by Ken Hood
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."
PART EIGHT
A Foggy Dawn
CHAPTER ONE
In the gathering gloom of a fall evening, The Maid of Arran lay against the pier of the royal burgh of Dumbarton. Geese were trailing overhead, a few lights glimmered amid the buildings, and sounds of wheels and horses and voices drifted through the dusk.
Toby leaned on the rail, having trouble finding unbruised forearm for the purpose. He brooded. He had spent most of two days in the hold, healing... being seasick... getting steadily more hungry, too, for he still had trouble eating. In all that time, he had spoken with his new liege lord only once. Fergan had come to see how he was faring, but he had not dallied long in that smelly hold. Toby had asked how he might serve his king, while feeling that he was incapable of cleaning out a fireplace at the moment.
"First, we must solve this mystery of your superhuman powers, lad. Father Lachlan is sorely perplexed by you. So you will go to the sanctuary, and there you should be safe from the vigilantes, too. After that, we shall see. Don't worry, I'll find a use for you!"
The sorry vassal was supposed to be comforted by that, but he was not deceived. Men who would scorn a reward to betray their king would jump at the same money for turning in the corpse of a demonic husk. Even the two or three men on board who were fully in Fergan's confidence had eyed him narrowly. There was one called Kenneth Kennedy, a wizened, scrawny man, who seemed to be the senior. He had asked many questions and answered none.
Hamish had spent the entire voyage pestering the sailors. Now he was advancing his friend's education by describing The Maid of Arran in great detail. "She's a cog of a hundred tuns! That means she can carry a hundred barrels of wine. Of course she's bearing hides, now, bound for Portugal. Hides are one of Scotland's biggest exports. Just think—there may even be some from Fillan on board!"
Toby's nose had told him what the cargo was even before he had boarded.
The king had already departed. His hired demon would disembark under cover of darkness. Toby was even more conspicuous than usual, with his bruises at their ripest. His arms and chest were swollen in yellow and purple. What his face must look like, he could not imagine. A layer of stubble would not be improving it. He did not even have proper town clothes to wear yet, only his plaid.
"There's more than four hundred houses in Dumbarton!" Hamish declaimed. "They all crowd into the middle to be as close to the sanctuary as possible. Biggest port on the west coast. Glasgow's even bigger, because its tutelary is... um, better known."
If he was wondering whether the Dumbarton tutelary could know what he was saying, out here at the end of the pier, then he was right to wonder. It probably could. Toby could detect it.
"Can't sail to Glasgow, of course, because the river's too shallow. Pa took me there in a coach! That's the castle."
Of course that was the castle. And the spire in the center of the burgh must be the sanctuary, because there was something there. It wasn't visible, unlike the Fillan hob, or the specter Toby had seen in the hills, but he could sense it somehow, even at this distance. He wondered if it knew of him already. It gave him goosebumps.
And there was another something off to the west, either just outside the burgh or just inside. Valda? Baron Oreste?
Thirdly, there was Toby himself, with his mysterious guardian. Superhuman powers were gathering in Dumbarton.
"Ah, there you are!" Father Lachlan arrived, a flustered little ghost in his white robe. Hamish's flood of statistics came to a merciful end. "Almost dark enough now."
"Father?" Toby said. "Have you any idea why Ma
ster Stringer wants me?" The only real orders he had been given so far had come from Kennedy: never, ever, mention Fergan by name, and speak only English to him. Yes, the sailors were trustworthy, but...
"He is a very shrewd judge of men, that's why!" The acolyte chuckled, tugging his robe tighter against the evening chill. "You are strong, hardy, courageous, and—I hope—loyal. I am sure you are loyal, because you are not the sort of man who breaks his word. You have no distracting ties to clan or family. I think Master Stringer is rightly congratulating himself on acquiring a most valuable follower!"
"But I am a danger to him!"
"Do you mean a demonic danger or a mortal danger?"
"Not demonic!" Hamish protested. "If Toby had wanted to kill him, he could have broken his neck easily by now. Couldn't you have, Toby?"
Toby growled. Hamish knew that Stringer was Fergan, but did anyone else on the ship know that he knew?
"Maybe I ought to break yours! No, Father, what I meant was that I may get mobbed, or betrayed. The trail could lead back to Inverary, to this ship—to all of you."
Father Lachlan believed in staying cheerful. He set off for the gangplank. "You needn't worry about the ship, at any rate. She's leaving on the dawn tide for Lisbon. The sailors haven't heard about your problems, and they won't. Captain MacLeod has forbidden shore leave, because he's been delayed by the long wait in Loch Fyne. Ah... here he is. We're going ashore now, Captain."
MacLeod was standing watch himself—undoubtedly to enforce his ban on leave. He was a thickset, weathered man, presently only a solid shape in the gloom. He wished them well in his Moray accent as they trooped down the plank.
"Where was I?" Father Lachlan asked, bustling along the pier. "Oh, yes, Master Stringer. You needn't worry about him. He is a highly respected burgher and merchant in Dumbarton. He is under the tutelary's protection, just as you will be, I trust."
Toby shivered. "Is there some doubt about that?"
"Doubt? Oh, no. Not at all. I have told you that I don't believe you are possessed. In fact, I'm sure of it now, because here we are in Dumbarton! The tutelary will not allow such creatures into its realm."
Toby was fighting a strong reluctance to proceed any farther into its realm. Was that the tutelary's doing, or plain fear, or the work of his guardian demon? If the demon did not want to be exorcised, it could take him over and turn him around. Perhaps it was as uncertain as he was.
They reached the land and a narrow street between houses and the seawall, cluttered with carts and fishing gear. Father Lachlan turned to the right. Toby felt a surge of relief, and his feet began to move more easily. The streets were very narrow, very confining, very dirty. They followed no pattern at all, but the acolyte seemed able to find his way in the dark like a bat. Most of the buildings had stores or warehouses at street level, with homes above. They were constructed almost entirely of wood, few having any more stonework than chimneys. Many of the upper stories protruded over the road, low enough to be a hazard for a very tall man.
"This isn't the way to the sanctuary," Toby said.
"No, it isn't. How do you... Oh, you saw the spire, of course. Well, you see, my son, it seems wiser for me to approach the tutelary first, on your behalf. Explain matters."
So dear Father Lachlan was not sure of the reception Toby would meet, or not as sure as he implied. A group of men rolled by in the darkness, singing tunelessly. They did not notice the oversized outlaw, whose death could make them all rich.
"Toby can get refuge at the sanctuary, can't he?" Hamish asked indignantly.
"I expect so. Normally, a tutelary will not harbor strangers, but when there is a manifest injustice, then it will often make an exception. The fact that he has been allowed into the burgh at all is very encouraging."
"You mean the tutelary can sense demons at a distance?"
"Incarnate demons, creatures. Not the bottled variety, usually, unless they are activated by gramarye. Turn here. I will leave you at Master Stringer's house and then go on to the sanctuary."
"I want to come!" Hamish said. "I can offer a silver penny!"
Toby wondered which of his bruises that penny represented.
CHAPTER TWO
"And he was at liberty for about six months after Norford Bridge," said Kenneth Kennedy, "but some MacKays up near Inverness betrayed him, and then the Sassenachs paraded him around in a cage all winter, from one town to the next, and finally dragged him away, off back to England. And everyone all thought the song was ended then, but a few of us kept the fire alight, and eventually he escaped and came back. The Lowland dogs weren't top keen, but the Highlands rallied again to the lion banner."
Master Kennedy was drunk.
"And then the Battle of Parline Field," Toby said. "I tried to enlist, but the laird wouldn't take me."
"Well, you didn't miss a great deal." Between swigs, Kennedy was stropping a dirk with long, delicate strokes along a leather belt. One end of the belt was in his left hand, the other tied to the table leg. He leaned back on his stool, with his back against the wall and his dirty bare feet on the table. The single candle lit angles and cast shadows on his gauntness; his eyes glittered. He spoke with the musical lilt of the Isles, but there was nothing soft about him. He was only bones. "But you're his man now."
At the other side of the table, Toby was soaking a bap in milk and sucking the mush, which was all his loose teeth would allow. Kennedy did not intimidate him. One threatening move with that dirk, and Toby would pick up the table and swat him.
"I am that."
They were in the kitchen of Stringer's house, at the back of the ground floor. The building held no warehouse or shops and was larger than most, but all the rooms he had seen so far were tiny and restrictive. Nobody else was home. The only sound was a dog barking a few houses away.
Kennedy paused in his sharpening to take a swig from his flagon, raising giant shadows on the smoke-stained plank walls. "He says you have superhuman powers."
"Odd things happen around me."
The Islander considered that for a moment. His voice came from the Hebrides, but he wore Lowlander breeches and a ragged shirt. "He could be finding a good hexer useful."
"Is there such a thing as a good hexer?"
"Only dead ones, I'm thinking." His skimpy beard had flecks of white in it. If that was straight whisky he was downing, he was taking on a fair measure for his size.
"Why does he need a hexer?"
"The Sassenachs send demons after him. The tutelary catches them when he's in Dumbarton. But ye canna' run a rebellion from a fireside."
"And if the tutelary removes my hex, or whatever it is, so I don't have superhuman powers? What then?"
Kennedy stropped the dirk a few more times. "You could stop musket balls for him."
"Bodyguard, you mean."
"Aye."
Toby gave up on the baps and drained the rest of the milk from the bowl. The prospect of being King Fergan's mastiff did not appeal to him very much. He was not at all sure his loyalty would impel him to jump in front of Maxim Stringer when an assassin cocked a pistol at him. Life would be a long boredom in Dumbarton.
On the other hand, if Kenneth Kennedy had been a rebel since Norford Bridge as he claimed, then he had been on the run for eight years. The lush was worn out. The king needed some new retainers, and perhaps there would be a place for a willing lad after all.
Kennedy burped. "Might involve some traveling."
That was more encouraging. Father Lachlan had dropped a few hints at the keeper's house in Glen Shira.
"Eastward?"
The king's man eyed him suspiciously. "Why do you say that?"
"To seek the help of the Khan. The Golden Horde itself is the only power capable of breaking King Nevil now, they say."
Kennedy took another gulp and wiped his mouth on his arm. "Aye. That's what they say. I don't have this from him, you understand. It's just chatter."
Toby nodded.
"When the Horde conquered En
gland," the king's man explained, sounding like Hamish beginning a lecture, "it was one of those times when the Sassenachs had conquered Scotland, or thought they had. So the English king did homage to the Khan's man for Scotland, too. There's hardly ever been a Tartar set foot in Scotland. Set hoof, would you say?" He chuckled and took another swig.
He wasn't making history sound any more worthwhile than Neal Campbell had, back in Tyndrum, but now Toby was the king's man, it seemed as if it should.
"So, laddie, the English have taxed us men and gold for all these years to send tribute to the Horde. But, if the Khan was to recognize Scotland as an independent satrapy, why then we would be free of the Sassenach, wouldn't we?"
Toby wasn't very smart, but he was sober. He could see no great advantage in exchanging one overlord for another. From what he had heard, the English king had been thumping the Tartars' vassals all over Europe for years. If this was King Fergan's Grand Design, then its merits escaped him.
"You think he might be going to travel to Sarai?"
"Could be," Kennedy muttered, taking up his dirk and strop again. "As I said, it's just chatter. But it could be." He winked.
"Sarai? That's on a big river somewhere?"
"The Volga. Long way. Long, long way!"
"Weeks?"
"Och, laddie, it's months you're talking about!"
Definitely promising!
Toby pushed his stool back. "Then I think I'll rest up for the journey. If they want me tonight, they'll find me. Have you a spare candle?"
The older man scowled and swung his feet to the floor. He held out the flagon. "Here, boy, put some real hair on that big chest of yours. You'll not be going off to bed now and leaving me drinking by my lonesome?"
Toby had to take a gulp of the awful stuff before he was allowed to leave, with Kennedy muttering dire comments about his lack of manhood. Holding both his own bundle and Hamish's, he paused in the doorway. "Where do I sleep?"
"Straight up, as far as you can go. If you see the stars, you've gone too far." Cackling, Kennedy sucked on his bottle again.