by Dave Duncan
They shackled his hands behind him and put chains on his ankles. They laid him facedown across a horse, like a hunter's trophy, and roped him there. They were not gentle, but they did not abuse him as much as he expected. It was the first time Toby Strangerson had ever been on a real horse. He watched the great hooves beat the road below him until he became too nauseated to concentrate. At least he was headed to a clean cell; he had cleaned it out himself. He hoped they would give him straw, but he thought that tonight he could sleep without it.
3
Hamish would call him a cynic, but Toby was genuinely surprised to arrive back at the castle alive. He had not been shot while trying to escape from the horse's back, nor had he accidentally smashed his skull on a gatepost in passing. Dizzy and sick from his head-down journey, he was even more surprised to be unloaded at the door of the big house. He had assumed he would be thrown down the dungeon stairs and left there until dawn, which was the traditional time for hangings. He gathered that the laird was going to hear his case right away.
He clinked and clattered up steps into a part of the building he had never seen before. Soldiers with lanterns went ahead, others followed behind. Luxuries he had only heard tell of loomed out of the darkness and then vanished again: paintings on the walls, tapestries, and fine furniture. He glimpsed wonders and could not linger to admire them. He heard sounds of music overhead and recognized the new reel the laird's piper had been rehearsing for days.
Then he had to climb a long flight of stairs with the lantern shadows leaping and dancing all around. Cynically he waited for an ankle to be jerked from under him, but perhaps his captors were reluctant to get blood on the treads. They had to wait a long time in a corridor before being allowed to proceed. He wriggled his toes on the smooth planks and listened to the music and sniffed the fragrance of beeswax candles, so different from the stinking tallow the villagers used when they must have light after sundown. Little things like that seemed important, as if he must store up memories to take with him.
He wondered why he had been brought up here at this time of night, disturbing the gentry's revels. Why not just leave him in the cell until morning, to be tried and hanged at a more convenient time?
His guards moved, making way, and a stooped old man shuffled through, tapping his cane. Surprised, Toby looked down into the eyes of Steward Bryce. They no longer made him think of dirks. They looked blurred and infinitely weary; Bryce Campbell of Crief seemed to have aged years since Toby had seen him in the afternoon.
His voice was a dry croak. "A baron's court can hang a man caught red-handed in manslaughter."
"Sir? I don't—"
"But murder is withheld. It's one of the four pleas of the crown. Murder goes to the justiciar's court." The steward smiled gruesomely, then turned himself around with care, and hobbled away again, back into the hall.
The soldiers growled. Perhaps they could make more sense out of that than Toby could, but it did sound as if he had been told to hold out for a murder charge. What matter? A man was just as dead whether he was hanged for murder or stealing a loaf of bread. Better to get it over with than languish in a dungeon all winter, waiting for the justiciar to arrive. If the steward still dreamed of having Toby participate in the Glen Games, so he could win a few shillings, then age had rotted his brain. Men in dungeons couldn't attend games. Men in chains had trouble boxing.... So what was worrying the old fool?
The music ended. The prisoner was led into court.
He could not tell how large the hall was, for most of it was in darkness. He had a vague impression of banners hanging overhead, and probably a gallery at the far end. An island of light filled the center, where a golden constellation of candle flames twinkled above a table, and it was there that all his attention went. The laird and his guests had just finished a meal. The men wore coats over their plaids, and the women furs, for the hall was cool. They all sparkled with jewels. They had gaudy feathers in their hats.
Toby knew most of them: Steward Bryce was a skeleton someone had dressed up and put there as a joke, Captain Tailor glaring hatred in full dress uniform, white ruff and puffed sleeves and all, his wife and the laird's wife, and the mysterious Lady Valda.
She made the other women look like frumps. She dominated the table—nay, she dominated the hall, the castle, the entire glen, as if everything revolved around her alone. She seemed completely unaware of the chill, for her arms and shoulders were bare. Her violet gown was cut lower than any neckline he had ever seen, displaying a breathtaking vision of firm white breasts. Had Strath Fillan ever known her like? Her hair was indeed black, as he had guessed. It was uncovered, elaborately dressed on top of her head, and she bore a starry coronet of diamonds in it. She was regarding him with austere and intent amusement. He had an insane impression that she had anticipated this scene when they first met, that she had known she would see him tonight, being led in like a beast on its way to the abattoir. Recalling Hamish's wild allegation that her cowled companions were hexers, he wondered if she might have arranged this meeting, or if the instant and unorthodox trial was being held here and now because she had demanded it.
He felt again that sense of evil, stronger than ever.
With a conscious effort he tore his eyes away to look at the laird beside her. By comparison, Ross Campbell seemed old and small—haggard, worried, disheveled. Wisps of white hair had escaped from under his bonnet. His baleful stare at the prisoner was a reminder of the conversation Toby had overheard that morning. The laird had called the glen a powder keg. Worse than what he had feared then had happened already. One of the soldiers had been slain, so one of the villagers must die in retribution, sparks around a powder keg.
"Oh, that one?" The laird glanced uneasily at his companion and seemed to ask a question.
Lady Valda continued to study the prisoner. There was something unholy about so great a lady displaying such interest in a chained convict, disheveled and worthless. She did not reply.
Toby wished he could rearrange the pleats and folds of his plaid.
"Yes, I've seen him around," the laird said. "Big laddie, isn't he? What did you say his name was?"
"My lord!" bellowed Sergeant Drake, somewhere close, but in the background. "The prisoner Toby Strangerson of Fillan, Your Lordship's vassal, accused of wilful murder in the death of His Majesty's servant, Godwin Forrester, enlisted man in the Royal Fusiliers."
"There were witnesses?"
"Yes, my lord."
Campbell of Fillan sighed. "What's your story, prisoner?"
Nothing Toby could say would make the slightest difference. They were going to try him and hang him, without even waiting for a justiciar to arrive. If he must die, he would rather die proudly, and anything he did say would sound like whining. The only reason to speak at all would be to find out why that sinister woman was watching him so intently. He would hate to die without having at least some sort of clue.
"My lord, I found a man attempting to rape a child. I stopped him. He drew his sword and attacked me. I defended myself. I did not intend to kill him." He had quite liked Godwin, but he could not say so now.
The laird pulled a face. Take him away and secure him, then." He peered along the table. "Bailie, see you prepare a breeve—"
Captain Tailor barked, "No!" The soldier's bony features were flushed with anger, or possibly drink. "One of my men has died. This is a military matter!"
The bluff had been called.
"Rape is not a military matter," the laird protested feebly.
"My lord . . . does the prisoner have evidence that rape was intended? Does he have evidence that the woman was harmed?"
"Her dress was torn!" Toby protested.
"That could have happened when you attacked!" Tailor snapped.
Useless to argue. "The only reason I am here at all," Toby shouted, "is that my mother was abducted and unjustly imprisoned and subjected—"
The metal collar was yanked against his throat. He stumbled backward and was push
ed upright, gagging and retching.
He expected to hear sentence being passed then, but still the laird hesitated. He must fear the spark and the powder keg. Did he not realize that the prisoner was a bastard, an English mongrel, not even a Campbell? Did he really think the glen cared a spit what happened to that one?
"Steward?" he said. "You know this man?"
Old Bryce had been gazing down fixedly at the table in front of him. He looked up slowly.
"My lord, big as he is, he is still only a boy. He has grown visibly in the few months he has been working here. I doubt much that he knows his own strength. He has never caused trouble before ..." His voice quavered away into silence.
Campbell of Fillan tapped fingertips on the table again. Then he seemed to conclude that he had no choice. "Captain, you—"
"My lord?" said another voice.
His head flicked around. "My lady?"
He seemed almost as frightened of Lady Valda as Toby had been when he first met her on the road. If she was King Nevil's mistress—or even if she had been once—then that was only to be expected.
She smiled, as if at some secret joke. "A woman feels a natural sympathy for a man who seeks to prevent a rape, my lord."
"Quite understandable, my lady!"
"And am I to understand that the prisoner attacked an armed warrior with his bare hands?"
She turned to Captain Tailor, who grimaced.
"Your Ladyship, he is bareknuckle champion of the glen! His fists are weapons."
Lady Valda somehow contrived to raise her exquisite eyebrows without wrinkling her forehead. "Champion, and so young? Would he have a future in the ring, if properly handled?"
"Steward? Have you seen him fight?"
The old man chewed his gums for a moment. "I have heard enough. He is almost a legend already. He has the size, as you can see. He has the strength of a bear and the courage of a cornered badger."
Everyone looked expectantly at the lady, who smiled demurely.
"I see no reason why a member of the gentler sex should not sponsor a prizefighter! We can run racehorses—why not pugilists? Suppose I take the boy into my service, giving my personal guarantee that he will accompany me to England? Of course I shall see to it that he remains law-abiding in future, confining his violent impulses to the Manly Art." Her dark gaze settled on Toby with a gleam of triumph.
Captain Tailor looked stunned at this unexpected development. The laird swelled and shed ten years. Obviously it would solve his problem. The glen would have no excuse to rise in revolt. The dead man had been in flagrant violation of orders, and his companions must see the implications.
"That is exceedingly generous of Your Ladyship! The steward will reaffirm his testimony regarding the man's good character?"
The steward glanced briefly at Tony, muttered something inaudible, and scowled down at the table before him.
"Strangerson," the laird said, "you have heard Lady Valda's beneficent offer. I must tell you that your life is presently forfeit, but her suggestion will not merely save it, but open splendid opportunities for you to advance yourself. Will you enter into her service, giving this court your solemn word that—"
"No!" Toby said. Valda had seized on prizefighting as an excuse for something else. Whatever her real purpose, he would rather hang than be that woman's meat.
His reply surprised the onlookers as much as it did him. The guards did not even jerk his tether. The ensuing silence was deadly. The only person who did not seem stunned by his insane denial was Lady Valda herself. She pursed her red lips as if to hide a smile. Toby did not know what she wanted of him, but she made his flesh crawl. Evil had come to the glen, and he wanted no part of it.
"Oh, dear," she said. "What a pity! Of course, as you explained to me this evening, Lord Ross, the men of Fillan are celebrated for their courage. Will you give him the rest of the night to think it over? Perhaps he will change his mind."
"Perhaps I will have him flogged, my lady!"
She considered the proposal for a moment, watching Toby carefully. "A tempting thought, but I think not. Just lock him up until after breakfast. We'll see how he feels then, shall we?"
The laird shrugged, clearly as puzzled as everyone else. "Take him away! Lock him up. This court is adjourned."
"Tell them not to damage him!" she said sharply. "I have no use for a cripple."
4
Six soldiers took Toby to the dungeon; they left him in no doubt that he was much in debt to Lady Valda. Without her final remark and the laird's resulting orders, they would have made him pay dearly for what he had done to Godwin Forrester. They did debate whether they should hang him up by his feet or his elbows, and outlined several other entertaining possibilities, also. They were obviously apprehensive of his strength, testing the shackles carefully, but in the end they merely attached his ankle chains to one wall and his neck chain to the wall opposite, leaving him sitting in the middle of the rock-hewn floor. Then they went away. The gate creaked and clanged. A lock clicked faraway at the top of the stairs.
He was alone in the dark and the silence and the bone-freezing cold. It could have been much worse. By no human contortion could he ever free himself, but he could sit up or he could lie down. As his hands were still fastened behind him and the chain from his collar dangled down his back, that was not the most comfortable of situations. There was not enough slack on his leg tethers for him to roll over, facedown, which was how he preferred to sleep, and he could not wrap himself up in his plaid. But he was still alive and uninjured.
As he shivered himself to sleep, he wondered briefly why the prospect of swearing loyalty to that woman should be so unthinkable. He concluded only that it was, and that strangling in a noose would be preferable. Whose man . . . Never hers! Perhaps in the morning he would change his mind.
Either a rattling of chain wakened him, or he became aware of the light. He could not have slept long, but his wits were muddled. He did not understand where he was, or why he was on his back with his arms twisted under him. He blinked in bewilderment at the robed, cowled figure holding the candle. Memory began to return. He looked the other way and saw two more of them….
Argh! He tried to sit up and almost choked himself. The chain from his collar had been drawn tight; he was staked out, helpless.
"Who are you?" he mumbled with parched mouth. "What are you doing?"
The man did not respond. Although he was standing motionless, clasping a black candle before him, only a steady glitter of eyes showed within his cowl. Toby's hair rose on his scalp. "Who are you?" he screamed.
"They will not speak," Lady Valda said.
He twisted his head until he located her. She was standing at a small table near the stair, busily unpacking a metal casket. Her four cowled associates stood in a square around Toby. Each held a black candle, and the steadiness of the flames suggested that the men were not breathing.
"Who are you?"
"My name is of no importance to you," she said calmly, intent on what she was doing. "To be truthful, nothing is of importance to you anymore." She closed the lid and laid the box on the floor, then began rearranging the miscellaneous objects she had removed from it. He saw a golden bowl, a scroll, and a dagger, but there were other things, too.
He was shivering shamefully. There was a tight knot in his belly.
To scream would be useless. The guardroom would be deserted. The house was far away, its residents doubtless asleep. The sentries on the walls would neither hear nor come to investigate if they did.
He stared again at the four men. Four flames, eight eyes unblinking. Masks! They all had thick black beards and wore black masks above them. So they were mortal men and that was trickery. But he was not cynic enough to believe that it would all be trickery. Hamish had been wrong about these men being hexers, or not right enough. Lady Valda was the hexer. Toby's recognition of evil had been a true instinct.
"What do you want of me?" His voice emerged as a hoarse whisper.
"Your body, of course. I came hunting a stalwart young man and see what I caught!"
She came across to him, her shoes scraping softly on the rock, the hem of her gown whispering around her ankles. He thought it was the same garment she had worn earlier, although it looked darker in the dim light— that shameless neckline was breathtakingly memorable. Her breasts seemed even larger viewed from below, above an astonishingly narrow waist. Unbound hair floated in a sable cloud around her, almost to her waist.
She crouched down beside him and stroked his cheek. He twisted his head away and the rusty collar scraped his throat.
"Relax!" she purred. "You're a big, brave boy, remember? You'd rather die than serve me, and you have the courage of a cornered badger."
He could see the burning evil behind the mockery dancing in her eyes. He tried to speak in a normal voice. "What are you going to do?"
"Conjure, of course. But you needn't worry. You will not be eaten by demons. You will not even see a demon, I promise you, not the teeniest, wispiest demon. You will feel no pain—or only a very tiny amount, nothing a strong young lad can't grit his teeth through. And when we are done, you will walk out of here a free man! Now, isn't that an exciting prospect?"
"I don't believe you!" His heart raced in terror and yet he was conscious of her closeness, her musky perfume. He was a man and a desirable woman had a hand on his neck. He noted the long, deep crease between her milk-white breasts.
Seeing his gaze wander, she chuckled. "Not that exciting prospect, boy! Admire, by all means, but those are not for you. To work! All I require of you is that you lie there and be silent. I repeat—you will not be hurt, even by this." She raised a dagger above his eyes. Its blade shone steely blue and was long enough to reach all the way through him. She unpinned his plaid to lay bare his chest, then stroked it playfully with soft fingers.
