came up behind them. He stumbled into Will, jabbed an elbow in Iain's kidneys, and accidentally trod on Robb Long's toe.

"Sorry," he remarked. "I'm not usually so clumsy."

They took a thoughtful look at his face and made their apologies and went off to another table. He sat down.

"It's good to see you, Meg… What are you glaring like that for?"

"I am not glaring!"

Oh, yes, she was.

Her dress was much simpler than the fantastic court gown he had seen her in before, just plain green wool with pleats and no sleeves. Her hair was back in braids. She was a country lass again — but oh, she was lovely!

While he was out of breath, a great sweaty cart horse. He was also tongue-tied. "I've been worried about you."

"Oh? Well, you knew where I was, didn't you?"

"Yes, but… Well, I have to stay in the barracks."

"There are a thousand pages. You could have written a note if you wanted to speak with me."

"Never thought of it."

"What are you worrying about?"

He was so pleased to see her — why was she looking at him like that? "Just wondering if you were all right."

"All right?" Meg said with a shrill laugh. "All right? Living like a lady in a castle? How could I not be all right? The only thing that isn't all right is that one day I'll have to wake up and be the tanner's daughter again and go back to scraping hides."

"Enjoy it while it lasts!" He was. "Is Rory behaving himself?"

"Oh, that's it? Lord Gregor is a perfect gentleman."

Which was exactly what he was afraid of. She had turned her head away, but he saw a wash of pink on her cheek.

"What's wrong? I mean, if there's something troubling you, I…" I what? He was as much of a prisoner as she was. He couldn't do anything.

"Toby," she whispered, suddenly sounding not at all like Meg Tanner. "He says he loves me!"

"You don't believe him, I hope?"

"No other man has ever told me that."

Oh, zits! He leaned his elbows on the table and put his forehead on his palms so he had to look down and wouldn't stare at her. "Meg," he told his biceps, "dear Meg! I can make a lot of money prizefighting in England. I'll save it all. In a few years — before I get the few brains I've got knocked out of me — I'll come back to Scotland and rent a few acres, and buy a horse and a plow. Then I'll find me a girl, and marry her, and make her very happy. I've never had family. I want people to love: a wife and lots of children. I would be the best husband and father I could be. I'm strong. I could do the work of three men and prosper. And I won't be anyone's man, except my wife's, and I'll always be true to her. But at the moment I can't ask any girl to believe in that dream."

"How many years? Five?"

He looked up. Why were her eyes so shiny? Did she want him to talk of love? He didn't even know what friendship was, let alone love.

"At least," he said. "Maybe ten. Sorry — I'm not the one for the fancy speeches."

"What do you mean by that, Toby Strangerson?"

"I mean he's a glib-tongued rascal. He was brought up at court, and you know what sort of morals they have! You told me he was devious yourself. He's out to trap you. He'll try to… I mean, he'll talk you into… You don't know anything about him!"

She tossed her head, snapping braids like whips. "Yes, I do! I know he's a gentleman, which is more than I know about you. He's a courteous, educated—"

"Oh, is he?" He shouted her down. "And I'm just a big safe lout who's handy to rescue you when some man you're teasing gets violent, but not rich and sweet-talking and able to dress you up in fancy clothes?"

Meg stared at him in utter silence.

"I shouldn't have said that," he muttered.

She stood up. "No, you shouldn't."

"But you know what he'll do, Meg! He'll get what he wants from you and then toss you aside because you're not good enough. That's all he wants, just to… you know."

Meg said, "Oh! Oh, you are a boor, Toby Strangerson. A brainless boor!" Her voice shrilled across the tables.

"Don't take any more bastards back to the glen, Meg!"

"What? How dare you say such things about me?"

"I didn't mean—"

"Yes, you did! You called me a loose woman!"

"No, I didn't!" He, too, was yelling at the top of his lungs. They would hear him in Fillan. "Any woman is loose if… I mean can be… you know a man turns her head with words and talks her into… Oh, demons! I promised your Pa I would look after you!"

"That's why you're taking musketry lessons, I suppose? And playing swords all day? You smell like a stable."

"You're crying!"

"No, I'm not!" She spun on her heel and flounced out of the mess.

There were grins everywhere.

He ate without noticing what he was eating.

He found Hamish by himself in a corner, eating and reading at the same time. He sat down on the same bench.

"I want to write a letter!"

Hamish looked up in amazement. "Did I just hear—"

"Can you get me a piece of paper and a quill?"

"Steal paper?" Hamish said doubtfully. "Paper costs money!"

"And wax. And ink, too."

Hamish dutifully went off to the library and returned with a sheet of paper and writing tools. Toby turned down more fencing lessons and wasted the whole afternoon struggling over a letter. In the end he had five blots, six scorings-out, and three sentences: I am sorry about I was a boor. I was just am worried if you might get hurted and hoping you forgiving me. Your good friend, Tobias Strangerson.

He sealed it with the wax and handed it to a page to deliver. Then he ran up to the gym and threw Neal Big around like a sack of oats.

The next day the sun was shining, but no one came to summon him to the loch. They tried him on archery. In an hour he was putting his shafts alongside the gold at two hundred paces with a hundred-pound bow. In the afternoon he learned that he had a fair eye for firearms, although he knew most of his success stemmed from sheer brute strength, guns being cumbersome things that out-kicked any mule.

There was no reply from Meg — not that day, nor the day after.

He had no way of knowing if his letter had reached her.

CHAPTER SEVEN

It was another morning. Toby had been wrestling, so he was wearing trews. He had added a mask and plastron to fence short swords with Gavin the Grim, who had gained his name from his unchanging gentle smile — who had to be at least fifty but was still spry as a grasshopper and could wield a blade better than any man in Scotland. They were just about to face off for the second time…

Gavin said, "Break!"

Toby hauled off his mask and turned to see Rory, resplendent in full Highland regalia, from the silver badge in his bonnet to his shiny shoes and the black knife in his stocking that meant he was otherwise unarmed.

Gavin murmured "My lord," and tactfully departed.

Rory led the way over to a window. "I'm impressed, really impressed! You were giving the old boy a serious match there!"

That remark felt so good that Toby ground his teeth to stop himself smiling. He unbuckled the plastron and took it off with a sigh of relief — it was so tight on him he could hardly breathe in it. "I can't touch him. I was trying to wear him down."

Rory laughed disbelievingly. "That's all? Even I can't do that to old Gavin! Never mind, I have news."

"Good or bad?" Have you managed to seduce Meg yet?

"Good. But first… have you changed your mind? If not Pikeman Toby, how about Serjeant? Malcolm says he'll shoot any six men at random if he can have you."

Toby shook his head. He had been expecting something like this. Have you broken her heart yet? They had reached the window, well away from eavesdroppers. The old devilry was back in the silver eyes and he braced himself for treachery.

Rory shrugged. "I said I couldn't deliver a sponsor for a prizefighter, but I was being too modest, as usual. I've found you one. He's on his way here now."

"Who is?"

"Stringer."

"Coming to claim the reward?"

"I hope not." Rory spoke as if the matter was trivial. "A hundred marks isn't all that much to him. Listen carefully! Stringer's a trader. He buys here and ships back south. He's heading home for the winter in another week. He's rich enough and important enough that he won't be questioned at the docks the way you would be if you tried to board a ship. If we can get him to take you with him, you'll be free and clear, right?"

Away to England? That had always been Toby's ambition, hadn't it? Why did it feel so wrong now?

"Yes, but—"

"You can see Cruachan this morning. Unless the wind veers, the ships will be leaving on the next ebb, so there isn't much time. At breakfast this morning he happened to mention that he dabbles in the ring. And then he went on to relate that he has a pugilist of his own, and the man travels with him as a bodyguard. He's here in Inverary! Zing! Lightning struck!"

"Struck what?" Toby asked warily.

"My slow wits, I suppose. I should have discovered this sooner. Stringer is one of the Fancy, you numbskull! He promotes fighters. He was bragging about the money he would make this winter off this Randal of his. I told him I knew a Highland lad who could knock Randal's stuffing out and spit on it." Silver eyes gleamed.

"Oh, you did, did you?" Toby said, feeling something stir in his gut. "How big is Randal?"

"No idea. I just spoke up on principle — he can't be any bigger than you, can he? I offered to lay money on you, of course."

"That was very rash of you."

Rory was smiling dangerously. "Nonsense! The champion of Strath Fillan against a pansy Sassenach? You won't make a liar of me, will you?"

"I haven't seen him, this Randal."

"Stringer's gone to fetch him."

Sudden changes of plan suggested sudden changes of circumstance, and a chance remark at breakfast did not seem quite sufficient. Perhaps it did to gentry. "What about the dead-or-alive business? I thought I was hiding from Stringer so he wouldn't find out about that."

"A hundred marks is chicken feed compared to what Stringer will think he can make off you if you can beat his man." Rory raised his eyebrows. "I understood this was your ambition? He's your meal ticket, my bareknuckle friend! He'll take you south and promote you — train you, line you up with fights. If you want to rat out on him once you're there, of course, that's your business."

"I couldn't do that!"

The rebel snorted. "That's up to you. What I'm saying is that you fight his man today and make a good showing… You don't even need to win, just show promise. You're young yet. Stringer can spirit you out of Scotland better than anyone. Here he comes now. Are you game or not?"

It seemed to make sense. It was a challenge a man could understand, one Toby Strangerson could not refuse and did not want to. Best of all, it was a chance to do something for himself instead of depending on Rory or Lady Lora or even Father Lachlan. When it came to fists, he knew what he was at.

"I'm always game."

"Good lad!" Rory switched to English. "Max, old chap — this is the man."

Toby turned around, then bowed to the gentleman.

Master Maxim Stringer was well named, being almost as tall as Toby himself and extremely thin. He wore hose and knickerbockers, a fur-trimmed doublet over a frilly shirt. The hair on the top of his head was set in elaborate curls as a vain effort to hide a thinning crown, and his pigtail was wound with silver thread. He had an excessively long upper lip but no chin worthy of the name, and he looked Toby up and down with disdain.

"Frightfully young, isn't he? You'll break a foal's spirit if you run it too soon, you know."

"His spirit's as sound as his wind," Rory said cheerfully. "Name the stakes."

The man at Stringer's back laughed, displaying a wide absence of teeth. He was broad and bald and at least forty — not short by most standards, but shorter than Toby. He might weigh almost as much, though, for he was thick, bulging over his belt. His nose had been pounded flat, one of his ears was several times the size of the other. His face had a leathery look, like one big scar. This must be Randal.

So Toby had wind and reach on his side. He would have to keep the older man at a distance and just wear him down. He tried to see what shape the man's hands were in, but Randal was keeping them out of sight.

Randal wore a sleeveless shirt and short breeches, and his feet were bare. He had an anchor tattooed on his arm — there was room to engrave a whole navy on those arms — and his pigtail was tarred. He was a sailor, which did not exactly disprove Rory's tale, but didn't quite fit with it, either.

Master Stringer reached in a pocket and produced a single piece of glass on a ribbon. He contorted his face to insert this in his right eye and then walked all around Toby, as if Toby were a nag in a horse market. Rory took the foil and plastron away to display him better.

The armory was filling up. Word of the proposed match must be out already, for a continuous line of men lounged along the far wall. Hamish was one of them, looking as if he had just seen a ghost — or someone who might be a ghost very shortly, perhaps?

"Mm. Promising!" Stringer admitted. "The arms are especially impressive. But too young — his gristle isn't set yet. What do you think, Randal?"

"I'll break him like a twig, sir."

"I'm sure you will. But, if you're quite serious, Rory… say four hundred pounds?"

"Make it five," Rory said cheerfully. "It's a nice round number."

Toby gulped at the thought of so much money riding on his ability to punch — and withstand pain, of course. That was the hard part. There ought to be a purse for the fighters themselves, but in a sense he would be fighting for his life, so he could hardly ask for cash as well.

"Five then!" Stringer drawled. "And I have another hundred says the boy won't be there for the tenth round."

"And if he is, another two hundred for the twentieth?"

"If you like."

"And three hundred for the thirtieth and so on?"

Even Stringer looked startled at that. He glanced at Randal.

"Take it, sir," the pug growled. "It's sugar from babies. I'll put him to sleep in three rounds."

Toby was trying to work out the numbers. Some fights lasted seventy rounds or more, although he'd never gone more than nine, when he'd been knocked out by Ross MacLachlan, four years ago. One hundred plus two hundred was three. Plus three… Um, six? If he could stand up for fifty or sixty rounds, he was going to make Rory a fortune. Or lose him one, of course, if he got knocked out sooner.

With a sickening twinge of doubt, Toby realized that he wasn't certain of winning. He thought he could, and he certainly had a good chance, but he wasn't quite sure. He'd never doubted himself before, and it was a bad feeling. Perhaps life in the outside world had already begun to teach him discretion. In Fillan he'd always been up against country lads like himself. This Randal, sailor or not, looked like a bareknuckle expert, a pro — hard, solid. Prizefighting was never about hitting hardest or fastest, it was about taking punishment and coming back for more. He suspected that he could punch Randal until his fists fell off and the man would still be there.

"Sounds good!" Rory said. "You still game for a fight, Longdirk?"

"Of course!" Toby snapped, laying his left foot forward and raising his fists. Randal jumped and backed away a step.

"Not yet!" Rory laughed. "You see the mustard in him, Max? He's a real killer."

Not funny!

"Where?" asked Stringer.

"Out in the paddock. Can't fight on stone!"

"Oh, absolutely not! Grass is best. Always prefer grass. Makes the blood look redder, what?"

When Rory had described Stringer as an idiot, he had been unusually accurate. The man seemed quite witless.

"And why not right now?" Rory said airily. "Let's go and get the lads started. How about Sir Malcolm for referee?"

"Splendid choice. And we'll need a timekeeper and umpires…" The Englishman's drawl faded away as Rory led him off.

"Kid," said Randal, "you're crazy! Don't make me do this to you."

"I'm not worried!" Toby turned round and headed for the door. His blood was starting to race as the prospect sank in. A real prizefight! And good money! Damned good money to ride on a tyro.

The sailor was growling at his heels. "You really are crazy, lad. I've been a pugilist for twenty-three years. I know every trick there is and I've stood up to most of the best in my time. I went thirty-seven rounds against Crusher Fishmonger, and not two men in England can say the same. I took the Exeter Butcher in sixty-five rounds and he never walked straight again. Bryton Fletcher was only twenty-four, poor fellow, and I put his left eye out in the thirtieth round, but he insisted on going on, and he lost the other one, too. He barely knew night from day after that. You're not bad looking, boy, but there's no way you can put a face back together after I've worked on it. The girls won't love you if you look like a pudding. Let me tell you—"

His hand barely settled on Toby's shoulder — Toby spun around and struck it off just in time. A week's training might not have made him an expert wrestler, but it had taught him some of the pressure points and he knew where those twisted, powerful fingers had been heading.

"Here!" Randal barked indignantly. "What's all this hitting before the match?"

"Save it!" growled old Gavin, sliding between them. "Keep your paws to yourself, old man. And keep your lies to yourself, too. Need a second, lad?"

Randal shrugged his great shoulders and rolled away.

"I'd be honored," Toby said. "Unless my sponsor wants to second me himself." It felt good to have a sponsor to talk about. As for Gavin, the spidery old fencing instructor felt right. True, he was volunteering, but if he'd been bribed already, it had been extremely fast work. He was older than Randal, though, and the memory of his stamina with the swords was a warning not to take anything for granted… Toby's mind was flitting like a butterfly. Calm down! It's only a fight.

"And bottleholder?"

"This one," Toby said, watching Hamish's anxious face approach through the crowd. He could trust Hamish not to fill him full of liquor when he expected water, or water when he needed liquor to deaden the pain. The gym was almost empty now, the audience having siphoned itself off to the paddock to preempt the ring-side positions.

Hamish failed to return Toby's cheerful grin. Hamish was poking at something in his left hand, which turned out to be money. He looked up, worried and distracted. "Got any coins, Toby?"

"Some." Toby stalked over to where he had left his plaid and retrieved his sporran. "Here, bet it all."

"What? No, that wasn't what I meant!" He lowered his voice. "I just want to look at them."

Toby had no time to unravel the lad's high-flying fancies, whatever they were. "Well, take care of that for me anyway. Will you be my bottleholder?"

Hamish blinked several times. "Your what?"

"Bottleholder. There's going to be a fight."

"Oh? Is there? Who're you fighting?"

Hamish must have been at the bottle already.