by Ken Hood
"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 Bhreacliath 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!"
"He 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.
CHAPTER EIGHT
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 what?" 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.
Toby carried on along the road, heading for the bend through the rocks.
"The postern's still open!" Hamish said. "We could ask."
"Not a hope."
"They may have left it open because they know we haven't been paid, and—"
"Dreamer!"
"Cynic! Why do you suppose it's open, then?"
"If certain persons weren't always in such a rush to be first out of there every night, they would know that the postern's usually left open for an hour or two. The laird may be out riding, or men have gone fishing, or something. A blanket wearer like you would have to fight his way in."
"Blanket wearer?" Hamish said in outrage. "Blanket wearer?" he screeched. "Is that what they call us?"
"Haven't you heard them? It's no worse than—" But Toby was already running.
Someone had cried out in the shadows ahead where the road bent. He could not see what was there, but he had heard enough — a deep voice angry, a shriller one being cut off suddenly… His feet pounded on the dirt. It might just be two boys telling each other dirty stories, in which case he would just look foolish and no harm done. Or it might be dirty deeds, in which case the quicker the better.
Fast as he ran, his mind raced faster. Everything was sharp and clear. It was not going to be boys telling stories. It was going to be rape and it was going to be a Sassenach doing it. Even as he came around the corner, the man forced the woman to her knees. Her efforts to scream were muffled by his hand over her mouth. He had his back to Toby, but was starting to turn to see who was coming. Moonlight flashed on his helmet.
How did an unarmed man fight a soldier? Those doublets were so thickly padded they were virtually armor. Even Toby could punch at that until his knuckles fell off and not damage his opponent much. Fusiliers' helmets lacked face pieces, so there would be a chin to aim at, but that would be about all.
How did an unarmed man fight a soldier? One thing he did not do was argue. Give the man a moment and he could draw his pistol or his dagger or his sword, and that would be the end of it. Toby did not have as much as a stick, but he could put his fist through a plank door. He must knock the man down with his first punch and hope to run off into the night with the woman. It was not a very noble prospect, but a safe flight into the darkness was the best he could hope for.
The soldier was still partly stooped over her, but his head was coming around and Toby knew him. He also knew he outweighed Fusilier Godwin Forrester considerably. He shot a straight left to the jaw.
It didn't work as planned.
Meg screamed, "Toby! Get him, Toby darling!"
Meg? He half-turned to her voice. Forrester ducked his head to offer his helmet. Toby pulled the punch before he smashed his knuckles. He careened into his opponent like a runaway wagon. They went down together. Although Toby was on top, he was winded more than his victim, landing on powder horn, pistol, bandolier — innumerable hard and sharp things stabbing at his chest. From helmet to breeches, Forrester was well padded. He was also a veteran fighter. His free hand clawed at Toby's face, fingers reaching for eyes. That tactic was not in the rules recognized by the glen.
To save his sight, Toby had to bring up his hands. Forrester butted them with the metal brim of his helmet and jerked up his knee �
� a move that would have disabled a smaller man completely. Fortunately he misjudged and struck Toby's hipbone instead. One moment Toby had been on top and the aggressor, half a second later, he was rolling free, struggling to defend himself. He was a boxer, not a wrestler.
Forrester lunged to his feet, his sword screeching out of its scabbard. Toby scrambled to rise, and his hand touched the musket lying on the grass. Before he was upright, the blade flashed at his head. He ducked under the stroke and sprang up holding the matchlock by its barrel. To fire it was out of the question — he did not know how, he had no powder and shot, he lacked the time. All the same, it was a usable weapon, a massive club of wood and steel longer than the saber. He parried the second slash: clang! The soldier had not expected that. The impact must have jarred his arm just enough to throw him off balance. Using his greater reach, Toby rammed the butt into the man's chest. The Sassenach went over like a weed.
Forrester's limbs thrashed, but even flat on his back he could aim a slash at Toby's legs. Fortunately, it was slow and clumsy. Toby dodged it. His only hope now was to stun his opponent, grab the woman, and run like demons.
The soldier rolled over, began to rise. Toby aimed at the helmet, swung with all his strength. At the last moment, pulling his legs under him, Forrester bent his head. The butt struck his neck with an impact that jarred Toby's teeth. Had he been using an ax, he would have cut the man's head clean off and buried the blade in the turf — but his victim would have died no faster.
Evil had come to the glen. He had gotten into a fight, and terrible things were going to happen.
PART TWO
A Night to Remember
CHAPTER ONE
"Rapist!" Meg screamed, kicking furiously at the corpse. "Coward! Pick on a woman, would you, but you won't get up and fight with a man?" Kick, kick, kick… "Get up and fight!"
Hamish stood like an icicle, his arms wrapped around himself and his face a white glimmer in the gloom. Hamish knew that Forrester's neck was smashed.
"Meg!" Toby said.
Meg went on yelling and kicking. There wasn't much of Meg Tanner, but she had a temper as big as Ben More. She could be louder than thunder at times, and this was one of those times. Her bonnet had fallen off, her two long braids swung like whips around her head as she kicked. "Tell him to get up, Toby! Pick him up and hit him! Show him!"