by Dave Duncan
"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 wail, 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?"
Toby was so startled by the change of attitude that he almost cut off his upper lip. "Everything's fine, sir," he admitted.
"I'm Malcolm Campbell, the castellan. If there is anything we can do to make your stay here more enjoyable, see you ask me right away."
Bewildered, Toby glanced at Hamish for clues. He was wearing his owlish look, which meant he was a step or two ahead.
"Now the best I can do for wear for you at the moment, sir," the castellan continued, "are these." He laid his burden on a bench. "The shoon we think belonged to Wee Wilkin, a great warrior who fell at Parline. I'm sure he would be honored for you to have them. If you'll just leave your plaids here, the women will get them washed and dried by morning. I'm afraid the shirt'll be snug, but they can run up something for you by tomorrow, and we'll find furs if you need to go out."
This sudden change of heart must be some sort of trap, but Toby could not see how, or what, or why. Hamish, damn him ... if he looked any more owlish, he would fly away and hunt mice.
"The evening meal's still an hour or so off," Malcolm proclaimed cheerfully. "But I expect you'd enjoy a little something to keep you going until then. Have you any preference in whisky, Master Toby?"
Toby shook his head, causing the soldier to nod his.
"Then I'll see something is laid out for you and, er ... your friend. If you'll just come back to the mess whenever you're ready." He reached for the door.
"What do we do with the water?"
"Oh, it gets ladled back into the boiler. But don't you mind it—I'll send a lad."
The door closed.
Toby rounded on Hamish. "What by the demons of Delia is going on? Why this sudden back-slapping, nothing-too-good, long-lost-brothering?"
The owl blinked. "You don't trust him, do you?"
"Of course not!"
"Do you ever trust anyone, ever?"
"Tell me what's going on!"
"Why ask me? How can you trust what I tell you? I'm just..." Hamish's
smirk wavered and he backed away as Toby advanced menacingly on him. "Well, think about it! They knew what you did."
"So?"
"Now Sir Malcolm knows how and why." With an impudent grin, the kid added, "You're a big hero, Longdirk!"
Toby resisted the urge to dunk the kid's head back in the bathwater. He was probably right, as usual. Any story coming from Meg would be well embroidered. Rory's might have no resemblance to the truth at all. He might as well go out and see what sort of trouble the two of them had gotten him into. Besides, it was a long time since breakfast at Sir Torquil's.
The shirt would have to go on first. He pulled it over his head and then tried to put an arm into a sleeve. The tussle ended in a sound of ripping as the stitches surrendered.
"You'd think the Campbell could afford better seamstresses!" Toby discarded the remains. Who needed a shirt? The plaid was smaller than his own and smelled unpleasantly of soap, but a plaid was an accommodating garment. Best of all, it was dry. He wiped mud off his belt and sporran with the remains of the shirt and struggled into the unfamiliar socks. Wee Wilkin's feet must have been longer and narrower than his, but the shoes would do if he did not have to walk far.
When the two still-faintly-damp visitors emerged from the corridor into the kitchen, at least fifty of the castle guards were assembled there, lounging around on the stools and benches. Sir Malcolm was waiting at the entrance. He took Toby's hand, but instead of shaking it, he raised it overhead. The men surged to their feet in a tattoo of boots and a fanfare of scraping furniture.
"Huzzah!" cried the castellan. The ensuing cheer rippled the banners overhead. "Huzzah!"
Toby felt his face going red, redder, reddest. He was being applauded because he had misjudged a blow and killed a man? That was ridiculous! This was rank hypocrisy. No matter how lustily they shouted for him, some of them must be planning to become rich off him before tomorrow's dawn. Earl Robert was known to favor the English governor; his men could not possibly all support Fergan—a few perhaps, in secret, but not all of them! Yet here they were making public rejoicing at the death of an English fusilier. Some of the guard would certainly rat. It would only take one. And even if none of the guard did, what of the hundreds of servants in the castle? Where was their loyalty?
Phonies!
The cheering ended, the castellan conducted the guests to a table laden with food. Hamish set to with a will, but Toby was beset by men twice his age coming to shake his hand and laud his heroism in tackling an armed soldier with his bare hands. They made him feel like the biggest idiot in the history of the Highlands.
Eventually the procession of admirers ended. Most of the guard departed. At last he could do justice to the cold pheasant and blood sausage. He drank only water.
5
He was distracted by more scraping of boots as the remaining men again rose to their feet. This time they were acknowledging visitors. One of them was Rory, almost unrecognizable in the dandified dress of an English gentleman—hat, kid buskins, embroidered shirt, fur-trimmed, full-skirted surcoat, and his legs encased in stocks of contrasting colors, one blue, one striped red and green. The outrageous outfit must be the latest fashion in Sassenach-loving Edinburgh. Even a woman whose taste ran to popinjays would never class him as handsome, surely? Damn him!
And the lady on his arm . . . Demons! It was Meg, decked out as if she had just arrived from the court, looking five years older and a hand taller. How could she even stand up in all that material?—laces and stitchery, flounces and puffed sleeves, plumes and pleats. The braids had gone and her hair was gathered in a silver net. She was a child playing at dressing up—no woman could have a waist that slender! Realizing that he was the only man in the hall still sitting, Toby staggered to his feet as she approached on Rory's arm. That neckline? How did the dress make her look so, er, buxom? That night he had rescued her, he had seen ... There must be some sort of padding to push her up like that.
She was certainly enjoying the attention. She simpered. She curtseyed. She had a brief struggle with her gown, and then perched on a stool.
At the far end of the mess, the kitchen staff decided the young lord was here to stay. They unobtrusively started work again as quietly as they could.
Rory took the end of a bench beside Meg and looked up reprovingly. "Longdirk," he murmured, "it is permissible to notice a lady, but that gawky ogle is overdoing things by far."
Toby was the only one still standing ... he sank back on his stool.
"Better!" the master said. "Now close your mouth and dry your chin."
"You approve?" Meg asked, her cheeks bright pink.
Toby gulped and stammered helplessly. The only word he could find was, "Gorgeous!"
Rory frowned. "I came to issue a warning. Hello? Can you hear me?"
Toby tore his eyes away from Meg. "Yes."
"Sure? Noose? Gallows? One hundred marks, dead or alive, remember? We have a small problem."
"What sort of problem?"
"Grandmother has a house guest."
"What sort of house guest?"
"A gentleman, of course. Master Maxim Stringer—an English merchant. He owns an import business in Dumbarton. He may not take quite the same attitude toward outlaws as we natives do."
Reality began to seep into Toby's churning wits. "The natives? Does one more matter? Somebody here is going to squeal to the Sassenachs."
"No."
"A hundred marks—"
"It's tempting," Rory said sharply. "One or two may be tempted, but the Campbells won't betray a guest. Lady Lora has already made her feelings known, and so has Sir Malcolm. Believe me, any man who tips off the English won't live long enough to enjoy his reward. So you needn't worry about the chiefs men, nor the house staff. But, Master Stringer may be different. He won't care as much for the money, you understand, but he is English, poor fellow. His servants are living on the ship or billeted in the village, so they're no problem. Just him."
"I should leave!"
The master shook his head impatiently. "And go where? You're posted on every tree now. Even the Campbells can't shield you in Oban or Glasgow or Dumbarton. You stand out like Ben Cruachan, laddie."
Toby clenched his teeth. "So I have to stay here?"
"Not indefinitely. When the weather clears. Master Stringer will be sailing back to Dumbarton. Other ships, too. Father Lachlan's convinced that he must get you to Glasgow before you start causing terrible damage."
"What? What sort of—"
Rory shrugged. "Ask him. I think he's floundering. But that doesn't solve the long-term problem, does it? You're an idiot, but an interesting idiot, and not unlikable. You saved my life in the bog, even if you did provoke the bogy's spite in the first place. I owe you a debt, and I pay my debts. I want to see you settled, Master Strangerson."
He smiled reassuringly at Meg. Oh, he was very sure of himself now, was Rory! No one could call him to account in Inverary, except his father, away on the far side of Scotland. He could even parade around in the motley of a court jester without making a mess hall full of Highlanders collapse in earthquakes of mirth. There had been grins, yes, but no more. He must have proved himself a demon of a fighter at some time to have earned such respect.
He had the woman he lusted for trapped in his web. He could afford to be generous to the serf who had assisted in arranging this desirable turn of events. He could patronize him now.
"Muscle is no substitute for clan or land, boy. The law says you're a vagrant, even without the price on your head."
So again Toby faced the question: Whose man will you be?
"Which side are you recruiting for today?"
His insolence brought a welcome flush to the master's handsome cheek, and a most unwelcome stare of dismay from Meg. Rory's voice did not waver, though. He has charm, she had said. There was no need for him to lose his temper now, no need to resort to swords to keep the foolish girl from running away.
"Do not discuss politics in this house! Never! Only
the Campbell himself decides such matters. Clear?"
"Yes, Master."
"Good. I'm recruiting for Inverary. My father can adopt you into the clan. Sir Malcolm is always looking for strong young men. So you'll be Pikeman Toby Campbell of Inverary, and then the Sassenachs can stuff their warrant in a bombard and blow it to hell."
Hamish made a noise perilously close to a whistle of astonishment. Meg beamed ecstatically.
Everything a man needed: a name, a job, a home—a master.
"Just pikeman? Not official Clan Hexer?"
Rory stared at him through a long silence. "Can you?"
"No. Whatever wonders happen around me are not my doing. I don't call them."
"That limits your value, but I won't believe it's all just luck. If I was marching into battle, Longdirk, I'd rather have you at my side than all the MacDonalds in the Isles."
"Wouldn't he be better protection in front?" said Meg.
Toby winced. The ice in her eyes said he was being unnecessarily mulish.
The master guffawed at her humor and then returned to business. "It's time to make up your mind! Whose man do you want to be?" He adjusted a lace cuff thoughtfully. "Of course, you are the king's man. Every man is the king's man first. Every bond of manrent excludes fealty to His Majesty."
Toby could only nod. In theory that was true, although it did not prevent the earl of Argyll from deciding which king his people would support.
"Which king, Longdirk?"
The tables had been turned.
"You just told me not to discuss politics here, my lord."
"May I intrude?" Meg asked, intruding. "When an ox can't be led, it can sometimes be driven. Lord Gregor has made you an incredibly generous offer, Toby. You spurn it. What do you want?"
He scratched his head. "You safe in Oban, to start with."
Rory smiled like a well-fed wolf. "You need worry no more about Meg. My grandmother is even now writing a note to her parents, and it will go by runner tomorrow. They will know that she is safe."
Safe from whom? Meg had lowered her gaze to the forgotten food on the boards. Her parents would be enraptured at the news. The tanner was a rich man in Tyndrum, but the humblest scullery job in Inverary Castle would be a great advancement for his daughter. Toby was relieved of his promise.
