by Dave Duncan
"Spirits!" Hamish said, flopping to the turf. "Thought you'd never take a break!"
Toby wiped his face with the shoulder of his plaid. He stood within a tunnel, flanked by walls of Beinn Bheag on one side and Beinn Odhar on the other, roofed by low cloud. He peered out at Strath Fillan as if from a window. There was hardly a tree to be seen anywhere. Grass and scrub coated the slopes, interspersed with patches of bare rock, or heather, and bright green broom here and there, and even brighter specks of bog. The little copse around Lightning Rock was too far off to see, even the rock itself hard to make out. The castle was hidden, Tyndrum's shaggy cottages invisible unless one knew exactly where to look.
"Home!" Hamish sighed.
"Love it, do you?"
The boy flinched. "I know it's not much of a place in itself, of course," he said hastily. "Pa says it's not rich. Other glens can raise more men for war and drive more cattle to the sales, he says. But it's our home, so we love it. The Campbells of Fillan are the bravest fighters in the Highlands and that means the whole world."
"Yes," Toby said, and pulled the sack onto his shoulders again. He strode off along the road. The glen was his birthplace, but he did not love it. He had no family here and nothing to inherit—no land or trade or herds, not even a sixteenth share of an ox. He had only one asset, a powerful body, and he must make the most of that. As others might seek to nurture flocks or perfect a talent, so he would work to build strength. What he would do with it remained to be seen.
Hamish came scrambling after him. "What's the matter?" He was staring up at his hero with a very worried expression.
"When does courage become sheer stupidity?"
About thirty paces later: "You're very cynical, Toby."
"Am I?"
"I remember my pa telling you that."
"Just before he birched me, I expect. I think courage is good, but it can be overdone. If you're going to risk your life, then you ought to gamble it for something worthwhile. Just throwing it away to show you're brave doesn't make sense." He was probably ruining the boy's faith in everything he'd ever believed in.
"We have other virtues, too! We're honest and we work hard and we take care of our own."
Toby did not comment.
After another hundred paces or so, Hamish said, "But no one works harder than you do, and I suppose you haven't seen much love or care, have you?"
Toby felt thoroughly guilty now. "We mutes never complain."
"You don't think Strath Fillan's worth much?"
"I think it's worth a lot."
Hamish brightened. "Really?"
"Really." Strategically it might be. The people weren't much.
As the trail descended the northern slope, it began skirting puddles of brown, peaty water. In another fifteen minutes, it was accompanied by a chattering burn, splashing over rocks and plunging into pools. Toby headed for one he knew.
Leaving the sack on a rock, he dropped his plaid and plunged in, with Hamish shadowing every move. The cold mountain water was agony and yet thrilling. They clowned a little and splashed. Hamish chattered all the while like a flock of starlings.
"How long have you had hairs on your chest, Toby?"
"This one or those two?"
His questions became more impertinent and finally he called Toby "Longdirk." That was a common enough nickname for growing lads, one that had been thrown at Toby often in the past, and one that Hamish himself must be starting to hear now. Addressed to a grown man, though, it could have more personal implications, especially in certain circumstances. As these were such circumstances and that was the way Hamish meant it, Toby roared and went for him. Hamish scrambled ashore and scampered off over the moor, squealing with glee; Toby caught him, carried him back to the pool by his ankles and dunked him head downward until he could stop laughing and choking long enough to beg for mercy.
Honor satisfied, they scrambled from the pool.
"You going to wash your plaid? Ma says August is the only month to wash plaids."
"No. Let's just give them a good shake."
Both shivering now, they shook out each plaid in turn and prepared to dress. A belted plaid was a simple length of woolen cloth—usually checkered in black and green in these parts—and up to nine feet long. Toby's was more than six and a half feet wide. He laid out his belt and spread the plaid over it. With the sureness of a man doing something he has done every day of his life, he pleated it across its width, leaving unpleated flaps at either side. He lay down on the pleats, the hem behind his knees, folded the right flap over to his left hip, the left side over that to make a double thickness in front. He buckled his belt, took hold of the corner beyond his left arm, and stood up. He pulled the left edge over his shoulder to support the weight and fastened it to itself with his pin, thus covering most of his back and half his chest. He tucked the long right end into the front of his belt and arranged all the folds to his satisfaction. With his bonnet on his head and his sporran on his belt, he was ready to go.
So was Hamish. Toby swung the meal sack onto his shoulder and set off.
"You do love the glen, don't you, Toby? Really, I mean?"
Toby sighed. The world must have more to offer than this barren gorge. It would be his home as long as Granny Nan needed him, but he felt no fondness for it. "How can I tell? I haven't seen the rest of the world yet."
"You going to?" Hamish asked wistfully. "Going off to seek your fortune?"
Again the same question: Whose man will you be? "Maybe. Heard any more from Eric?"
"Just what you know—he's working for a printer in Glasgow."
Hamish's brother was Toby's age, and the closest he had ever had to a friend. Like him, Eric had been too young to fight at Parline. He'd gone off to seek work, a few months ago, as so many others did nowadays—dispossessed young Highlanders whose laird had no more land to offer and no need of fighting men. Eric had been lucky, for most seemed to end up as coal miners or mercenary soldiers. None could be more landless than Toby, but he could not imagine himself as a miner. He would jam in the tunnels. As for soldiering, he would certainly offer a tempting target.
He had other ambitions. The soldiers said there was good money to be made in the prize ring in England. He was going to find a wealthy sponsor and be a prizefighter—but he couldn't leave while Granny Nan needed him, and he wasn't about to tell Hamish anyway.
"Toby?"
"Mm?"
"If you do go ... would you take me with you?"
Startled, Toby laughed. "Why? Where?"
"Anywhere. I want to see the world, too." Hamish scrunched up his sharp features in a scowl. His father was in poor health. Everyone knew that Hamish would be the glen's next schoolteacher. Fighting men did not read books, and he already had more learning than he would ever have need to teach.
What use would a prizefighter have for a skinny bookworm companion? None. To say so would be unkind. This was the worst case of hero worship he'd met yet—complicated by too much reading of romantic books, likely. "Sure you can come! I need someone reliable to hold down the horses while I hold up the stage. We'll hang together, on the same gibbet." No matter what happened to Granny Nan, he would not likely be leaving before spring at the earliest, and by then the lad would have more confidence in himself. Toby thumped his shoulder. "That's a promise."
Hamish's eyes widened before he decided this was a man-to-man joke and required a smile. "Long as I get half the loot!"
On they went.
Strictly speaking, they had come down into Glen Orchy now, with cottages scattered around the flats and Loch Tulla a couple of miles ahead. The main length of Glen Orchy, though, stretched off to the southwest, between Beinn Bhreac-Iiath and Beinn Inverveigh. No one lived there. It was too marshy, for one thing.
Hamish twisted his head around to study the glen. "You ever seen the bogy?"
"Never went to look for it."
"My grandfather's uncle went hunting in Glen Orchy and never came back!"
"H
e probably sank in the bog."
"If Strath Fillan has a hob, then Glen Orchy can have a bogy."
True, but Toby was not interested in the bogy of Glen Orchy. The sack weighed much more than it had when he set out. He plodded grimly. His feet hurt. Tomorrow he would ache as if he'd been beaten all over, but it would be worth it—more muscle! He felt proud of himself and at the same time ashamed of his pride. He'd made it. The hamlet and the guard post weren't far now.
"Who can they be?" Hamish gasped.
Toby looked up. A line of riders approached at a trot. He made out six of them. Who could they be?
When evil came to the glen, it often came this way.
His skin shivered. He told himself not to be a superstitious idiot.
Soon he could see that these were not soldiers, then that their mounts were of far better stock than the shaggy ponies of the glens. That meant English, almost certainly. The leader was a woman, riding sidesaddle on a truly magnificent black. Another woman followed her, and then four ... four people muffled in dark robes with hoods hiding their faces. They bore swords, so they must be men, and either Sassenachs or rebels.
Toby had no idea who these intruders might be. He cursed himself for a craven fool, but the hob's prophecy ran around in his mind like a cat after a rat and he felt a foolish urge to run away and hide somewhere. He stepped well clear of the trail, slid his burden to the ground, and just panted.
"Hexers!" Hamish said hoarsely. The ones with cowls? Adepts!"
He was the teacher's bairn. He read books. Didn't mean he didn't talk stable-washings sometimes, though.
"And the lady?"
Hamish shook his head, eyes wide. "A lady!"
Now he made sense. Only wealthy gentry could afford a horse like that, or the tack studded with shiny metal, perhaps even gems. The lady herself wore a robe of deep purple and a matching high-crowned hat with a black plume. Her collar was black fur, and the trim on her robe, too. When she drew nearer, Toby saw the aristocratic pallor of her complexion, her dark eyes and black arched brows. She was tall, she rode with grace; a haughty beauty, a great lady.
As she went by, he pulled off his bonnet and bent his head respectfully.
She did not go by. She turned her horse aside and rode over to him, while her followers came to a halt and waited. She reined in and looked down at him and Hamish. No, she was just looking at him. Heart hammering, he bowed and awaited her pleasure, staring at the jeweled buckles on her tiny boots, the sable trim on the rich fabric of her robe. He had never seen a real lady before.
"Look at me."
He raised his head. Her eyes were shiny black, and terrifying. Her features were noble, beautiful, deadly, framed by the lappets of her hat and the ruff under her chin, so he could only guess that her hair would be black and beautiful, too. Her smile touched only the scarlet lips and not the fatal eyes. She was appraising him like meat in a market. No one had ever looked at him quite like that before. Evil comes to the glen. It had arrived. He was certain that it had arrived, and told himself not to be a fool.
"Do you speak English?"
"A little, my lady." Actually, he spoke it better than most, because he practiced with the soldiers, even though they laughed at his accent.
"Your name?"
"Tobias Strangerson, my lady."
Again her lips smiled, but they smiled at him, not to him. They indicated satisfaction, not humor. "Are there many more like you around?"
He stammered. "M-my lady?"
"Your size? Highlanders are notoriously big."
"I'm bigger than some, my lady."
Her chuckle made the hair on his neck stir.
"Well, you are certainly adequate." She wheeled her horse and rode back to the trail. She spoke to one of the black-robed men, who turned his head in Toby's direction. The inside of the cowl was dark, as if there were no face there....
Idiot! How can a man not have a face?
Then the lady rode on. Her entourage clattered after her—the nondescript woman who must be her serving maid, the four men in the spooky robes. They trotted off up the hill to the pass.
8
The fusiliers at Bridge of Orchy were just as bewildered as Toby, for they did not know who the lady was either. They had rushed out to present arms for her and she had ridden past without even looking at them. They had certainly not dared challenge her—she was gentry at the least, probably nobility. This sudden intrusion of excitement into their monotonous vigil did not stop them noting that Toby had carried their bag of oats all the way on his back. That now seemed like a very foolish feat of showing off.
"Couple of the men bet me I couldn't," he said. "They sent Hamish along as a witness—didn't they Hamish?"
Hamish blinked and then agreed, but an impish gleam in his eye hinted that the story was now certain to be put about.
About a mile back along the homeward road, Toby realized that his companion was being unnaturally silent.
"Tired?"
"No."
There was certainly something wrong when Hamish Campbell kept his mouth shut for more than five minutes. Bubonic plague?
"What did you mean about hexers and adepts?"
"Nothing," Hamish muttered. "We go to the sanctuary in Dumbarton every summer, and last year Pa took me to Glasgow, too. The acolytes wear robes. That reminded me. That's all."
It was not all, obviously. After a moment, he added, "Saw a picture in a book once of an adept conjuring a demon, and he was wearing a robe like that."
Toby scoffed. "Proves nothing! You're saying all I have to do is put on a flouncy robe with a cowl and you'll believe I can conjure demons."
Hamish told him he was a cynic and fell silent again.
The light was failing, cut off by cloud and mountain. They would not be home until after dark. Poor Bossie would be howling to be milked. There would be water to fetch, more wood to chop. Toby would sleep well tonight. They would be too late getting back for him to have any more nasty interviews with the steward. If Granny Nan was in her wits, he could ask her advice—although he was pretty certain she would tell him to stay honest. It was what she'd taught him all his life. Easy for her to say, but an old woman who could survive on half a bap a day might not understand a young lad's interest in regular wages.
Almost as if Hamish were listening to his thoughts...
"Toby?"
"Mm?"
"Don't go back to the castle tonight."
Toby took a hard look at the kid. Was this what he had been building up to? Hamish had sense when he chose to use it, more learning than Toby the bastard would ever have, and lots more brains.
"Out with it!"
"The lady. Did you see the emblem on her horsecloth?"
"No." Toby vaguely recalled the horse's gear, but he had been much more intent on the rider.
"It wasn't obvious. A black crescent. It was on the back of her glove, too."
"You're an expert in heraldry?"
"Of course not." Hamish stalked on in silence.
"Sorry. Tell me, please. Whose arms?"
The boy shot him an anxious look. "Pa borrows books from the castle sometimes. There's hundreds there. Old Bryce lets him borrow them and Pa lets me look at them too if I'm careful."
Toby had absolutely no interest in books, but he suspected that Hamish worshiped them so dearly that he probably couldn't ever lie about them. "And?"
"About a year ago, I suppose it was ... I was reading one and I found a poster in it. Somebody had folded it up as a bookmark. It was a Wanted Dead or Alive poster. It didn't have a picture, but it described a woman just like her, and it mentioned a black crescent."
"Who is she, then?"
"Lady Valda."
"Who's Lady Valda?"
"I asked Pa. She was a lady at King Nevil's court. His, er, consort. They weren't married, but she was sort of first lady, even so."
She had certainly looked like the sort of lady who would grace a court. "And she was wanted dead or alive? For w
hat?" Nobility did not indulge in crimes like theft, and murder they usually got away with. "Treason?"
Hamish frowned in thought. "It didn't say what for. The reward was ten thousand marks!"
"What? You're joking! That's more than they've got on Fergan's head. It must have been some sort of a joke!" There wasn't that much money in the world.
"Maybe. I'll ask Pa tonight." Hamish did not seem convinced. "But it was nine years ago….The poster was dated 1510. She must have been pardoned since then, or she wouldn't be riding around with her black crescent showing, would she?"
Toby tried to estimate how old the lady was and realized that he did not have the flimsiest notion. She could be any age. She was very beautiful, that was all he knew—beautiful in a sinister sort of way. Why would a former royal courtesan from London be roaming the cold Highlands of Scotland? Women might see romance in this: the exiled beauty now forgiven and making her way back home.
Hamish was talking again. "She'll certainly be staying in the castle tonight, Toby. Let me fetch your money from the steward. You wait outside."
"I appreciate the offer, but why you and not me?"
Hamish mumbled inaudibly. Then he said, "I didn't like the squirmy way she looked at you!"
A man could make a funny response to that, but the kid was obviously serious. "It was like she was thinking of buying you!"
That was the exact impression Toby had. "Perhaps she has some heavy boxes to move."
Hamish pouted at the mockery. "Do you think she'll take no for an answer?"
"I doubt she would." The lady looked as if she had never been denied anything in her life.
"Don't go into the castle tonight, Toby. Please?"
"I have to see Steward Bryce."
"Then let's go slow, so we get there too late to get in!"
"We will anyway."
By the time they arrived, the sky was almost dark, and the moon hung over the shoulder of Ben Challum. As they started down the final slope, they heard the drum tattoo that meant the gates were being closed. No Highlander would be admitted before tomorrow's dawn. The last of the day workers were already disappearing down the road in twos and threes. A lantern glinted in the shadows, revealing the two sentries at the gate.