The Years of Longdirk- The Complete Series

by Dave Duncan

  The drill squad came marching in through the archway with Sergeant Drake barking like a dog. The drummer's beat echoed back and forth between the walls. Captain Tailor lurked on the sidelines, watching. If Toby Strangerson had notions of joining the Sassenachs' Royal Fusiliers, it would not be because he wanted to spend his days doing musket drill.

  He sprang down from the cart. Steward Bryce was approaching, but there was no need to wait for orders. The load must be moved to the granary, and it would travel on Toby Strangerson's back.

  Bryce of Crief had been steward in Lochy Castle since history began. He had served Kenneth Campbell, the laird of Fillan, before he went off to die at Leethoul, and probably his father before him. Lairds had come and gone, but Master Crief had remained like the battlements themselves. He was easily the oldest man in the glen, as ancient as Granny Nan. Although he must have been tall in his youth, now he was stooped and leaned heavily on a cane. Most the flesh and all of the hair had gone from his head, so it looked like a skull in a leather bag. Even in summer, he went around swathed in a fox fur robe, and his skeletal hands trembled all the time. Yet he still had eyes like dirks.

  He had been here during the Taming. Once in a while Toby would feel a mad impulse to accost the dread old man and ask him if he recalled any of the garrison of those days. Did he remember an exceptionally big one— a virile young man, who had fathered two of the six children conceived that winter? Had there been a gentle, kindly one named Tobias?

  He had never asked and never would.

  He hauled a sack of oats from the cart, settled it on his shoulder, and turned to find the old man barring his path.

  "You carry the sacks into the granary, Strangerson."

  "Yes, sir." Did he think Toby had put one on his shoulder to run off with?

  The disconcertingly sharp eyes stared up at him. "And come and see me right after."

  "Yes, sir."

  Toby headed for the granary. As he departed, he heard the old man's querulous complaint that he had ordered flour first, followed by the start of the miller's whining excuses. It sounded as if he would blame Toby for loitering on the way, and that would mean half a day's pay lost, at the least.

  The sun never penetrated the courtyard. The main house formed one end, stables and guardroom flanked the arched gate opposite; high walls along each side connected them. Apart from a water trough and a couple of small sheds, that was all there was to Lochy Castle. Sentries paced the battlements, but it had no moat, no drawbridge, no cannons.

  The granary was on the ground floor of the house, and the door opened as Toby reached it. "Over there!" said Helga Burnside.

  He pulled a face at the heap she indicated, for it was shoulder-high already. "We've got a whole cartload, you know." He swung the sack into place with a great gasp of effort.

  She laughed scoffingly. "Ah, and you just a puny slip of a boy! It'll put some muscle on you."

  "Double helpings at lunch, then!" he said, hurrying off to get another.

  "That'll be a change from the triples you usually eat!" she shouted after him.

  Everyone liked Helga, a big, cheerful woman from the village. Yet she took English money, too. Was there a difference between men and women working for the enemy? Of course there was—women were not expected to kill them. Men were.

  He reached the cart and took up another sack. The miller had disappeared, probably into the kitchens. No one else had appeared to help the odd-job boy with the unloading—not that he cared. If he wasn't doing this, he'd be cleaning out the stable or the latrines, chopping brush, hunting rats, running errands. He might even be sent back down to the village for something or other, and he would rather not go there again in the immediate future—certainly not today, with the hob's prophecy still in effect. He would much rather heave meal sacks around.

  The fusiliers were into musket drill, with Sergeant Drake barking as loud as ever and the drum beating:

  "Shorten your scouring stick!"

  Rat-a-tat-tat!

  "Try your match!"

  Tat-tatta-tat!

  The lad with the meal sack was hardly more burdened than those poor sucker fusiliers. The guns alone were so heavy that the men must also carry rests to set them on when they fired. Each man was festooned with a sword, dagger, shot purse, smoldering match, powderhorn, scouring stick, and probably other things Toby had forgotten. Some had pistols tucked in their belts, as well. They wore spurred boots and white—white!—stockings. Their russet doublets and breeches were so padded and puffed that they weighed more than his plaid, and on top of it all went a spherical steel helmet with a brim that came to a point in front. They spent half the day drilling with muskets and the other half just cleaning and polishing their gear. He would rather be the odd-job boy any day.

  Joking apart, hard work built muscles on the glen's bareknuckle champion, with a good chance to take the weight-lifting title from the smith this year. Maybe the caber tossing, too. If the previous laird of Fillan could come back from the grave, he wouldn't call Toby Strangerson a fishing pole now.

  Would he call him a traitor? A dozen villagers toiled in the castle most days. There was no shame in wanting to eat, and precious few ways to earn a living in the glen. They worked for the steward, and the steward worked for the current laird, Ross Campbell of Gareloch.

  That was another problem in loyalties. The ancient line of the Campbells of Strath Fillan had ended when Kenneth and his sons died at Leethoul, almost twenty years ago. The earl of Argyll, chief of Clan Campbell, had declared the estate in escheat and appointed a replacement, a Campbell from Dalmally. He had never won the loyalty of the glen.

  His son and successor had done better. When Fergan had escaped from captivity in England in 1516 and raised his second rebellion, the Campbell of Argyll had supported him, at least for a while. So the laird of Fillan, his vassal, had switched sides also. The glen had answered his call enthusiastically and marched off to die for King Fergan at Parline—leaving one sad fishing pole boy behind.

  Now there was yet another laird in Lochy Castle, Ross Campbell of Gareloch. Toby Strangerson worked for Steward Bryce. Steward Bryce served Laird Ross. Laird Ross was loyal to the earl of Argyll, who was back on the side of the English.

  Were they all traitors? Two more sacks completed the layer on the pile. The next one would have to go higher.

  If Fergan was rightful king of Scotland, then yes, they were all traitors: earl, laird, steward, odd-job boy. That was what the likes of Fat Vik thought—the English killed our fathers and brothers and so we must kill them.

  On the other hand, Captain Tailor and his men had no doubt that it was Fergan who was the traitor, or that soon they would catch the rebel and hang him. Then the Highlands would be at peace again. So they said. In spare moments they lectured the odd-job boy on how the kings of Scotland had been sworn vassals of the kings of England for centuries—between all the suicidal rebellions, that was. You couldn't trust a Scotsman's word after the echoes stopped, they said.

  Another layer of sacks in place, and Toby was enjoying himself—heart thumping strongly, sweat running, arms and back tingling pleasantly.

  The miller's question drummed in his mind: Whose man was he to be? As long as he stayed in Strath Fillan, of course, he was the laird's man. The laird determined his men's loyalties, and the earl determined his. But when Granny Nan died, then Toby Strangerson would be gone over the hills like an eagle. Whose man would he be then?

  And consider King Nevil himself, self-proclaimed king of England, Scotland, Wales, and now numerous other places also. Technically he was a vassal of the Khan, but he certainly had not been behaving like one. He had defeated the three previous suzerains in battle and seized their kingdoms and their allies', until he now controlled most of Northern Europe. Each time the Khan had appointed a successor suzerain, Nevil had immediately made war on him, and he made no secret of his intention of conquering the continent and then marching against the Golden Horde itself. He was reputed to have
sworn he would clear every last Tartar out of Europe.

  In other words, treason depended on how good you were at it.

  Another layer. Now he was having to throw the bags up above head height. The exercise became an interesting challenge in itself, leaving little energy for worrying about loyalties. He did not solve the loyalty problem before he had emptied the cart and laid every sack tidily where it should be.

  He emerged into the gray daylight of the yard and wiped his forehead with a corner of his plaid. The clouds were racing across the sky, but he could see a pair of eagles soaring. There were always eagles over Castle Lochy.

  He headed off to the kitchens. It was too early for lunch, but Helga could usually find a snack for a growing boy. Still wolfing down a freshly baked bap liberally spread with goose fat, he located the steward crouched in his little office. The old man was poring over accounts, a litter of papers covering the table. He looked up with a familiar sour expression on his dried-apple face.

  "Need another job, Master Crief," Toby said with his mouth full.

  "What's this I hear about you getting into a fight?"

  Toby swallowed. "I didn't, sir. Just got baited about... about a girl, sir. It was nothing. No fisticuffs."

  The dirk-sharp eyes studied him for a moment. They did not reveal what their owner thought of that version of events. Iain had been blabbing, obviously.

  "One of them was Crazy Colin?"

  "Er, yes sir. He was there." Had the miller noticed the addlehead's knife?

  Fortunately the steward did not ask about knives. He twisted his bony mouth in a grimace. "I wouldn't feed that one to pigs." For a man who never left the castle, Bryce of Crief was always uncannily well informed about events in the glen.

  Bryce of Crief—Bryce Campbell had probably lived in Fillan for twice a normal lifetime, but he was still Bryce of Crief. A man was identified by his clan, of course, but then by his birthplace. When he was in his birthplace he was identified by his residence, or his occupation, or his father. If he had no clan, if his father wasn't known, he was called something like Strangerson.

  "How is Granny Nan?"

  Old Bryce was remarkably chatty today.

  "She has good days and bad days, sir." She spends hours collecting pretty stones.

  Crief nodded, but his expression still gave away nothing. "Look after her well, lad. Has she ever mentioned ... a successor?"

  "No, sir."

  "I don't know who we'll get to keep the hob happy when she's gone."

  Toby took another bite of greasy bap and mumbled, "No, sir."

  "An unhappy hob could make lots of trouble in the glen."

  "Yes, sir."

  The old man leaned forward and bared a few yellow pegs of teeth in a sly and withered smile. "Who's going to take you on at the games, mm? Anyone crazy enough?"

  He meant boxing, of course. Boxing had more glamour than weight lifting or caber tossing. Moreover, there was money to be made on boxing, bets to be laid, and that probably explained why the steward was wasting valuable time chattering with the odd-job boy.

  "Dougal Peat's promised to go a few rounds with me, sir, if nobody else will. We'll put on a show for the crowd is all."

  What the smith's son had said was, "We'll just bleed a little for 'em, right?" but what he had meant was, "You won't make me suffer too long, will you?" Dougal was enough of his father's son that he was incapable of faking; he would fight till he was fairly dropped.

  "No chance of his father coming out of retirement?"

  Toby shook his head sadly. "He could still beat me if he did." He had watched the blacksmith box—and win— at every games as far back as he could remember, but the year he had turned fourteen and been allowed to fight with the men, he had failed to make the finals. That had been the year Eric retired, so they'd never met in the ring. Somehow, Toby could not feel he was really champion, when he had never fought the smith.

  "The Sassenach ..." Toby corrected himself quickly. "Some of the soldiers, sir. Some of the captain's men, were talking about a challenge match in wrestling, Castle versus Glen, sir."

  The steward scowled. "The laird forbade it! It might lead to trouble."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Besides, our lads know nothing about wrestling." The sharp eyes stabbed at him. "You tried wrestling with any of them?"

  "No, sir."

  Those English have all kinds of sneaky holds and throws. Now, if they were to offer a challenge in boxing, I might be able to talk the laird into it—but they won't!" The steward shrugged, dismissing such frivolous topics. He leaned back and regarded Toby with a snaky intensity. "Just between the two of us?"

  The odd-job boy blinked in astonishment. "Yes, sir?"

  "If you lose in the boxing, I've got five shillings for you." The old man pulled back his lips in a skull-like leer.

  Five shillings? That must be about a year's wages! But cheat? Toby could not do that! Half the glen would put a farthing or two on the boxing, and they would all come to watch the sport. They would expect a display of courage, not dishonesty. It was unthinkable. Never!

  Yet for a man of his lowly station to refuse an order from the steward was equally unthinkable. He would be out on his neck in a minute, and lucky if he weren't beaten first. Faced with this impossible dilemma, Toby just stared at the old man. His throat, as it so often did, closed up completely and made not a sound.

  The smile faded like a sunset into dark. Think about it," the steward said coldly. "Come and see me later. Meanwhile, Himself wants the dungeon cleaned out He thinks the rats are coming from there. I'll send someone to help you after lunch."

  "Er?" Toby dragged his wits back to business. "I don't know where the dungeon is, sir."

  "Off the guardroom. You'll need a lantern. Just one, mind, because there's no air down there. Move all the old straw outside the walls and burn it. And take a dog or two with you." The steward dismissed him by looking down at his papers.

  Toby said, "Yes, sir," and hurried away. Cheat? Cheat so that the old bag of bones could clean up on the betting?

  4

  He borrowed a lantern from the cooks, found a shovel, rounded up Spots and Nipper, and headed to the guardroom by the gate. He had never been inside it before, and the first thing he saw when he entered the gloomy place was a wall rack full of muskets. There were benches and a table, a couple of chests, a few cluttered shelves, but no guards. That seemed excessively careless, considering how much King Fergan's rebels would like to get their hands on those guns. They were chained, but Toby thought he could break them loose if he wanted to—besides, there were dozens of keys hanging near the window.

  He walked forward and jumped as a big man appeared in a shadowed doorway—except it was a mirror. A full-length mirror! He had never seen such a thing in his life before. It must be there so the Sassenachs could inspect themselves before going out on parade. He glanced around the room again to make sure he was alone, then took a hard look at his reflection. His face was too boyish to be so far from the floor. He rubbed his chin, wondering yet again if he should let his beard grow in. He adjusted the hang of his plaid. He was certainly more man than Fat Vik. He took yet another glance around, moved back so he could not be observed through the door, then crooked an arm to see the muscle. His reflection grinned at the result and he scowled at its vanity.

  At the far side of the room, a gate of thick iron bars led to darkness. It was unlocked and creaked loudly. Nipper rushed ahead down the stairs, with Spots following more circumspectly, nose busy, tail wagging. Narrow and treacherous, the staircase curved sharply into the ground, so the dungeon must underlie the guardroom. He pulled the gate shut behind him in case the dogs tried to defect. Then he started down. After about a dozen steps, he set a foot into something soft and squashy.

  He waited there until his eyes adjusted. He was in a long narrow cellar, cold and creepy, stinking of rot. Most of it seemed to be carved out of the rock of the mountain. The ceiling was masonry—arched and short on h
eadroom even in the center. There were no windows or air vents. What a nightmarish place! His skin crawled at the sight of the rusty chains and the staples set in the wails. The floor was deep in rotted straw, which the dogs were exploring with much interest. This job promised to be much less fun than heaving meal sacks, but the sooner he began, the sooner it would be done, so he hung the lantern on a staple and began.

  He began by banging his head on the roof.

  Cursing Bryce for not choosing a shorter man, he proceeded to the far end and set to work with the shovel. The dogs squirmed around underfoot, growling with excitement, lunging at the mice that came pouring out in all directions. The place was alive with them. The stench of decay became sickening.

  Horrible, horrible place! How many wretches had been chained up here in ages past? He wouldn't keep pigs in such a hutch, let alone people. How long would a man stay sane shackled to the rock in a cell like this? He wondered uneasily about torture. He wondered how many of the victims had been innocent of whatever crimes they had been accused of….He wondered what he was going to do with the litter. Already he had raised two big heaps, and obviously he couldn't bring a wheelbarrow down those stairs. He should go and find some sacks—or a basket, perhaps.

  Something flashed on the shovel. He peered at it, poked it... picked it up with finger and thumb. He took it over to the lantern. It was a comb of the sort a woman might wear in her hair, decorated with two or three glass spangles to make it pretty. The metal was corroded black, but the glass had stayed. Not a man's comb, certainly.