by Ken Hood
Toby turned away. Did he even want to be helped? He had enjoyed that brief blaze of omnipotence.
"Master!" Hamish shouted. Even under the mud, his face showed alarm. "The river's stopped flowing!"
Rory glanced at the channel, silent pools in a nightmare of boulders. Then he looked at the barrier upstream. "Well, of course it has! Tiny Tim, there, has given Scotland a new loch! Loch Strangerson, the bastard loch?"
"But, sir! That's just mud! This happened somewhere down in the Borders a few years ago, didn't it? A slide? Then, when the river runs over the top, or when it just builds up behind..."
"Spirits save us!" Father Lachlan said. "The boy's right! Near Roxburgh somewhere. If that dam bursts, there's going to be a flood!"
Rory stiffened, then turned to look down the rainy glen. "Cairndow! Demons! We must warn them! We must get them out of there! Come on!" He started to run.
CHAPTER THREE
Iain lowered the sail and Rae held the tiller as the boat drifted in to the jetty. Iain was a towhead, old Rae was dark as a Castilian, but they would both be Campbells. The pelting rain had turned the surface of the loch to mist, so that it was hard to tell where the sea ended and the air began. Water swilled around in the bottom of the boat, glittering with fish scales.
The passengers sat along the sides. Father Lachlan looked old and tired, although that might be just by way of contrast with Hamish, who had not stopped jabbering questions at the two sailors since they left Cairndow. Toby faced them, with Meg beside him, not quite close enough to be asking for an arm around her. He should have put an arm around her anyway, and all the way across the loch had been cursing himself as a coward for not doing so. But he was very conscious of Rory on her other side, and those deadly, silver eyes. He could throw their owner overboard if he wanted, but that would do no good—the arrogant louse could probably swim like a shark. To strangle him first would require fighting three Campbells at the same time, and probably Hamish as well.
Hamish was very impressed, even awed. He had confirmed from someone in Cairndow that Rory MacDonald was really Gregor Campbell, the master of Argyll. That ranked him just below the sun, and so far above Toby Strangerson that it was amazing they could even see each other. So what if he was? He sat down to shit like anyone else, didn't he?
They had sounded the alarm in the hamlet. The inhabitants had fled away from the river, carrying possessions, driving livestock. The master had commandeered a boat for the trip down to Inverary and met no argument. He had ordered his companions into it, never doubting that they would obey. They had obeyed. Only the sight of Meg, huddled and shivering, explained to Toby why he had come, but in truth he had had no alternative. He was totally at Rory's mercy now. Gregor's mercy. What mercy?
Inverary Castle loomed out of the rain, far larger and grander than Lochy, towering over a sprawl of buildings, cottages, animal paddocks, orchards, and vegetable gardens, a sizable village. One of the corner towers was framed in scaffolding, being repaired or still under construction. The Sassenachs would have spread the word. How big a garrison would they have placed in a fortress this size? Their warrant would be known here in Inverary.
Toby leaned around Meg. Rory stared back with dislike, raising a pale eyebrow.
Toby said, "Didn't you tell us that the earl of Argyll was a traitor who licked English boots?"
The helmsman overheard and gasped in horror.
Rory chuckled—doubtless for the eavesdropper's benefit—but there was murder in the silver eyes. He removed his bonnet, took the black feather from it, and placed it in his sporran. Then he put his bonnet on again. "One has to remain in character."
"And the Sassenachs want to hang me!"
The master's mouth twisted in a familiar sneer. "Who can blame them? Getting nervous, are you? Well, you have no cause to worry. Just because Lord Robert is such a notorious boot-licker, the English haven't posted a garrison on him. No fusiliers here! He's in Edinburgh, as you know. His mother, Lady Lora, is a most formidable lady, and a rabid patriot. And then there's me." He wasn't sure if his disguise had been penetrated. Getting no reaction, he smiled benevolently and added: "Nobody hangs one of my men without my permission."
"I am not your man!"
The boat jostled against stone steps. Rory shrugged. "Then I offer you hospitality as my guest, as I offer my home to your charming companion. Nobody hangs my guests, either. Not even me—it's bad manners. Miss Campbell?"
He handed Meg ashore, then offered help to Father Lachlan, who shot Toby a disapproving and warning frown.
Toby and Hamish were left to manage by themselves, following up a paved road to the castle, bent against the driving rain. The few people they met on the way all recognized their leader. Bonnets came off. Men bowed, women curtseyed.
Hamish walked at first in worried silence, clutching his muddy bundle. Then he muttered, "Toby, you'd better take care! He's the Campbell's son! He's the heir to Argyll—that's what 'master' means!"
"I know that! And I would still like to ram his teeth down his throat!"
"Toby!" Hamish's voice rose to a batlike squeak. "He'll have you beaten! Or branded! He can throw you in a dungeon."
"That's no way to treat guests, either. And he wouldn't dare now!" That hurt more than anything—nobody would dare threaten the hexer who could haul down mountains. Inhuman! Leper! "You know what he wants of me, don't you?" Getting no reply except an unhappy nod, he said, "Well? He thinks I'm an adept. He wants me to hex the bloody Sassenachs for him!"
And what did he want of Meg?
Hamish mumbled, "Maybe."
"What else, then?"
"Earl Robert's one of King Nevil's strongest supporters in Scotland. What's his son doing running with rebels? And do we know that he is a rebel at all just because he wears a feather in his cap? Or is he trying to find Fergan and betray him?"
Toby thought about it as they hurried to the barbican. "You worry about that," he concluded. "I don't care either way."
By then, Hamish had forgotten the problem and was gaping up at the towers and battlements. "This is one of the strongest castles in Scotland. It's never been taken."
No Scottish lord had cannon to blast a way into a citadel like this, so of course the earl would be on the side of the English. And strongholds made good prisons. Toby saw the arch with its daunting portcullis like a giant mouth about to swallow him whole. He was an outlaw, with every man's hand against him. His only possessions were the sodden clothes on his back, a few coins, and a pretty stone in his sporran. It was too late to run, though, and he had nowhere to go.
"You suppose a great castle like this would have a library?" Hamish muttered.
More to the point, would it have a gallows?
The archway cut off the rain at last. Two guards stood in their path, but they were Highlanders in plaids and leathers, shoes and steel helmets; they held pikes and wore swords. They jumped to attention and saluted—which was a surprising courtesy to offer a band of mud-plastered vagrants—but they seemed more interested in Toby than in their chief's son. Why?
"Bran!" Rory said cheerfully. "How's Ella? The twins all right? Inform Lady Lora that her favorite headache has returned, will you? And Sir Malcolm." He glanced around at Toby and Hamish. "You'd better come along, too. Leave your trash here."
CHAPTER FOUR
The hall was larger by far than Castle Lochy's. It rose clear to the roof. The windows were tiny, but glazed, and on this miserable day they gave less light than the blazing pile of driftwood in the great stone fireplace. A long table for feasting occupied the center of the floor, flanked by benches. Chairs like thrones stood on either side of the hearth, but the visitors were all too muddy to sit in them. Meg and Father Lachlan and the master had gathered before the flames to warm themselves.
Toby and Hamish stood back at a respectful distance, wriggling their toes in the rushes. Hamish was gazing open-mouthed at the minstrel gallery, the banners hanging from the rafters, the collections of weapons adornin
g the stonework. Toby just watched Meg. She seemed content enough, smiling, laughing at Rory's banter, but he remembered what she had told him, and amid all the splendor he saw her as a tiny bird in a cage.
She had wits and spirit—she had her head on straight, as the acolyte had put it. All true, but she was only a tanner's daughter. Rory was master of Argyll, heir to power and wealth. He promises, she had said. I'm not afraid of him, so much as afraid of me. He could promise, he could even threaten, and no one would hold him to account for whatever happened. How long could a poor country lass resist him?
Why should it concern Toby Strangerson? There was nothing a penniless outlaw could do to deflect one of the most powerful men in Scotland—except try personal violence, and even that was unlikely to achieve anything except his own death. His promise to protect her was worthless against an opponent like the master of Argyll.
"Rory!" boomed a new voice, reverberating from the high stone walls. Astonishingly, it seemed to originate from the very small lady now sweeping into the hall with an escort at her heels. This must be Dowager Lady Lora, the earl's mother.
So "Rory" was a family pet name for Gregor. How cute!
"Just look at you, you terrible bairn!" It seemed impossible that so tiny a person could be so loud. Her hair shone pure silver, yet her face was barely wrinkled and she still displayed a delicate charm that testified to the beauty she must have been long years ago. She wore a gown of fine violet velvet; she had jewels on her fingers. Followed by maids, pages, and a dozen armed men—all of them much larger than herself—she was as unobtrusive as a volley of artillery.
"Father Lachlan! How wonderful to see you again! You honor our house."
Toby's attention settled on the man at her side. He was big, gruff, red-bearded, and solid as the castle walls. He wore a gleaming leather jerkin under his plaid. His helmet and sword were grander than the others'. He bore a pistol and powderhorn on his belt. He was appraising Toby with eyes like green pebbles, and with more than trivial curiosity.
Lady Lora turned to Meg and raised carefully tended brows.
"Miss Meg Campbell of Tyndrum, Grandmother," her grandson said, sweeping a bow. "Maiden in distress."
"You poor child, you must be frozen! Have you walked far? Trust that Rory... I am not surprised you are in distress if he has had anything to do with it. I'm sure you would like a hot tub and some fresh clothes and something to eat before..."
She registered Toby and the echoes died away into silence.
He overlooked every one of her burly warriors handily. She herself was no bigger than Meg.
"Toby Strangerson of Fillan," Rory said innocently. "Youth in distress. Lora, Dowager Countess of Argyll."
Toby bowed.
Lady Lora gave her grandson the sort of look a mother gives a tiresome two-year-old. Then she turned to the man at her side, as if he had emitted a silent warning. "Sir Malcolm?"
"We received a communication this morning concerning a man of that name, my lord." He produced a paper from his sporran.
Rory beckoned Toby with a nod of his head. Then he took the paper to read and his eyebrows rose.
Toby walked forward with Hamish at his heels. The warriors clasped the hilts of their swords. He bowed again.
Rory looked up, thunderously displeased. "How well did you know the Sassenachs at Lochy?"
"Fairly well, my lord."
"Is one of them an artist?"
"Gavin Mason can draw."
Rory nodded angrily. "Somebody can draw. This is a printed poster with a woodcut of your face on it. It's a fair likeness, except it makes you look like a starving wolf. The description is clear enough: eighteen years old, over nineteen hands tall, heavily muscled, brown eyes, curly hair, and extremely dangerous. Fits you to a tee, doesn't it? A convicted murderer, suspected of conjuring demons. There's quite a price on your head, Longdirk—one hundred marks!"
"What?" Toby howled.
"Dead or alive. You're worth more than I expected."
The guards were smiling.
Rory shrugged. "This is the man, Malcolm. The official story lacks a few details, which I shall be happy to supply at a suitable time. Meanwhile—just to discourage gossip—perhaps his presence here should not be advertised."
"Lock him up, you mean?"
"Why, not at all! He deserves our famous Inverary hospitality. So does his accomplice. Grandmother—Hamish Campbell of Tyndrum."
Hamish bowed until his head almost vanished under his plaid.
Lady Lora boomed a laugh. "Welcome to Inverary, kinsman! Rory, trouble is your shadow. See to his men, will you, Malcolm? Come along, Father... and you, Miss Campbell."
The moment her back was turned, Toby found himself surrounded. No one barked orders, no one laid a hand on him or drew a weapon, and his attendants did not actually march him off—but he went without argument and he kept his fists at his sides. A hundred marks dead was easier to deliver than a hundred marks alive, especially when it stood nineteen hands tall. Hamish strode along, head high, smirking blissfully at having been described as one of Rory's men.
Their journey was short: out a side door and into a kitchen hardly smaller than the great hall. Its well-scrubbed tables would have fed half of Clan Campbell without crowding. Boot heels drumming on flagstones, they passed fires where two carcasses were already turning on spits in preparation for the evening's festivities and counters where women were chopping vegetables and kneading dough. Sir Malcolm led the way along a somber stone corridor, past many oaken, iron-studded doors. If their destination was not to be a dungeon, it would serve as well, Toby thought. Then a door was opened and steam gushed unexpectedly forth.
Their guide's green eyes had lost none of their vigilance or suspicion. "You will have the bathroom to yourselves at this time of day. The gentry have their own water, so use all you want. I'll send towels, plaids... We'll see what we can do about shoon." He looked Hamish over and turned to one of his men. "Come here, Ken."
One of the guards stepped forward, slipped off his boot, and laid his neatly socked foot alongside Hamish's muddy one.
"Aye, that's about the size. As for you..." He looked despairingly at Toby's feet and shook his head.
"Fishing boats?" said a whisper in the background.
Sir Malcolm obviously heard but pretended not to. "Go get the aches out, then, lads."
Toby lurched into the bathroom, mumbling thanks, too astonished to articulate properly. Through the fog he could see benches, peat glowing under a giant copper boiler, half a dozen wooden tubs large enough to launder a plaid. The garrison at Lochy enjoyed no such luxury. As the door closed, Hamish muttered, "Spirits!" and in one fast movement was naked.
One would get you twenty that guards stood in the corridor, but who cared? After what felt like a lifetime of wind and rain and cold, the warmth was sheer rapture.
Toby eyed the boiler uncertainly. "Do we climb into that?"
"I don't think so. I think we fill tubs and sit in them."
Hot water—enough to bathe in? Would that be healthy?
"Soap!" Hamish squealed. "Real soap! Smell it—lavender!"
Toby stripped to the skin, then almost stripped that off as well when he tried to fill a bucket with water and got a blast of scalding steam instead. He jumped back and let Hamish work out the mechanics of the taps. It was necessary to mix cold water with the hot to obtain a bearable mixture—more complicated than he had expected. No matter, they were soon kneeling in whole tubfuls of hot water, soaping themselves, basking in the sheer sensuous luxury of it.
A hundred marks would buy a herd or a cottage. The earl's men-at-arms lived better than the farmers and artisans of Fillan, but it would only take one, even if the master ordered them not to talk.
Without warning, Hamish burst into song. His treble voice was surprisingly tuneful, and the stone walls reverberated nicely.
The lass I love lives up the glen,
She entertains all sorts of men.
She has no use
for all the rest,
Because she knows that I'm the best...
Toby gave him the verse about the piper and repeated the chorus. Hamish responded with the two shepherds. Toby was halfway through the improbable accomplishments of the three sailors when a guard came in, scowling through the steam. It was probably not just the quality of Toby's baritone that was upsetting him, because one of his colleagues stood watch in the doorway with a drawn sword. He deposited a pile of bleached cloths on one of the benches and backed out again, still watching the extremely dangerous outlaw.
Eventually the singers ran out of lovers for the promiscuous lass and just lay back, soaking blissfully, heads against the stone wall, arms and legs dangling over the sides of the tubs. Another man delivered a plaid, shirt, socks, shoes, bonnet. He said, "For you," to Hamish, but he, too, kept his attention on the murderer, and again another man stood by, ready to intervene if there was trouble. Trouble? The monster was almost asleep. Now if they would just commute his death sentence to life imprisonment and let him die of old age right here...
A third man brought in two muddy bundles and dropped them distastefully on the floor.
Hot water, they found, had an annoying tendency to cool off. Hamish was up and yipping about the towels being real linen, and Toby still had to shave. He hauled himself from the tub and admitted that the towels were very enjoyable, whatever they were made of. Having dried himself as well as he could in the steamy air, he found his razor in his bundle and set to work reaping stubble. By then Hamish was dressed and eager to go exploring the castle in search of books. It would be interesting to see how far he was allowed to wander.
The door opened again, this time to admit the red-bearded Sir Malcolm himself. He closed it behind him, shutting himself in with a dangerous outlaw wielding a razor, but his green eyes smiled warmly. "Is everything satisfactory, Master Toby? Anything more you need?"