Demon Sword

CHAPTER ONE

The sponsors had chosen a corner of one of the paddocks where the turf was in good shape. Ropes and stakes were being hurriedly arranged to form the other two sides of the ring, eight paces a side, and already there were two or three hundred people gathered, with more coming all the time. Word must have spread through the village and even reached the ships. The crowd buzzed like summer wasps. Meg was there, behind the fences, with Lady Lora and the whole population of the castle. Servants were placing chairs in a wagon to make a grandstand for the ladies and gentlemen.

Rory and Stringer leaned on the wooden rails nearby, chatting quietly, neither of them displaying concern at the horrible stakes they were risking. The two umpires they had chosen were seeking out a third to act as tie-breaker. Ben Cruachan was certainly in view, white with snow, but the sun had brought no warmth. The wind raised goosebumps on Toby's skin. He jogged in place, eager to get started. His opponent stood with massive arms folded, scowling at him contemptuously.

A stable boy was painting the Scratch on the turf. Apart from him, there were six men in the ring, waiting for the referee to arrive and start the fight — the two bare-chested combatants, their seconds and bottleholders. Randal's second was another tar-queued sailor with an equally battered appearance. The bottleholder was a wiry ferret of a man with a shrill voice. The other two were leaving the jeering to him, but he lacked imagination—bastard and uppity kid were about the best he could manage, apart from a few improbable obscenities.

Hamish had now recovered his wits and was doing better, deriding Randal as a punch-drunk antique has-been, whose wits had all been knocked out of him years ago and whose face showed that he couldn't stop a fly-swat. The crowd listened appreciatively and shouted out its own comments. Except for some of the sailors, everyone favored the Scotsman, of course. They would have put their money on him if he'd been missing an arm. He mustn't fail them!

Without his shirt, Randal seemed larger than before. As if to compensate for his bald scalp, his thick body was a forest of grizzled hair, like a bearskin stretched over a barrel. His breeches displayed very bandy legs. There was nothing wrong with his shoulders, but it was the depth of his chest that Toby found worrisome. Hitting that heap of muscle would do no good at all.

"Keep the rounds short," Gavin muttered at his side. "Go down every chance you get. Helps to keep one leg half-bent."

"That's not very sporting!"

"Never mind sporting! You're doing this for money now, lad. And look out for teeth. He's still got some teeth, and a fist full of broken teeth isn't any good for hitting with. Stay away from his mouth."

Toby caught Meg's eye and waved cheerfully. She returned the wave, but she looked worried. She had seen him fight in the past, so why should she be worried? Nice that she was, though. He wouldn't let her down, either.

He flexed his arms. Even Stringer had called them impressive!

One good thing about this battle was that he wouldn't be fighting someone he knew. He wouldn't care so much about hurting a stranger. His right cross was his weapon. He'd won seven fights in the last three games, and every one of them with his right cross. He would keep his left fist in Randal's face until he got an opening and then bring in his timber-splitting right. Just one to the chin might do it. Even at half-power it had floored Rory.

"Remember," Gavin said, "keep your head covered! You've got five fingers on him in height, easy. Body blows just hurt; it's the head that does the job and he's got to come up to you."

Rory excused himself, vaulted the fence nimbly, and strode toward Toby, smiling confidently. Behind him, Sir Malcolm clambered in over the rails. The stable boy trotted off with his paint bucket.

"All set?" Rory said breezily.

Toby flexed his shoulders. "Ready."

"Good man! You know the wagers — if you can come up to Scratch for the thirtieth round, we can't lose!"

"I plan to finish him off a lot sooner than that."

The silver eyes smiled cynically. "Please yourself! Master Stringer and I have put up a purse of fifty marks."

"That's generous! Thank you." Toby had hoped for a share of the winnings, but fifty marks was still money. Real money!

"Plus a tenth of my winnings for you. So the longer you make it last, the more you earn," Rory added pointedly. "Give us a good show. Don't let Scotland down."

A tremor of warning ran over the skin on Toby's back. He glanced quickly at Hamish and saw a reflection of his own sudden unease. Rory had arranged the wagers so that Toby had every incentive to spin out the butchery as long as possible. Why? He had told Stringer that this match was for sport and a wager. He had told Toby that he was fighting to earn an escape from the law. Could he have other motives as well?

And what other parties might take an interest in the match? There was no denying that prizefighting was dangerous. Men died in the ring every year.

"One question," Toby said. "Suppose my opponent gets struck by lightning? What do the Fancy Rules have to say about that?"

Rory glanced covertly at Gavin, doubtless wondering how he would take that unusual query. Then he chuckled.

"Well, it'll be an interesting match, won't it? Thunder to startle him you might get away with, but I suspect lightning would class as cheating." His silver eyes gleamed joyfully as he thumped Toby's shoulder. "This is your big chance, Longdirk. Murder the bast — I do beg your pardon! Murder the beast, I mean. Miss Campbell and I will be cheering every punch."

He turned and sauntered back to the fence as Sir Malcolm shouted for the fighters.

The combatants advanced to Scratch. Their handlers followed, continuing their baiting until the referee barked at them for silence. He looked the two contestants over with no discernible feelings. "Under what names do you fight, gentlemen?" he said quietly.

"Randal the Ripper."

Toby opened his mouth — and wavered. To use his own name in front of this crowd would be rank insanity, when it was posted all over Scotland. He had not foreseen the problem, and yet this was his first professional fight, so the name he used now would be his permanent name.

"He's the Baby Bastard," Randal said, and his two seconds laughed.

"Longdirk of the Hills!" Hamish shrilled.

Sir Malcolm opened his mouth above a flaming beard and let forth a bellow. "My lords, ladies, and gentlemen! For a purse of fifty silver marks, an unlimited match under the Fancy Rules, between Randal the Ripper in the brown trews, and Longdirk of the Hills in the green and black."

The crowd roared for the Campbell colors.

"This fight will continue until one man concedes."

An even louder cheer.

"And may the best man win!"

The referee spoke in lower tones. "Fancy Rules means no hitting when you're down, and no kicking. You'll get one warning only. Going down without a blow disqualifies and I'll give no warning on that. Each round ends when one of you touches the ground with anything except feet. After each round, you will have one half minute to come up to Scratch or forfeit the fight. Is that clear?"

"Let me at the brat," Randal growled.

"This is your last fight, old man!" Toby settled his left foot at Scratch and raised his fists. He must use his advantage in reach, keep Randal at a distance.

"Round one!" shouted the timekeeper.

The two men collided in a blizzard of blows. Randal came in under Toby's guard, left-jabbing his ribs mercilessly. Toby backed and fell to one knee, gasping.

"Time out!" the timekeeper called.

Zits! The man was a hundred times faster than he had expected. How many blinks had that taken? Red welts burned on his chest — good! It always took a few thumps to get him mad. He tried to rise and Gavin leaned on his shoulder.

"Take your break. Have a drink."

"I don't want a drink!" he snarled, pushing Hamish's bottle away. "He tripped me! Let me at the sonofabitch!"

He marched to Scratch and raised his fists again.

"Round Two!"

This time Toby blocked the assault, taking the blows on his arms. For a minute he did nothing else, then he began jabbing at Randal's right eye. Soon he saw his chance and swung his thunderbolt right cross at his opponent's chin. It slid harmlessly by. Demons, the man was quick! Again he saw an opening. Again he failed to connect. A fist smashed into his face, sending him reeling.

Randal followed, grinning. He had identified Toby's favorite blow and he could avoid it. The crowd booed: dodging was cowardice. Randal would not care. He did not signal his own punches at all — watching his eyes was useless. He seemed to have no favorite punch. He was good with both hands, and he was delivering real punishment. Toby saw a chance for an uppercut, but it was another trap and left him open. A cannonball left slammed him just above the belt. He hit the turf bodily, choking for air. No man could hit that hard! Impossible!

Oh, dungheaps! What had he let himself in for?

Hamish splashed water on his face and Gavin wiped it. "Take your time, lad. Use your height. Work on his face. Up you get."

Already? Toby hauled himself upright and felt Gavin's hand urge him forward. Two rounds gone and he had hardly landed a blow. Crap! He was going to get slaughtered! Randal had a faint red mark near his eye. The man was a human millstone.

They were at Scratch. "Round Three!"

Again Toby concentrated on blocking, backing steadily. Randal came after him, fists windmilling. The handlers leaped clear. He's older, needs a quick win… Make him work, wear him out…

That noise? The crowd booing! Boy wonder was running away, was being chased around the ring. Toby registered the hateful grin on the older man's face and threw caution to the winds. He slammed a left hook at his opponent's eye, then tried another right cross. The brute came in under his guard. He took the punishment while pounding both fists at eyes and nose. Then he switched and landed a one-two on the man's gut and it was like punching an oak door. He tried a cross-buttock throw — Randal got him in the kidneys with a haymaker. They both went down together and their seconds rushed in.

Through the waves of pain, Toby could hear Hamish screaming that he had really hurt the swine that time. But he was hurting, too. There was no air in the world. And it was time for more.

Randal's face was bloody. The timekeeper barely had time to call the round before they both went at it. No running this time — they stood toe to toe and slugged. The crowd roared approval. This was what they wanted: butchery! Jab, hook, feint, block, pain, blood. Randal tried to close, but Toby drummed fists on his ribs until the referee pulled them apart. Randal went down.

So did Toby. He drank from the bottle Hamish thrust at him, spat blood, drank again. His face was a swelling furnace, his chest a huge agony. That noise was his own breathing. Up again.

He must end this soon. He couldn't take much more of this.

But he couldn't end it. It just went on and on and nothing he did seemed to make any difference. The rounds blurred. His arms were all ache; they were tiring and he wouldn't be able to keep them up much longer. He had almost closed Randal's left eye and damaged his right, but his own were no better. Both men's noses and ears were battered and bloody, their bodies smeared with mud and gore.

Once Randal caught him by the hair and held him for four brutal punches before Sir Malcolm broke it up.

Once Toby found himself backed against the fence and had just enough wit to go down before he could be nailed there and pounded to jelly. Once he landed a right cross to the jaw that spread the older man on his back. Oh, that felt good! But his strength was failing and even his best punch was not enough now.

Randal must have done much the same to him, because he found Hamish and Gavin running him forward between them to get him up to Scratch in time for the next round. His ears rang and he couldn't focus well. His fists were falling apart. The world shrank to that hateful, battered face, and he pounded and pounded at it, ignoring what was happening to him. He went down. Randal went down. It was Round Thirteen or Fourteen, so he had won the first side bet. He was sitting on Hamish's knee while Gavin wiped blood from his eyes. He was being helped up from the grass. He was at Scratch and his knees were wavering. Now Randal was backing. Toby followed blindly, pounding, blocking, pounding. He got Randal on the fence and landed a half-dozen killers before the referee hauled him away.

The crowd screamed in fury. Gavin began to appeal to the umpires, then stopped when he realized that Toby needed extra time as much as Randal did.

One round lasted only one punch, but it was Toby who fell. An earthquake of pain in his chest… He doubled over, clutching himself.

"Think you've broken some ribs," Hamish wailed. Gavin snarled at him to shut his mouth, but it was too late — the opposition had heard. Seconds later they were at Scratch again, and Randal went straight for those ribs. Toby tried to shield them. A farm-boy uppercut to the chin floored him.

Water in his face…

"You've done good, kid," Gavin said. "It's time to throw in the towel."

"No!" Fail in his first real fight? Never! His mouth was so swollen and his chest so sore that he could barely speak. He had lost a tooth or two, and he suspected his jaw was at least cracked, if not broken. "Get me up there. I'm going to murder the scum."

The ribs were bad. Again and again he got hit there and the world blossomed in red glares of pain. Fortunately, Randal had not noticed the jaw, while he himself had a broken cheekbone that gave him his own defense problems. Toby worked hard on that, because every time he got in a good hit, Randal went down. Neither man was punching as he had before. Their fists were pulp. There was less footwork now, more slugging. Neither could see very well, neither had much breath, so they both just stood and hammered, trading blows like madmen. The crowd screamed in delight.

Once Randal went down and Sir Malcolm shouted that there had been no punch. Randal's second appealed to the umpires. They had an argument, yelling at one another over the howls of fury from the crowd. In the end, the castellan was overruled and the fight went on.

"This is Round Twenty," Gavin said as he and Hamish helped Toby to his feet again. "One punch, go down, and we throw in the sponge."

Toby gasped, "No!" Let Meg see him beaten? Worse, let Rory see him beaten? "Never!"

"You're taking serious damage, lad."

With a supreme effort Toby forced out the words, "Never! Promise me! Keep me up there whatever it takes!"

He thought Hamish was sobbing, but it might have been him. There was straight whisky in the bottle now.

"Promise!" he insisted as they dragged him up to Scratch.

"We promise," Gavin said grimly. "He can't last much longer either."

Oh, yes, he could! Hours. Days. Life was only pain and struggle and hate, bone on bone. The grass was red mud. How much blood could a man lose? How long until his eyes closed altogether? Kill the sonofabitch! But the worst was over; now the rounds were ending with him on his feet, which was good, yet they kept bringing Randal back for more. Toby gave him more, ignoring the man's feeble efforts to respond, whirling a blizzard of fists, getting in as much damage as he could before his victim fell again. Pound, pound, pound… Give up, damn you! Why wouldn't he give up?

He was at Scratch and there was no one else there, just a bloody towel on the mud. His arms sank lower. Sir Malcolm grabbed one and raised it overhead. The crowd screamed hysterically. Randal's supporters weren't even working on him. He was flat on his back — the bugger couldn't even sit up, let alone stand.

He had won!

He sobbed for breath as the joy registered. He wasn't going to be hit anymore. Won! No demon lightnings, just knuckles, just pain — and finally just butchery. Hamish spread a plaid over his shoulders. Winning should have more triumph, should be one big haymaker punch — not this dismal nothing-left-to-hit. There was terrible noise, not all in his head… the crowd? He had won. He wasn't going to be hit any more! They were shouting, Longdirk! Longdirk! They were paying off bets. He forced his arms up again to acknowledge the cheers and his plaid fell. Someone put it back. Gavin was trying to tend to his battered hands. Hamish was passing the hat.

Rory, using both hands to clasp one of Toby's fists; Rory smirking… sort of smirking.

Toby took a swallow from the bottle. He had shown him! He had shown all of them. "How many rounds?" Hard to speak with lips like muffins.

"This was twenty-nine."

"Twenty-nine? Needed one more. Scum cheated us!"

"Not really," Rory said.

He peered around the circle. Meg, chalky pale… Lady Lora… Others… smiling, but not happy.

Here was Stringer, with a face long as a carrot, and Randal's second and bottleholder, come to congratulate the victor. Tears? They had tears in their eyes! Where was the loser? Toby rose on his toes and looked over the crowd. Randal still lay on the grass. They had given him a plaid, too. They had covered him with a plaid.

Stringer babbling: "Well fought, Master Longdirk! Jolly great fight! Best fight I've seen in years."

Ignoring him, Toby tried to grab Rory with bloody fists, almost fell as Rory shied away from them.

"Where's the loser?"

Rory shrugged sadly.

Toby choked. Nobody covered an injured man's face!

He turned to look for Meg, but Meg was walking away with Lady Lora.

CHAPTER TWO

They cleaned him, washed his cuts with whisky, dressed him. They fed him copious amounts of broth. Above all, they congratulated him and wished him well in his career. They said they'd never seen anything like it, and wasn't it amazing how long that Sassenach stood up to him at the end there, meaning why did it take you so long to kill him? He hurt.

They left him sitting at a table in the mess hall with Hamish. He was blurry and sleepy, dazed by all the whisky he'd drunk, all the blows to the head, sheer exhaustion, but he hurt too much to sleep. In any case, the sun shone and the tide was full. Master Stringer would be sending for him soon. The pain did not bother him; he deserved it for not winning faster.

Hamish was counting the collection, dividing out a share for Gavin and himself, as tradition demanded. He was also inspecting every coin carefully before placing it on its correct pile. Whatever he was looking for, he hadn't found it yet. Whatever he thought he was doing was beyond the understanding of a stupid punch-drunk pug like Longdirk of the Hills. Hamish wasn't talking about it. Either he wasn't sure, or he felt it wasn't a safe matter to discuss in Inverary Castle.

"How long does it take to sail to Dumbarton?"

Hamish glanced up from the groat he was examining. "Depends on the wind." He laid the coin on one of the heaps. "Day, at least, I'd think."

Toby was too restless to stay silent, although every word hurt. He seemed to have exchanged roles with Hamish, who was not saying much at all.

"When's the ebb?"

"Soon. Ah!" He had found it. No, he hadn't — he peered closely at the coin, then added it to a pile.

Toby mumbled, "Be going then, I expect. You coming with me? Coming to find Eric?" Even through the fog in his eyes, he saw the kid's face twist in indecision.

"The master says I can stay here for over the winter and catalogue the library. Says his father's been wanting it done — all the old written books, and all the new printed ones, too."

"Take it! You'll end up as the earl's private secretary."

Hamish nodded glumly. "Pa'll approve." He sighed and went back to his coin inspection. "Ma'll dance on Beinn Odhar." He said, "Ah!" again, louder than before, then again decided it wasn't what he wanted. "Toby?"

"Mmph?"

"Er…" The kid hesitated, as if his verbal horse had balked at a fence. "Does Master Stringer remind you of anyone?"

"A grass snake, lives near the hob's grotto. Has the same chin."

Hamish did not smile. "You're waiting for him to send for you?"

"He wants a prizefighter, I'm his man." Toby spoke with much satisfaction. Being Master Stringer's man would not be the same as being, say, the earl's man. He wouldn't be one of a warband, or a vassal sharecropper. He would just be a servant, earning his living by winning fights as he had today — and free to leave anytime.

"But does he?"

"Huh?"

"Toby, doesn't it seem odd to you that the master's houseguest should suddenly turn out to be exactly what you wanted, one of the Fancy, a sponsor of pugilists? Funny coincidence?"

A small person had come into the mess and was running their way.

Toby squirmed uneasily. "Wha'd'juh mean?"

Hamish stared at him, chewing his lip. "Randal was a sailor. Oh, I'm sure he'd boxed before, but I think Rory just went and found a man on one of the ships here who would fight for money. I don't think Stringer cares a spit about prizefighting."

A battered brain full of whisky didn't think very well. "Why? Why would they do that?"

"I think Stringer wanted to take you with him to Dumbarton — maybe even to England, although I doubt that. I think he and Rory dreamed this up as a plausible way of explaining why he might do that."

"Why not just offer me a job carrying sacks? Why would he want me anyway, if not to fight for him? Why be so devious?"

"Maybe so as not to let you know… I don't know."

"Then why are you staring at all those coins?"

Hamish looked down at the copper groat in his fingers. "I'm trying to find one minted just after Fergan came back from England and was crowned king — before his first rebellion. There aren't many of them around anymore. They get kept as mementoes."

The runner arrived, a puffing blur of carroty hair and freckles and fishing-pole limbs protruding from a plaid.

In shrill soprano, the page said, "The master wants to see you in the hall, Master Longdirk."

Toby rose carefully. "You can look for mementoes later. This library of yours… is it near the minstrel gallery?"

Hamish looked up, startled. "No. Why?"

"It's time to get back to work." Toby turned to the tiny page. "Lead on, chief."

Hamish began madly scooping the coins back in the bag.

CHAPTER THREE

The hall was brighter than it had been the one other time Toby had seen it. Sunbeams angled down from the slit windows in the south wall, full of dancing dust motes, but the crackling fire in the great hearth still gave more light. He tramped over the rushes, past the long table, approaching the two men standing by the fireplace. They were drinking. The pain in his back made him limp; his face had been beaten to raw haggis; his arms and chest were discolored and swollen. Rory must be watching his approach with considerable satisfaction.

Toby bowed to Maxim Stringer first, then made a lesser bow to the master. Bowing hurt, and he couldn't straighten up properly.

The two men exchanged glances. Stringer produced his piece of glass and inserted it in his eye to study the champion.

"You don't look as bad as I feared, young man. Sit down if you wish."

Toby shook his head, which made the hall spin briefly.

"Well, Killer," Rory said. "Master Stringer agrees that you have displayed considerable promise as a pugilist. However, he has regretfully decided not to take you on. Sorry."

Toby twitched in sudden dismay, sending a blade of fire into his back. "I'd do my best to win for you, sir! I'm sorry I killed your man today."

The gangling Sassenach took a drink. "That isn't the problem. Deaths in the ring don't happen very often, you know. It should never happen, and certainly should not have happened this time. I'll be honest. I'm not a patron of the Manly Art. He wasn't my man, just a sailor we hired to test you. He was supposed to try you out, let you show your paces, and then take a dive."

Hamish had been right, as usual.

"Then… Well, why didn't he? Why'd he make a real fight of it?"

Rory drained his goblet. "I suppose he couldn't bear to be beaten by a boy. Another dram for the road, Max?"

"No more, thank you." Stringer put the idiotic monocle away in a pocket and laid his goblet on the mantel. "I blame his handlers. They kept dragging him up to Scratch at the end there. I don't know how he survived that beating for so long. They ought to be hanged for murder."

Rory shrugged. "I expect they wagered too much money on their own man. It happens." He was watching Toby as he spoke, but if there was some sort of message in his gaze, Toby's vision was too blurred to detect it.

He didn't need it. He could knock the devious aristocratic prig into the fireplace with one good punch, but his fists were too swollen to clench. If someone had offered outrageous odds to Randal's seconds, he could guess who that someone was. Rory had re-rigged the rigged fight.

Toby turned back to the merchant. "So you have no use for a prizefighter, sir?" Dreams crashed like falling icicles.

"Not for a prizefighter." Stringer no longer spoke like an idiot. He even seemed to have acquired more chin. "But today I saw a remarkable display of courage — a beaten man refusing to give up, persevering no matter what the cost, and going on to victory. I can use a man like that."

Rory stiffened, as if surprised. "Before you go any farther, sir, I think we should tell the Tyndrum Terror the latest news."

Bad news, obviously.

"Yes, I was about to." The thin man took a couple of steps away from the fire, as if the heat had suddenly become unpleasant. He cleared his throat. "While you were winning your spurs in the ring, lad, a courier came in. He brought word from Edinburgh. A very strange law has just been rushed through Parliament and signed by the governor. I don't recall any precedents in Scotland. Do you, Master?"

Rory said, "No," watching Toby.

"It's an Act of Attainder. It names you, Tobias Strangerson of Tyndrum in Strath Fillan. It convicts you of being possessed by a demon. It offers a reward for your corpse with a blade through your heart." Stringer had switched to Gaelic. His English accent was not as marked as Rory's.

"This is some sort of a joke?" Toby stared from one to the other.

"No joke," the merchant said. "Upon my honor. I don't recall that ever being done before. And even stranger — the reward. Five thousand marks."

Toby walked over to a chair and sat down. If he were sober, and if his brains were not all jangled up, then perhaps he might be able to make sense of this. Or perhaps not. If Rory alone had told him, he would never have believed anything so outrageous. "Isn't that the same price they've put on Ferg — on His Majesty?"

"It is," Stringer said. "We find it as incredible as you do. I have the paper here, if you want to see it."

Toby shook his head, which was again a mistake. There was more to this merchant than he had realized, a lot more. "I don't understand, sir. Why?"

"We don't understand, either. It must involve Valda, somehow. We think Baron Oreste has a hand in it."

Rory said, "You're in good company, Slugger — or should I call you Susie? You're mixed up in deep demonic affairs. You can't trust anyone now, you know. Five thousand is a sizable bag of change. I'm almost tempted myself. I can't guarantee anyone."

He was hinting that there might be a freelance posse of Campbells strapping on swords in the armory right now. Plain enough — but he could not resist a chance to twist the knife. "I doubt I can keep the news quiet for more than a day or so. You'll be planning an early start, I expect. We'll have the cooks make up a jammy bap for you to take."

"Not so fast, Master," Stringer said sharply. "I am sorry to be the bearer of such terrible tidings, Longdirk."

"Not your fault, sir." Which way could he run? Who would aid an outlaw with a demon in his heart? Rory would give him a day's start and run him down with the deerhounds. It was small wonder Stringer had lost interest in him as a prizefighter.

Yet the thin man was regarding him very intently. "The government and the English are both against you — not that there is much difference between them. You have no liege lord, I understand. Is there any person or group to whom you can appeal for protection?"

Rory laughed. "I once asked Muscles which king he supported. He wouldn't answer. Are you any clearer now, boy?"

"I can have no loyalty to a government that condemns me without trial."

"A wise decision. Wisdom comes too late, though."

Stringer said, "He is a cautious man, and I approve of that. He still hasn't answered, notice?"

Toby heaved himself to his feet and straightened, so he could look down on Rory and take a better look at the other. Now he realized what Hamish had been looking for in the old coins. But five thousand crowns reward! He was a walking corpse. He spelled disaster to everyone who came near him.

"I can't think why anyone would want me now, my lord — even King Fergan himself."

He stared at the king with mute appeal. The king smiled grimly, but then he gave the outlaw the answer he needed so desperately now.

"I already said I want you."

Toby sank to his knees and raised his hands, palms together. "Then, Your Majesty, I am your man, of life and limb, against all foes, until death."

CHAPTER FOUR

King Fergan had gone off to make his farewells to Lady Lora. Toby sat down carefully in one of the thronelike chairs and surveyed the great hall, with its high banners and its festoons of weapons. He eyed the silent minstrel gallery and wondered. When he had suggested that Hamish eavesdrop up there, he had not realized what dangerous things he would learn. Most likely the door was kept locked, or even guarded, to prevent just that sort of spying. What would it be like to be heir to such power and wealth as all this? The master of Argyll was a more fortunate man than the hunted king of Scotland, who must slink about his realm in the guise of an English merchant.

But the king of Scotland was the better man. Already, he was sure of that.

Rory came wandering back to the fireplace and seemed displeased to discover he still had a guest there.

"Are you waiting for a stretcher? If you miss the boat, I wash my hands of you."

Toby was not going to let the spite rile him. It was too petty to bother with. "I have a couple of questions to ask, Master."

"Ask quickly. I don't promise to answer." Rory poured himself another drink from a dusty flagon, without offering to share.

"Are you a rebel or a traitor?"

The master smiled and took a sip from his goblet. "Both."

"A double traitor, you mean?"

"Ah! You must not confuse cynicism with realism, lad. I'm mostly rebel, my father mostly traitor, but we switch roles once in a while. We play the two sides off against each other. Whoever wins in the end, we shall be there. Both sides know what we're up to, but they both need us. The Campbells are the key to the west. This is called politics. You wouldn't understand."

Even a lifelong cynic could find such cynicism disgusting. Refusing to play the game, as Toby had done until a few minutes ago, was better than playing and cheating.

"Inverary is very strategic," Rory said, scowling. "But perhaps not as strategic as it was, thanks to you. Did you bury Valda's creatures under that slide?"

"Some of them, I think."

"Father Lachlan says the demons will work their way to the surface fairly soon. Glen Kinglas will not be a road to recommend to one's friends in the future. You washed away half a village, too. You really are incredible, Muscles! You find a girl in trouble and earn yourself a death sentence. You get yourself pursued by at least one notorious hexer, probably two. Acts of Parliament are passed to raise the entire population against you. You're given a chance to show how you can box, and you beat your opponent to death. Everything you touch just dies! You are a disaster, a walking hob. You seem to mean well, but that's the best anyone can say of you."

Looking satisfied, Rory took another drink.

It was all horribly true.

"So why should the king want me? That's my second question: What was the real reason for staging that fight?"

The master took the flagon and walked over to an oak chest to lock it away. "What do you think the real reason was?"

Toby rubbed his throbbing jaw. "I think the king has hexers after him. He needs gramarye on his side. I think you put on that fight to see if my guardian demon would come to my aid."

"Partly, perhaps."

"Not a very nice thing to do to an innocent sailor, who thought he was just going to earn a few marks at fisticuffs."

"Oh, spare me! He was a brainless buffoon. He had too much pride to let his shipmates see a kid beat him. He died of his own stupidity."

"And it didn't work, did it?"

Rory laughed scornfully. "Not that I noticed. It isn't much of a guardian if it lets you get smashed to pulp."

That was comforting. It was not good to have killed a man in what should have been a friendly bout of fisticuffs, but to know he had slain him with his bare hands felt better than to have cheated by using gramarye. "So why does King Fergan still want me?"

"I told you he's an idiot. He saw a man who wasn't smart enough to know when he was beaten, and his romantic soul was thrilled by this display of courage. Display of stupidity, I call it."

Toby sighed. It was what he had been afraid of. He had been taken on as royal hexer, and he had nothing to offer.

"And that wasn't the only reason for the fight," Rory said, leaning an elbow on the mantel.

"What else, then?"

The silver eyes shone in the firelight. "As I recall, you were very insistent on our travels together that Kenneth Campbell of Tyndrum had placed his daughter in your care."

Toby froze. Bugles sounded danger in the back of his mind.

"So?"

Rory showed most of his teeth. "You claimed to be her guardian — on an unofficial basis, of course."

The big bumpkin was being outsmarted here somewhere, somehow. He just knew it. And mocked, too. "What do you mean?"

The smile became a sneer of triumph. "I mean, Tobias Bastard, that I have the honor to ask you for your ward's hand in marriage."

Toby was too stunned to say more than, "Marriage?"

"Marriage. My request is purely a formality, of course. Her parents will be here by tomorrow for the ceremony. To my future happiness!" The master of Argyll drained his goblet and tossed it into the fire.

"Meg has agreed to this?"

"Oh, yes! Even if she didn't, I am sure her family would persuade… but she has agreed. She plighted me her troth, as they say. Right after the fight, it was."

The fight where Toby Strangerson had shown himself to be a brainless, murdering brute, not merely getting himself pounded to porridge, but going on to kill his opponent. That had been the real reason for the fight all along.

"If you feel so inclined, you may congratulate me on my engagement," Rory said generously. He examined his fingernails. "Your trouble, Longdirk, is that you are a cynic. You don't believe in love." The silver eyes looked up challengingly. "Do you?"

"Sometimes."

"But not this time? Or do you accept love in women but not in men? Well, this time you must believe. My intentions are perfectly honorable, for once. The problem you cannot avoid, Longdirk, is that I am rich, I am handsome, I am the most eligible bachelor in all Scotland. By your primitive standards, I am probably a thoroughgoing scoundrel, but I have fallen so much in love with a tanner's daughter that I am going to make her my wife instead of just bundling her in the hay. Your cynicism can't handle that, can it? My grandmother was rather shocked, too, I admit, until she got to know Meg. I think she fell for her about as fast as I had — ten minutes, twelve at the most."

Meg in Inverary Castle, dressed up in Lady Lora's castoffs…

"It was the lute," the master sighed, admiring the nails on his other hand. "She sat beside me on the rock in the moonlight. I played the lute and she sang."

"And she fell in love?"

"No, I did. I thought she was the most incredible girl I had ever met. She was totally innocent, yet she had fire, and gaiety, humor… I suddenly imagined life with Meg for company all the time and I sank without trace! Of course I could hardly announce my feelings at that point, although I was sure of them. And she could talk of nothing except the big, handsome Tyndrum lad who had saved her from the Sassenach. Then you came shuffling out of the darkness with a broadsword on your back, trailing your knuckles…"

Toby leaned back in the chair. Now he understood what had happened between them that night. "That was when the trouble started!"

"Indeed it was! Love is not all that can happen at first sight." Rory chuckled. "But now the trouble is over. I have won."

A penniless vagrant against the heir to Scotland's premier earldom? Even when Toby had begun to realize what the contest was, the match had never been fair. "Does that really surprise you?"

"I suppose not. No, it doesn't surprise me. My father is going to burn me at the stake, of course. He expects me to marry a flat-faced, flat-chested, flat-footed MacDonald frump. But Grandmother will handle him."

Bitterness would be useless. "I want to speak with Meg."

"You have a boat to catch."

"I have time to say good-bye, haven't I?"

"You punched a man to death in front of her eyes. Why would she want to speak with you?"

"Which do you fear: that I will carry her off, or that she will run away with me?"

"Watch your tongue, boy!"

Toby rose. "I am the king's man now."

"That king is a throneless mirage!" Rory pouted. His gaze wandered to the minstrel gallery and then returned to Toby. "What exactly do you wish to discuss with my fiancee?"

"To tell her I am overjoyed at her good fortune. To wish her happiness."

Obviously Rory did not trust him, even now. "You do understand, don't you? She is a tanner's daughter. I shall inherit an earldom, a thousand armed clansmen, Argyll, seven or eight castles, estates in England, houses in Edinburgh and other cities. You are nothing, and will always be nothing. She had a juvenile crush on you, I admit. I can forgive that, because she is very young. But you are only beef, Longdirk. You are unlikely to live a week now, and even if you do, you have no future, nothing to offer a woman. You do understand that, in the real world, she had no choice?"

"I understand that very well, Master. I never told Meg I loved her. I won't now. I will say nothing to upset her."

Rory hesitated, then said, "Wait here, then." He strode off along the hall.

All his vicious jibes were true. No girl in her right mind could be expected to turn down a rich and powerful — and handsome — noble for the sake of an ignorant, musclebound, penniless outlaw. He liked Meg, enjoyed her company. No more than that. If he loved her, he would have told her so, wouldn't he? As a friend, he must rejoice in her good fortune.

Why did it hurt so much? Was he just sore at losing? He hadn't even been playing the game, had he? So why care if he had lost?

When he was sure Rory was out of earshot, he looked up at the minstrel gallery and said, "Scram! You'll have company in a minute." There was no answer.

He heaved himself stiffly out of the chair to stand and gaze at the fire.

CHAPTER FIVE

He turned at the sound of her tread on the rushes. She seemed very much a lady in a dark gown trailing to the floor with a high neck and sleeves puffed like pillows. Her hair was back in the silver net again. The string of pearls around her throat would buy all Tyndrum. He thought her eyes looked pink, and she was certainly very pale, as if the castle had fallen on her.

She winced at the sight of his face. He made a courtly bow, as well as he knew how and as much as his bruises would let him. She curtseyed solemnly, to the manner born.

"Congratulations, my lady. I am very happy for you. I wish you well." His throat hurt even more than his jaw. Why?

"Thank you, Toby."

Silence. He wished he could read the expression in her eyes. Under the shock and fear, there was a glimmer of triumph, wasn't there? Well deserved, yes? He wished he could make speeches.

"Is there anything more to say?" Meg asked. "Except thank you, of course. None of this would have happened without your help. I am very, very grateful."

What did she mean by that? His hurtful efforts to advise her might have strengthened her resolve to resist Rory's blandishments and thus provoked him into proposing marriage. Meg could never say that openly. He hoped that he had not offended her to no purpose.

"I am very sorry I said those bad things to you. I didn't mean to. I felt real bad."

She tossed her head. "You could have sent me a note."

Ah! Dear Rory!

"Well, I'm not much for writing, or for giving advice. I'm not much of anything, except muscle. I never had a family, never had friends. I don't know how to be friends, so I don't suppose I'll ever know anything about love. Lord Gregor's a fine man, and I'm sure he'll make you very happy."

She turned to the fireplace, so he could not see her face.

"Rory says love is like a flash of lightning, but it isn't like that for most people. My Ma told me she was almost sick every time Pa even looked at her — after what the Sassenachs did to her, you know — and she thought her Pa had done a rotten job of finding a man for her anyway, she admits that, but eventually, she says, she managed… She says she grew to love him."

Meg must not be allowed to ramble on like that. She didn't know her fiance was listening up there in the minstrel gallery.

"I think you fell in love with Rory that night in Glen Orchy. You just didn't realize it."

She spun around. "Really? You really think so?"

"Yes, I do. The way you looked at him, and the way you kept telling me how handsome he was, the way you laughed at his jokes…"

She blushed and turned away again. "Thank you, Toby. I'll try to believe that. Is Hamish going with you? You need someone to… Well, Rory says I mustn't ask where you're off to."

"Ask all you want, I don't know." Oh, Meg, Meg! He couldn't keep this up much longer. "I'll always remember you…" even if I live a whole week "…and our escape together. One day I'll be able to brag that I know the countess of Argyll!"

"You can brag that you saved her from being raped or murdered."

"No, I won't mention that. People might think you'd been stupid."

"Toby!" she stormed, but then she laughed. "I've learned sense now, haven't I? No romantic foolishness now. Hard, cold—"

"I won't kiss your fingers, my lady. I might get blood on them." Or tears. Funny — he wasn't usually a sentimental person. "Be happy." He bowed, and turned, and started to walk away.

"Toby! Wait!"

He went back.

She gazed up at him, frowning. "Will you not give me a wedding present?"

"Everything I possess — which is still nothing." He had his prize money, of course, but Meg had no need of money now.

"A promise?"

"What promise?"

"That you won't be a prizefighter anymore? Please?" Meg Tanner pleading was as dangerous and disconcerting as a wild cat rubbing against your leg.

"Why not?"

"Killing for money? Hurting people?"

"It's no worse than being a mercenary soldier."

"Yes, it is! A mercenary's only a hired killer, anyway. But at least a soldier has a chance of winning. He may not die, may not be wounded, may grow rich on his loot. But a fighter always loses. Even if you win every match, Toby dear, you'll finish up a slobbering wreck! You know you will. Promise me?"

He shrugged. As a king's man he would not be prizefighting, even if he had no hint of a clue as to what he would be doing. "That's not what Master Stringer wants me for, so I'm not planning to fight in the immediate future. And I promise I'll remember your words if I ever have the opportunity again. All right?"

That was not enough for Meg Tanner. She shook her head vigorously.

"Just say the words, Toby, even if you don't mean them. Then I'll be happy and not worry about you."

"I don't say words I don't…" He sighed. "I give you my promise."

He wasn't going to live long enough to break it.

"Good-bye, Meg."

"Good-bye, Toby."

CHAPTER SIX

He came to the castle entry and was stopped in his tracks, because King Fergan and Father Lachlan were there, being seen off by Lady Lora and Sir Malcolm. Sure he must not intrude, he hung back in the shadows. The only light came from the doorway, which was smaller than the door on an average cottage, although the door itself was as thick as his arm, studded and banded with iron. In a minute or so, the king bowed graciously, Father Lachlan muttered a benediction, and the two guests ducked out into the wintery sunshine.

He supposed he should follow his new master at a respectful distance, but that would mean he must pass by his hostess. He ought to thank her. He was no good at speeches! Why hadn't he foreseen this and asked Hamish to make up something for him to say? It was too late to hide, because the castellan had noticed him. He hurried forward.

Lady Lora was bundled in a dark fur robe and a plumed hat. As he loomed out of the dark above her, she smiled up at him, then frowned when she caught sight of his face.

"Master Strangerson! I hope you are recovering from your wounds?"

He opened his mouth and it ran away with him like a startled horse. "My lady, it was very kind and very brave and very generous of you to take in a wanted fugitive and give him shelter and I hope my visit here will not bring trouble on your house but I know that all my life I shall remember what you did for me and I thank you from the bottom of my heart." He bowed clumsily and turned to Sir Malcolm. "Sir, you and your men were very kind to a gawky lad, and I shall probably bless these days many, many times in future. I thank you."

Then he bowed again and ran out the door, ducking low under the lintel. Gibberish! With any luck they would not have made out a word he had said. However he might serve King Fergan in future, it would not be as a diplomat.

He blinked in the sunlight. The tall king and short acolyte were crossing the bailey, heading for the barbican. He followed, passing close to a cart of peat being unloaded, dodging washing hung out after the long spell of rain. Then he remembered that he had forgotten to collect his things from the tower room. Zits! It was too late to go back for them. Well, they weren't worth much. But his prize money… Hamish had the prize money…

Out from behind the cart came Hamish, with his own bundle on one shoulder and Toby's on the other. He handed Toby's over without a word and fell into step at his side, straining mightily to take the necessary strides.

"No library?"

The kid looked up with his bony face twisted in abhorrence. "I wouldna' work for that man if you paid me a million marks! He was going to throw you out and hunt you down in the hills! Whatever happened to Highland hospitality?"

"Keep your mouth shut about that!"

"Think I'm crazy?"

"You'd best ask Father Lachlan if you can accompany him to Glasgow, and don't mention His Majesty."

Hamish grinned. "Wasn't that one straight out of the old ballads! He has a beard on the coins, but I was pretty much sure." He was understandably very pleased with his wee self, was Master Hamish.

"You were! Very smart thinking!"

"Thinking's what I'm good at. Did you hear Meg… Never mind."

"You mean, did I hear Meg say I needed looking after? No, I didn't hear Meg say that."

Hamish guffawed. "Just fancy Meg Tanner as countess of Argyll! They'll be lighting bonfires in the glen when the news gets out!"

The news would set the Sassenachs on Toby's trail, but Rory wouldn't care overmuch about that.

"She deserves better than yon cootie!" Hamish decided. "Does she really love him, Toby?" He gazed up anxiously, wanting an explanation from his chosen counselor in matters romantic.

"Maybe not today, but she will by tomorrow. Don't worry about Meg! She's quite capable of handling Rory." Struck by a sudden thought, Toby bellowed out one of his awful guffaws, earning a stab of protest from his ribs. As he was then passing through the arch of the barbican, the result sounded like an artillery barrage. King Fergan and Father Lachlan turned their heads to see what the noise was.

"What's so funny?" Hamish demanded.

"Nothing. Nothing at all."

Rory had won the battle for Meg — even if he had been the only contestant — but he had also won Fat Vik as a brother-in-law!

"Wait a minute!" Toby said, before he could be questioned further. "You overheard Meg? You were still in the minstrel gallery when she came?"

"No," Hamish said innocently. "I never was in the minstrel gallery. It's kept locked."

"Then how…?"

"There's a spy hole from the servants' pantry — so they can keep an eye on the diners' progress, I suppose."

"And how did you find out about that?"

Hamish preened. "In the muniment chest in the library — I found a set of builders' plans for the castle. There's a secret passage from the earls' bedroom, too, but I didn't dare explore that."

After a moment he added, "Guests shouldn't pry, you know."