The Years of Longdirk- The Complete Series

by Dave Duncan

  "Oh, is he?" He shouted her down. "And I'm just a big safe lout who's handy to rescue you when some man you're teasing gets violent, but not rich and sweet-talking and able to dress you up in fancy clothes?"

  Meg stared at him in utter silence.

  "I shouldn't have said that," he muttered.

  She stood up. "No, you shouldn't."

  "But you know what he'll do, Meg! He'll get what he wants from you and then toss you aside because you're not good enough. That's all he wants, just to ... you know."

  Meg said, "Oh! Oh, you are a boor, Toby Strangerson. A brainless boor!" Her voice shrilled across the tables.

  "Don't take any more bastards back to the glen, Meg!"

  "What? How dare you say such things about me?"

  "I didn't mean—"

  "Yes, you did! You called me a loose woman!"

  "No, I didn't!" He, too, was yelling at the top of his lungs. They would hear him in Fillan. "Any woman is loose if... I mean can be ... you know a man turns her head with words and talks her into ... Oh, demons! I promised your pa I would look after you!"

  "That's why you're taking musketry lessons, I suppose? And playing swords all day? You smell like a stable."

  "You're crying!"

  "No, I'm not!" She spun on her heel and flounced out of the mess.

  There were grins everywhere.

  He ate without noticing what he was eating.

  He found Hamish by himself in a corner, eating and reading at the same time. He sat down on the same bench.

  "I want to write a letter!"

  Hamish looked up in amazement. "Did I just hear—"

  "Can you get me a piece of paper and a quill?"

  "Steal paper?" Hamish said doubtfully. "Paper costs money!"

  "And wax. And ink, too."

  Hamish dutifully went off to the library and returned with a sheet of paper and writing tools. Toby turned down more fencing lessons and wasted the whole afternoon struggling over a letter. In the end he had five blots, six scorings-out, and three sentences: I am sorry about I was a boor. I was just am worried if you might get hurted and hoping you forgiving me. Your good friend, Tobias Strangerson.

  He sealed it with the wax and handed it to a page to deliver. Then he ran up to the gym and threw Neal Big around like a sack of oats.

  The next day the sun was shining, but no one came to summon him to the loch. They tried him on archery. In an hour he was putting his shafts alongside the gold at two hundred paces with a hundred-pound bow. In the afternoon he learned that he had a fair eye for firearms, although he knew most of his success stemmed from sheer brute strength, guns being cumbersome things that out-kicked any mule.

  There was no reply from Meg—not that day, nor the day after.

  He had no way of knowing if his letter had reached her.

  7

  It was another morning. Toby had been wrestling, so he was wearing trews. He had added a mask and plastron to fence short swords with Gavin the Grim, who had gained his name from his unchanging gentle smile— who had to be at least fifty but was still spry as a grasshopper and could wield a blade better than any man in Scotland. They were just about to face off for the second time...

  Gavin said, "Break!"

  Toby hauled off his mask and turned to see Rory, resplendent in full Highland regalia, from the silver badge in his bonnet to his shiny shoes and the black knife in his, stocking that meant he was otherwise unarmed.

  Gavin murmured "My lord," and tactfully departed.

  Rory led the way over to a window. "I'm impressed, really impressed! You were giving the old boy a serious match there!"

  That remark felt so good that Toby ground his teeth to stop himself smiling. He unbuckled the plastron and took it off with a sigh of relief—it was so tight on him he could hardly breathe in it. "I can't touch him. I was trying to wear him down."

  Rory laughed disbelievingly. "That's all? Even I can't do that to old Gavin! Never mind, I have news."

  "Good or bad?" Have you managed to seduce Meg yet?

  "Good. But first. . . have you changed your mind? If not Pikeman Toby, how about Serjeant? Malcolm says he'll shoot any six men at random if he can have you."

  Toby shook his head. He had been expecting something like this. Have you broken her heart yet? They had reached the window, well away from eavesdroppers. The old devilry was back in the silver eyes and he braced himself for treachery.

  Rory shrugged. "I said I couldn't deliver a sponsor for a prizefighter, but I was being too modest, as usual. I've found you one. He's on his way here now."

  "Who is?"

  "Stringer."

  "Coming to claim the reward?"

  "I hope not." Rory spoke as if the matter was trivial. "A hundred marks isn't all that much to him. Listen carefully! Stringer's a trader. He buys here and ships back south. He's heading home for the winter in another week. He's rich enough and important enough that he won't be questioned at the docks the way you would be if you tried to board a ship. If we can get him to take you with him, you'll be free and clear, right?"

  Away to England? That had always been Toby's ambition, hadn't it? Why did it feel so wrong now?

  "Yes, but—"

  "You can see Cruachan this morning. Unless the wind veers, the ships will be leaving on the next ebb, so there isn't much time. At breakfast this morning he happened to mention that he dabbles in the ring. And then he went on to relate that he has a pugilist of his own, and the man travels with him as a bodyguard. He's here in Inverary! Zing! Lightning struck!"

  "Struck what?" Toby asked warily.

  "My slow wits, I suppose. I should have discovered this sooner. Stringer is one of the Fancy, you numbskull! He promotes fighters. He was bragging about the money he would make this winter off this Randal of his. I told him I knew a Highland lad who could knock Randal's stuffing out and spit on it." Silver eyes gleamed.

  "Oh, you did, did you?" Toby said, feeling something stir in his gut. "How big is Randal?"

  "No idea. I just spoke up on principle—he can't be any bigger than you, can he? I offered to lay money on you, of course."

  "That was very rash of you."

  Rory was smiling dangerously. "Nonsense! The champion of Strath Fillan against a pansy Sassenach? You won't make a liar of me, will you?"

  "I haven't seen him, this Randal."

  "Stringer's gone to fetch him."

  Sudden changes of plan suggested sudden changes of circumstance, and a chance remark at breakfast did not seem quite sufficient. Perhaps it did to gentry. "What about the dead-or-alive business? I thought I was hiding from Stringer so he wouldn't find out about that."

  "A hundred marks is chicken feed compared to what Stringer will think he can make off you if you can beat his man." Rory raised his eyebrows. "I understood this was your ambition? He's your meal ticket, my bareknuckle friend! He'll take you south and promote you—train you, line you up with fights. If you want to rat out on him once you're there, of course, that's your business."

  "I couldn't do that!"

  The rebel snorted. "That's up to you. What I'm saying is that you fight his man today and make a good showing. . . . You don't even need to win, just show promise. You're young yet. Stringer can spirit you out of Scotland better than anyone. Here he comes now. Are you game or not?"

  It seemed to make sense. It was a challenge a man could understand, one Toby Strangerson could not refuse and did not want to. Best of all, it was a chance to do something for himself instead of depending on Rory or Lady Lora or even Father Lachlan. When it came to fists, he knew what he was at.

  "I'm always game."

  "Good lad!" Rory switched to English. "Max, old chap—this is the man."

  Toby turned around, then bowed to the gentleman.

  Master Maxim Stringer was well named, being almost as tall as Toby himself and extremely thin. He wore hose and knickerbockers, a fur-trimmed doublet over a frilly shirt. The hair on the top of his head was set in elaborate curls as
a vain effort to hide a thinning crown, and his pigtail was wound with silver thread. He had an excessively long upper lip but no chin worthy of the name, and he looked Toby up and down with disdain.

  "Frightfully young, isn't he? You'll break a foal's spirit if you run it too soon, you know."

  "His spirit's as sound as his wind," Rory said cheerfully. "Name the stakes."

  The man at Stringer's back laughed, displaying a wide absence of teeth. He was broad and bald and at least forty—not short by most standards, but shorter than Toby. He might weigh almost as much, though, for he was thick, bulging over his belt. His nose had been pounded flat, one of his ears was several times the size of the other. His face had a leathery look, like one big scar. This must be Randal.

  So Toby had wind and reach on his side. He would have to keep the older man at a distance and just wear him down. He tried to see what shape the man's hands were in, but Randal was keeping them out of sight.

  Randal wore a sleeveless shirt and short breeches, and his feet were bare. He had an anchor tattooed on his arm—there was room to engrave a whole navy on those arms—and his pigtail was tarred. He was a sailor, which did not exactly disprove Rory's tale, but didn't quite fit with it, either.

  Master Stringer reached in a pocket and produced a single piece of glass on a ribbon. He contorted his face to insert this in his right eye and then walked all around Toby, as if Toby were a nag in a horse market. Rory took the foil and plastron away to display him better.

  The armory was filling up. Word of the proposed match must be out already, for a continuous line of men lounged along the far wall. Hamish was one of them, looking as if he had just seen a ghost—or someone who might be a ghost very shortly, perhaps?

  "Mm. Promising!" Stringer admitted. "The arms are especially impressive. But too young—his gristle isn't set yet. What do you think, Randal?"

  "I'll break him like a twig, sir."

  "I'm sure you will. But, if you're quite serious, Rory... say four hundred pounds?"

  "Make it five," Rory said cheerfully. "It's a nice round number."

  Toby gulped at the thought of so much money riding on his ability to punch—and withstand pain, of course. That was the hard part. There ought to be a purse for the fighters themselves, but in a sense he would be fighting for his life, so he could hardly ask for cash as well.

  "Five then!" Stringer drawled. "And I have another hundred says the boy won't be there for the tenth round."

  "And if he is, another two hundred for the twentieth?"

  "If you like."

  "And three hundred for the thirtieth and so on?"

  Even Stringer looked startled at that. He glanced at Randal.

  "Take it, sir," the pug growled. "It's sugar from babies. I'll put him to sleep in three rounds."

  Toby was trying to work out the numbers. Some fights lasted seventy rounds or more, although he'd never gone more than nine, when he'd been knocked out by Ross MacLachlan, four years ago. One hundred plus two hundred was three. Plus three . . . Um, six? If he could stand up for fifty or sixty rounds, he was going to make Rory a fortune. Or lose him one, of course, if he got knocked out sooner.

  With a sickening twinge of doubt, Toby realized that he wasn't certain of winning. He thought he could, and he certainly had a good chance, but he wasn't quite sure. He'd never doubted himself before, and it was a bad feeling. Perhaps life in the outside world had already begun to teach him discretion. In Fillan he'd always been up against country lads like himself. This Randal, sailor or not, looked like a bareknuckle expert, a pro—hard, solid. Prizefighting was never about hitting hardest or fastest, it was about taking punishment and coming back for more. He suspected that he could punch Randal until his fists fell off and the man would still be there.

  "Sounds good!" Rory said. "You still game for a fight, Longdirk?"

  "Of course!" Toby snapped, laying his left foot forward and raising his fists. Randal jumped and backed away a step.

  "Not yet!" Rory laughed. "You see the mustard in him, Max? He's a real killer."

  Not funny!

  "Where?" asked Stringer.

  "Out in the paddock. Can't fight on stone!"

  "Oh, absolutely not! Grass is best. Always prefer grass. Makes the blood look redder, what?"

  When Rory had described Stringer as an idiot, he had been unusually accurate. The man seemed quite witless.

  "And why not right now?" Rory said airily. "Let's go and get the lads started. How about Sir Malcolm for referee?"

  "Splendid choice. And we'll need a timekeeper and umpires ..." The Englishman's drawl faded away as Rory led him off.

  "Kid," said Randal, "you're crazy! Don't make me do this to you."

  "I'm not worried!" Toby turned round and headed for the door. His blood was starting to race as the prospect sank in. A real prizefight! And good money! Damned good money to ride on a tyro.

  The sailor was growling at his heels. "You really are crazy, lad. I've been a pugilist for twenty-three years. I know every trick there is and I've stood up to most of the best in my time. I went thirty-seven rounds against Crusher Fishmonger, and not two men in England can say the same. I took the Exeter Butcher in sixty-five rounds and he never walked straight again. Bryton Fletcher was only twenty-four, poor fellow, and I put his left eye out in the thirtieth round, but he insisted on going on, and he lost the other one, too. He barely knew night from day after that. You're not bad looking, boy, but there's no way you can put a face back together after I've worked on it. The girls won't love you if you look like a pudding. Let me tell you—"

  His hand barely settled on Toby's shoulder—Toby spun around and struck it off just in time. A week's training might not have made him an expert wrestler, but it had taught him some of the pressure points and he knew where those twisted, powerful fingers had been heading.

  "Here!" Randal barked indignantly. "What's all this hitting before the match?"

  "Save it!" growled old Gavin, sliding between them. "Keep your paws to yourself, old man. And keep your lies to yourself, too. Need a second, lad?"

  Randal shrugged his great shoulders and rolled away.

  "I'd be honored," Toby said. "Unless my sponsor wants to second me himself." It felt good to have a sponsor to talk about. As for Gavin, the spidery old fencing instructor felt right. True, he was volunteering, but if he'd been bribed already, it had been extremely fast work. He was older than Randal, though, and the memory of his stamina with the swords was a warning not to take anything for granted. . . . Toby's mind was flitting like a butterfly. Calm down! It's only a fight.

  "And bottleholder?"

  "This one," Toby said, watching Hamish's anxious face approach through the crowd. He could trust Hamish not to fill him full of liquor when he expected water, or water when he needed liquor to deaden the pain. The gym was almost empty now, the audience having siphoned itself off to the paddock to preempt the ringside positions.

  Hamish failed to return Toby's cheerful grin. Hamish was poking at something in his left hand, which turned out to be money. He looked up, worried and distracted. "Got any coins, Toby?"

  "Some." Toby stalked over to where he had left his plaid and retrieved his sporran. "Here, bet it all."

  "What? No, that wasn't what I meant!" He lowered his voice. "I just want to look at them."

  Toby had no time to unravel the lad's high-flying fancies, whatever they were. "Well, take care of that for me anyway. Will you be my bottleholder?"

  Hamish blinked several times. "Your what?"

  "Bottleholder. There's going to be a fight."

  "Oh? Is there? Who're you fighting?"

  Hamish must have been at the bottle already.

  SEVEN

  Knockout

  1

  The sponsors had chosen a corner of one of the paddocks where the turf was in good shape. Ropes and stakes were being hurriedly arranged to form the other two sides of the ring, eight paces a side, and already there were two or three hundred people gat
hered, with more coming all the time. Word must have spread through the village and even reached the ships. The crowd buzzed like summer wasps. Meg was there, behind the fences, with Lady Lora and the whole population of the castle. Servants were placing chairs in a wagon to make a grandstand for the ladies and gentlemen.

  Rory and Stringer leaned on the wooden rails nearby, chatting quietly, neither of them displaying concern at the horrible stakes they were risking. The two umpires they had chosen were seeking out a third to act as tie-breaker. Ben Cruachan was certainly in view, white with snow, but the sun had brought no warmth. The wind raised goosebumps on Toby's skin. He jogged in place, eager to get started. His opponent stood with massive arms folded, scowling at him contemptuously.

  A stable boy was painting the Scratch on the turf. Apart from him, there were six men in the ring, waiting for the referee to arrive and start the fight—the two bare-chested combatants, their seconds and bottlehold-ers. Randal's second was another tar-queued sailor with an equally battered appearance. The bottleholder was a wiry ferret of a man with a shrill voice. The other two were leaving the jeering to him, but he lacked imagination—bastard and uppity kid were about the best he could manage, apart from a few improbable obscenities.

  Hamish had now recovered his wits and was doing better, deriding Randal as a punch-drunk antique has-been, whose wits had all been knocked out of him years ago and whose face showed that he couldn't stop a fly-swat. The crowd listened appreciatively and shouted out its own comments. Except for some of the sailors, everyone favored the Scotsman, of course. They would have put their money on him if he'd been missing an arm. He mustn't fail them!

  Without his shirt, Randal seemed larger than before. As if to compensate for his bald scalp, his thick body was a forest of grizzled hair, like a bearskin stretched over a barrel. His breeches displayed very bandy legs. There was nothing wrong with his shoulders, but it was the depth of his chest that Toby found worrisome. Hitting that heap of muscle would do no good at all.