by Ken Hood
"Nevil had been absent from court for a year or so — officially studying law at Oxford, although everyone assumed that he was studying gramarye. I'm sure he was, because Oxford is notorious for it. He reappeared in the palace just a month or two after I arrived there. The value of a good school is not what you learn but the friends you make there, yes? Nevil turned up with Lady Valda on his arm. He already had a wife and child, but they were not in evidence and were never mentioned. This was the summer of 1509."
Ten years ago — Rory must be in his middle twenties now. Fair men often looked younger than they really were.
"Nevil was just nineteen, slim, dark. Valda seemed… ageless. If Bryton was another bugle and Idris a violin, then Nevil was a harp. He spoke very softly, and there always seemed to be overtones of meaning shimmering behind the main refrain… I'm getting fanciful. He was sweet and he was sinister. He was boyishly young and yet gave the impression of being well seasoned in evil. He was moonlight to Lady Valda's noonday sun.
"Valda hit the court like a charge of gunpowder. No one doubted for an instant that she was a hexer, and everyone waited to see what would happen between her and Queen Jocelin. Well, they had one thing in common — they both wanted to see Nevil on the throne. Within three months, Bryton died of a fever and Idris in a hunting accident. In January, in a fit of total sobriety, Daddy Edwin jumped from a high window and Prince Nevil was King Nevil. It really wasn't difficult at all, now was it?"
Rory glanced around. Father Lachlan nodded, everyone else looked blank. Meg mumbled and rolled over on her side, pulling her legs up. Straw crackled. Father Murray's craggy jaw clenched, but he did not turn his head. Rory caught Toby's eye and grinned faintly.
"Of course, he wasn't officially king until he had made the required visit to Sarai to do homage to the Khan and have his accession confirmed. He never did. Queen Jocelin left court within a week — probably the wisest move possible under the circumstances. The court gossiped, as courts always do. The courtiers wondered if Valda would be content to remain royal harlot or if she craved royal honors, and what would happen to Nevil's existing queen if she did. They wondered if her powers would extend to making him suzerain. They wondered what France and Burgundy would do — whenever a monarch dies, it's regarded as good manners for his neighbors to invade as soon as possible and grab off whatever they can before his successor gets settled in. Nevil was smart enough and subtle, he just didn't seem strong enough to be an effective ruler. The question was whether Valda could rule through him, or so the gossip went. Then came the infamous Night of the Masked Ball."
Rory glanced around as if to see who already knew about the Night of the Masked Ball. Everyone except Toby was nodding understanding.
"No one knows exactly what happened that night. The king did not attend the ball, and neither did Valda. In fact, Valda was never seen again. He put a price on her head the next day."
"Ten thousand marks," Father Lachlan muttered.
"That came later. It was less to begin with. Nevil himself was changed after that night, dramatically changed. Everyone noticed. Oh, he looked just the same, and he had the same gentle manners and soft voice, but something fundamental was different. He was nothing like a harp anymore, more of a bass drum. He began raising taxes, raising men, planning for war. One of the first things he did was to call us all in — the Scottish hostages his father had collected — and send us home."
Rory's face darkened and he stared at the fire for a moment. "Before we left, he made us swear allegiance at a grand public ceremony in Westminster Hall. I've told you how old I was, and I was not the only madcap youngster in the group. We agreed we were utterly determined to die rather than betray our beloved Scotland. We were going to smuggle knives into the hall, we were going leap out windows in a mass suicide… and so on. Of course none of us did anything of the sort. Nevil demanded the full Tartar obeisance, and we kowtowed and touched our faces to the floor and laid the king's foot on our heads and all that, just as we were supposed to. Well-trained dogs!"
He fell silent and continued to scowl at the embers for so long that Hamish plucked up the courage to whisper, "He used gramarye on you?"
Rory turned an eagle glare on him. "Would I admit this if he hadn't? I mean, would I ever admit he hadn't hexed me, when I confess to treason?"
The kid shriveled about three years younger, shaking his head vigorously.
Rory relented with a bitter smile. "Nine years ago and it still rankles! It didn't last, of course. Away from the source demon, hexes soon fade. Or go to any sanctuary and the spirit will take it off you. And in compensation, we were going home! We were all ecstatic at the prospect of seeing the Highlands again — at least we all said we were, but some of us had been prisoners for years and could barely remember our homeland.
"What we couldn't understand was what had come over Nevil. All those hostages his father had used to keep Scotland quiet for a decade — why was he letting us go? The court thought he'd gone crazy. As soon as we were safely home, the Highlands exploded, with every ex-hostage right out in front, screaming to enlist and prove his patriotism. The Lowlands followed. We knew what was going to happen. Everyone knew what was going to happen. It was inevitable. But Nevil knew what he was doing." He grinned. "Well, lad? Have you any suggestions?"
Again Hamish shook his head. "I don't know, sir." He was as intent on the story as a toddler hearing a favorite bedtime fairy tale.
Toby was bored. He stretched his long arms and yawned luxuriously. "Practice! Nevil's father wanted peace. Nevil wanted war. He used the Scottish campaign to temper the army he was raising. The Battle of Norford Bridge, June, 1511… it was an English training bout."
Hamish gaped at him as if he'd grown wings.
Rory laughed. "Muscles," he said, "you are acting out of character! Who told you that?"
"Don't remember." In fact he'd worked it out for himself, at the time, while the Fillan survivors were still limping home. He must have been a horribly cynical little boy to have seen that. He'd even been cynical enough not to speak such blasphemy in the glen, for he'd never told anyone.
"Well, you're absolutely right, although of course it wasn't apparent at the time. It's obvious enough in hindsight." Rory shot a reproving glance at Hamish, who shrugged bashfully. "Nevil was a different man after Valda's disappearance, and a military genius in particular. The French invaded the English enclaves in Brittany and Aquitaine. He invaded France. He didn't merely beat them back and rough them up as he was supposed to under the usual rules. He conquered France, annexed it, and had himself crowned at Reims. Then he went on to grander things. He has never lost a battle, never failed to hold a field or take a city."
"He hasn't conquered the Highlands!" Hamish protested.
"Hasn't he?" growled the keeper from his lofty perch.
Rory scowled at the fire and did not answer.
"Admit it!" said the keeper. "He has! He strangled you. Scotland has never been able to throw out the English without the backing of France or Flanders. Now Nevil rules both of them, and half of Europe besides. You have no money, my lord, no guns, no prospects."
Still watching the dancing flames, Rory said, "That's true. At the moment at least, that's true."
Hamish had subsided into horror-stricken silence.
"But?" said Father Lachlan. "If I were King Fergan, which I am not, then I might be thinking of other allies — such as the Tartars themselves." He smirked mischievously, firelight flashing on his eyeglasses.
"Dangerous talk!" Rory snapped.
"Oh, nonsense! If a peaceable old man like me can work it out for himself, then don't you think the English can? I've never heard of the Khan taking any interest in Scotland at all, I admit, but he must be getting seriously worried about Nevil."
The rebel did not want to talk about that.
"What has all this got to do with me?" Toby demanded. "Who was Susie?"
Rory turned thoughtful silver eyes on him. "Do you understand how the Golden Hor
de runs Europe, how government works?"
"The kings are vassals of the Khan."
"In theory. But in practice? You know the English have to reconquer Scotland all over again every few years. The Tartars haven't brought an army across the Vistula in two hundred years, and yet all of Europe still pays tribute to the Khan. Do you think the Golden Horde's hexers are so much better than ours that they do it with demons?"
"I never really thought about it," Toby admitted, shifting position. He hated being lectured at any time, and it had been a long day.
Hamish chuckled. "It's no use asking Toby about history, sir. My Pa could never beat any history into him."
"Couldn't he?" Rory studied Toby again for a minute. "Or couldn't he beat it out of him?"
The boy frowned. "How do you mean?"
"I'll bet it went like this: Teacher says: 'Strangerson, the Tartars overran England in 1244. When did the Tartars overrun England?' Horror Child says: 'Sir, I don't remember!' He does, but he won't admit it. So your Pa reaches for his birch and tries to beat the answer out of him. I would guess that, in this case, he usually lost and Horror Child won. Am I right, Longshanks?"
"No. I never called him 'Sir.'"
Rory chuckled. "And you're still not admitting you know anything, are you? The khanate runs the continent on a simple divide-and-rule system. Whichever monarch is current suzerain grows rich, because he gets to collect and remit the tribute, and he can also call on the others to make war on his personal enemies in the Khan's name. They all want to be the next suzerain, and that keeps them licking the Khan's boots. They know that as soon as the present one begins to get out of line, the Khan will depose him and appoint another.
"But now Nevil is turning the system upside down. He's deposed three suzerains and is about to start on a fourth."
Father Lachlan pushed his glasses up his nose. "I cannot understand why the Tartars haven't marched against him already."
Rory shrugged. "Because the khanate is old and decadent, probably. When they do come, they'll come like a tide. Or else they're waiting for Nevil to cross the Vistula, so they can take him on their home ground. That's when we…" He yawned. "Never mind. It's getting late, and this is an odd place to be discussing world politics."
"I thought you were going to tell us about Susie," said Toby.
"So I was, Longsword, so I was. You don't know what a palace is like. It's like a school, with one teacher and hundreds of children. Courtiers are stupid, worthless people. They're idle, useless, and bored. They live in circles, grouped around the ruler, and all they ever worry about is which circle they're in and how they can move closer to the center. Their lives are an endless game."
He shifted, leaning on his left arm and pulling his feet around. His eyes were suddenly very intent on Toby. "They have childish habits."
Toby decided he did not like that stare. "Such as?"
"Such as nicknames," Rory said softly. "Each circle, each little coterie, has its own codewords, its own signals. It's a great honor to be able to address someone of higher rank by his pet name, and of course everyone is always gossiping. The secret names are common knowledge, although just because you know that a senior minister is Wooky to his friends doesn't give you the right to get familiar. As Father Lachlan says, names can be words of power. Names are dangerous — I told you that."
"You're not telling me much now. Who was Susie?"
Hamish gulped.
Rory did not look at him. He kept his eyes on Toby and his free hand hovered close to his dirk. "Got it?"
"Suzerain?" Hamish whispered.
"Right, lad. Susie for short. Susie was the innermost-secret codeword for King Nevil. That was probably what Valda called him in bed. Your oversized friend used to be Toby Strangerson. He says he still is, but Lady Valda calls him Susie."
CHAPTER SIX
Morning came, cold and dark, rainy and hungry. The Reverend Murray Campbell hammered on the cabin wall to rouse the men and must have then found the courage to go and waken the fearsome Meg, for they heard him beating on the other cabin also.
Toby moved and groaned aloud. All his joints had frozen and all his muscles petrified. The fire had gone out. He had slept, though, slept like a boulder. The hexer had not haunted his dreams — he had been much too tired to dream.
"Breakfast first, please," said a subdued whisper from Hamish's direction. "A hot breakfast and a blazing fire and dry clothes…"
"If we are to break our fast here," Father Lachlan remarked squeakily from Toby's other side, "which I doubt — then it will not be until after we have visited the shrine." His voice changed. "We are one short!"
Toby sat up sharply. Rory was missing.
More trouble? How could there possibly be more trouble than there was already?
"I didn't hear him go. Perhaps he went to the market."
"I just hope he didn't go up to the shrine by himself!" The acolyte found his eyeglasses and put them on, looking worried.
"Is that dangerous?"
"Er… not usually. But it would be a grave affront to the keeper."
Toby did not care eggshells for the keeper's feelings, and he thought Rory was more capable of looking after himself than any man he had ever met. He shivered out of his blanket and began pleating it into day wear.
Ten minutes later, he was starting up the path to the shrine. Apparently it was correct procedure to attend to one's devotions on an empty stomach; it seemed disrespectful not to shave first, yet when he had suggested it, Father Lachlan had told him not to bother.
Rain was beating the trees harder than ever. The keeper limped ahead, leaning on his staff. Father Lachlan and Hamish followed him, deep in talk. Toby brought up the rear with Meg. Huddled in her cloak, she was just as irksomely chirrupy as she had been the previous morning, but worrying about Rory.
"He can't have gone far," she said.
"I expect he'll be waiting for us up at the shrine."
Had he wanted to ask the spirit a few private questions?
"I'm not very happy about the shrine," Meg said. "It's easy for you — you were brought up with a hob — but I'm nervous!"
Did she think he wasn't? He was scared to a jelly, but he would die before saying so. The idea of an adolescent hob was very unsettling.
"Don't worry! It isn't going to do anything. We're just going to thank it for saving us from Lady Valda and ask it some questions."
Toby supposed he wanted to hear the answers.
They walked on in silence. He could think of nothing to say. What did one say to girls? Meg's crush on him was flattering, and also very disturbing. He was not experienced in friendship, let alone love.
Meg raised her head to peer at him, blinking as the rain fell in her eyes. "Are you going to ask if you're really King Nevil?"
"I thought you were asleep."
"I heard some of it. Are you?"
"No."
"Pity. I would like to be friends with a king." She looked down quickly.
"Not that one, surely?" World traveling must already have made Toby bolder, for he added, "Don't you like me just as myself?"
"Oh! Yes… of course."
Good. What was the right thing to say next? Meg made him feel like a clumsy, lumbering ox, but if she didn't mind being seen with a man who must weigh twice — or three times — what she did, then why should he mind? She was a jewel: small and sparkly and full of fire. If he tried to say so, she would laugh her head off. Men couldn't say such things.
"When I am restored to my throne, you can be the belle of the court." Coward! Humor was cowardice. He took her hand. It was icy. She did not pull it away. He closed his great paw over her tiny fist to warm it.
"Does Master Glencoe really think you are Nevil?"
"No, I don't think so. He was just talking nonsense. It's rubbish."
But… There were buts.
Meg plodded on in silence.
"There's no reason to believe it," Toby protested. But that name, Susie… He had not told
Rory that; Rory had told him. "Nobody can explain what happened between Nevil and Valda. If she demonized him, then why did she disappear? Why did he banish her?"
"Something went wrong with the gramarye. Or the demon possessed Nevil and then turned on her." Either the tanner's daughter had overheard most of the arguments, or she had been giving the matter much thought on her own.
"Maybe," he admitted. "But then why has she come back now? Why wait ten years?"
"She lost all her demon slaves and had to go hunt down more? Or she has been gathering more gramarye somewhere, learning how to restore him. I mean, she still had Nevil's soul bottled in a jewel, and she chose you to be… to… A very good choice, of course."
"Thank you." He remembered her words in the dream: See the fine young body I found for you, my love. More than the cold trickle of rain inside his plaid made him shiver. "But Father Lachlan says he's never heard of anyone being possessed by a mortal soul."
"He also admitted that Lady Valda must have forgotten more evil than he's ever known, didn't he? He wouldn't say it was impossible."
Yes, Miss Campbell had been listening! "He also said that a man possessed by a demon has superhuman powers that a man possessed by a mortal soul couldn't have."
"And you do?" Meg asked quietly.
"I… No, of course not." But he had found the way out of the bog. But he had bent iron bars to escape from the dungeon. "Even Rory had to admit that Nevil was a superlative horseman and I ride like a sack of coal." But that first time, bareback on Falcon, hurtling across country by moonlight… Too many buts. There was a hex on him, or a demon inside him. He felt soiled, unclean.
"You heard Hamish, didn't you?" he protested. "He asked me all sorts of things about the glen — the names of Dougal Potter's children, what Rae Butcher's shop looks like… I answered correctly. I'm Toby Strangerson, not King Nevil!"
But he might be both.
"Do you think I'm not me?" he demanded miserably.
"You never held my hand before it happened."