by Ken Hood
"It was a kind thought," he said gently. "But I can look after myself better than you can. You must realize that you're close to being a woman now. Soon men will begin to lust after you. You should have sent a man with the message, if you thought it was that important."
"Or a real woman, perhaps?"
The moon was behind her. He could not see her face under the brim of her bonnet.
"A man, of course. A woman would have had the same trouble."
The foot tapped faster. She heaved her cloak higher on her shoulders. "I was doubly fortunate that you recognized me in time, though."
He looked up, puzzled by her tone. "Recognized you? I didn't. I didn't know it was you."
Meg said, "Oh!" very violently. "You crude, oversized, shambling ox, Toby Strangerson! What does it take to get an idea into that lump of granite you call a head? Why don't you ever even try?" She whirled in a dance of braids and stalked away.
He shrugged to himself, remembering that last night's experience would have been terrifying for a child and this wild flight into the unknown could hardly be helping calm her down. He should have swallowed his stupid pride and let her rotten brother accompany her… Fat Vik: her half-brother and probably his, too. She would have felt safer with someone she could trust. Now, if he could fasten the bundle to the hilt of the sword, he would have both hands free…
"Do it this way," Rory said, kneeling beside him. "Fine lass, that one."
"She's a nice kid."
"You think so?" Rory chuckled softly. "Feisty, I'd call her. There, try that. So you are leaving home, Toby Strangerson? It may be a long whiles before you are able to return safely."
"When the Fillan flows up Beinn Bheag will be soon enough."
The pale eyes regarded him steadily, shining in the moonlight. "What of the grieving friends you leave behind?"
"They'll survive." In truth — no friends.
"Och, but they will mourn!" Master MacDonald shook his head in sorrow. "And surely there is some small window with a candle lit for you! You have left your heart in trust?"
To admit that there was no one at all who cared whether Toby Strangerson lived or died would be a statement of cold fact. It proved curiously difficult to say out loud. He could easily lie, of course, but lying would itself be a confession that the truth hurt, and it didn't. He had accepted long ago that a strong man must stand alone. He had no need of friends and he would find a woman to love when he had something more to offer than the shame of bastardy and an empty sporran. He had no need to explain all that to this stranger in the night. Besides, he had begun to wonder if the man already knew the answers and was making fun of him. He just shook his head.
Rory sprang to his feet. "We'll be on our way, then. You'll all do exactly as I tell you, because Glen Orchy is no romp in a featherbed."
"Just how does one get across the bog?"
"You talk nice to the wisp, of course."
Hamish said, "The what?" very squeakily.
"The wisp. The bogy, if you prefer. Bogy, boggle, wisp… a wild hob. It's not malicious as a rule. It won't meddle with you if you don't meddle with it, but it can get playful, like a bear cub. Come on." Rory hung his lute on his back and turned to go. "Bring the rope, Longdirk."
"Take it yourself."
Meg and Hamish gasped aloud. Toby had surprised even himself. He should not be refusing orders from a man of rank, and especially not one armed with a sword. Darkness and remoteness did not matter — he would be in mortal danger in a crowded street now.
"Indeed?" said the sandy-haired man softly. "Whose man are you, then, that speaks to me so? Who must I deal with when I have taught you your manners, little laddie?"
Toby Strangerson was an addlebrained idiot! His bundle hung on the hilt of his sword. By the time he had disposed of that and drawn the monster blade from its ramshackle scabbard, Rory would have put more holes in him than a charge of grapeshot. Even if Rory sportingly waited until they were both armed and ready, he could still win easily.
Himself, Toby did not need this self-proclaimed MacDonald of Glencoe. Himself, he would brave the hills and take his chances on starvation or freezing or betrayal, but he had given his word to Kenneth Tanner. He had Meg to consider, was responsible for Meg. Hamish Teacher would be no protector for her with Toby lying dead in the bog. He must back down, and quickly, and count himself lucky if he did not get his tongue slit anyway. Yet the apology stuck in his throat.
"Just don't call me that!" he said.
Rory made an incredulous sound. "I'll call you anything I want, boy. You'd rather be Toby the Bastard? I said, 'Bring the rope, Longdirk!'"
In silence, Toby went for the rope and slung it over his shoulder.
"When I give you an order, Longdirk, you answer, 'Yes, sir!'"
"Yes, sir."
"And run, Longdirk."
"Yes, sir."
"Remember in future, Longdirk. Come along, everyone. May I carry your pack, Miss Campbell? Will you stroll with me this evening?"
Toby stalked off with the rope. He did not know what use it was going to be and would rather not know any sooner than he had to. He wondered why he had been so surly and pigheaded. He certainly did not care about his name. He was determined to find himself a new one, so why insist on the old? That was just dimwitted. And why had he made the snippy remark about lutists earlier? Why had he taken such a dislike to Rory of Glencoe?
He was not usually so childish. Boys of his own age had spurned him, but by the time he was twelve, he had been looking most adults straight in the eye. He had learned that if he acted his size instead of his age, he would often be accepted as one of them. Now the Rory man was here to help him in his time of trouble — a gentleman, probably a noble, well-educated, and wise in the ways of the world. His fancy talk might have been an offer of friendship by gentry ways. So why was Toby Strangerson behaving so loutishly?
Perhaps because he was sure that the stranger was one of King Fergan's Black Feather rebels and intended to enlist another. If the help was conditional on that, then things were going to be tricky.
A few moments later, he was annoyed but not at all surprised to find Rory walking at his side, with the two kids following. The questions began:
"Tell me about your fight with the Sassenach."
"It was nothing much."
"Tell me anyway."
Toby considered his options. If he again challenged the man's right to give him orders, then dawn might find him still trapped in the glen, or lying dead on the heather. He had responsibilities to Meg and in lesser amounts to Hamish. He must cooperate.
"There wasn't much to it. He was pestering the girl. I knocked him down, he drew his sword, I found his musket lying in the grass, I hit him with it, but too hard. I didn't mean to kill him."
"Just like that? It's beautiful! And how did you escape from the castle?"
"Their manacles were old and rusty. I managed to free myself in the cell. Then Lady Valda came down to—"
"Who?"
"I'm told that's her name. Her emblem's a black crescent on purple. She rode in from Fort William."
"Spirits preserve us!" MacDonald muttered. "Black crescent? Black hair and a face to drive men insane?"
"Black hair, yes. Beautiful, certainly, but not my type."
"No?" Rory said skeptically. "Lad, if she decided you were her type, then nothing would save you! You'd howl outside her window for the rest of your life. What exactly… Roughly, what did she want of you?"
"She said she wanted to sponsor me as a prizefighter. I didn't believe that was what she really wanted. I knocked her men down, got out, stole a horse, and rode home."
Put like that, it was gibberish. He wondered how in the world he could expect to be believed. He wasn't.
"A singular narrative!" Rory MacDonald of Glencoe faked a yawn. "Can you add a few plausible details to undermine my native skepticism?"
"Only that I was raised by the witchwife. I think she enlisted the hob to rescue me."
"Ah! Now that helps. That does help. Just because hobs aren't smart, people assume that they aren't powerful, but if a hob ever gets truly riled about something, it can be deadly. I know of one that shook down a castle and had boulders rolling off the hills. I wonder if it took a dislike to Lady Valda? Would I be completely crazy if I decided to believe you?"
The footing was very marshy now and there was a boggy scent in the air. Tendrils of faint white mist drifted close to the ground.
Toby had just been called a liar, but that was dangerous bait. He ignored it. "Tell me about Lady Valda — sir."
"She was Nevil's favorite." Rory glanced around to make sure the youngsters were keeping up. "That's a courtly way of saying mistress. She was a hexer even then. She disappeared about ten years ago. Nevil put a price on her head, but she was never found."
Feet made sucking noises in the moss.
"King Nevil offered a reward for her? Why?"
"He didn't tell me. It was a hefty one."
"So what's she doing in the Highlands? Is she pardoned now?"
"I very much doubt it," Rory said firmly. "Wherever she's been, it was beyond Nevil's clutches, probably abroad."
"Perhaps she hid from him by gramarye."
"Do you think she's the only hexer in England? The king himself is an adept of renown. I cannot imagine why any woman would masquerade as her, though, so you are probably correct. I suppose I must let you live after all."
"What do you mean?" Toby growled.
"What I say. Your account of the fight agrees fairly well with Meg's — allowing for your touching modesty and her romantic fancies. I can't see how the encounter could have been faked, or set up in advance. But that flying-pig-singing-fish tale of your escape from the dungeon is pure malarkey. You're bait, my boy. You've been set up as a lure to lead the Sassenachs to my friends. The question now is whether you know it or not."
Toby stumbled, not entirely because the footing had just changed to bare rock.
Rory steadied his elbow with a disconcertingly powerful grip. "We're there. This is where we enter the bog. I'll lead you across alive."
Toby looked down at him angrily.
His guide beamed benevolently. "I mean it. Do you doubt that I would kill you? Do you doubt that I could?"
If he was a competent swordsman, which he probably was, then he was certainly capable of spitting Toby Strangerson. He might, of course, find himself with the same diabolical problems Crazy Colin had run into.
"If you can catch me."
Rory laughed, a flash of white teeth in the moonlight. "We're going to be roped together! But you have my word: I'll see you safely through."
"This is a change of plan?"
"Possibly a temporary one. You've made me curious. You're either a spy or a lure. If the Sassenachs set you up, then you're a traitor and a spy. You wouldn't be the first man to buy his life with a few solemn oaths. If Lady Valda is behind it, then there's gramarye involved. Since she's not on Nevil's side, I don't know what game you're playing. No, that's not right. What I mean is, I don't know who's using you, or how. Somebody is. Until I find out who and how, I'll let you live, Little Man." Rory turned to include the two kids in the conversation. "This is the edge of the bogy's bog."
CHAPTER FOUR
"I came through last night," Rory continued, "and it never reached my knees, but we could go in up to our waists — icy water and mud. We'll be roped together, because the wisp may try to separate us in the mist."
Hamish moaned. The mist was closing in already.
"A wisp's just a sort of hob." Perhaps Rory meant that remark to be comforting. "I'd prefer that you go blindfolded, but you can look if you want. Just don't believe anything your eyes tell you. You'll see lights and strange shapes in the fog. Some of them may be ghoulies, trying to scare you off the path. Pay no attention to those — dead people are the least dangerous sort. Most of what you'll see will be only the wisp's idea of fun."
The wisp was not the only one with a nasty sense of humor, Toby decided. "And what if it leads us to our deaths?"
"It may," Rory said seriously. "I warned you this would be tricky. Fortunately, it likes music. I had no trouble last night; of course, there was only one of me." He kicked off his shoes and tucked them into the folds of his plaid. He left his hose on. "I can't guarantee that my lute will stay in tune in the damp, but the wisp doesn't seem to mind a few twangs. Hitch your dress up, Miss Campbell, as far as your modesty allows. Plaids, too."
The clammy fog was growing thicker, muffling the moonlight. Meg plucked up her dress and somehow tucked it into her belt. Toby hitched his plaid up until the hem was above his knees.
Rory began looping the rope under their arms. "I'll go first. We'll put this wee fellow next, because he's the strongest. Normally, we'd go in single file, but I'm going to tie both of you to him. Hold your tethers in front of you with a little slack in them, so if one of us falls, we don't drag the rest under, too. There's holes in the muck you can't see."
"I hope the wisp can hear your music over the noise of my teeth chattering, sir," Hamish said bravely. Meg was saying nothing at all, hovering close to Toby.
Rory hung his lute around his neck. "We'll find out."
"How can you tell which way to go?" With the others all strung to him, Toby felt like a spiderweb.
"That's up to the wisp!" Rory strummed strings to check the pitch. "Should do." He began to play a cheerful, jigging tune.
For long, shivery minutes, nothing seemed to happen. Then Toby realized that the mist had become patchy. Behind him, it remained solid, but over the marsh it was breaking up into pillars and sheets, opening gaps. Soon a faint glow flickered in the distance, a tiny candle burning on the water.
"There we are!" Rory said cheerfully and strode forward. "Our guiding beacon!" The others followed him, stepping down from the rock onto moss — soft, cold, and squelchy.
The moon must be shining somewhere overhead, but its light was diffused by the fog. The way led between pools and channels so dark that they seemed like empty space, between tufts of sedge and clumps of tall, spiky bulrushes, and through the slowly shifting coils and wraiths of mist. The twinkle of light ahead shifted; Rory changed direction. Soon it shifted again.
Somebody's teeth were chattering, providing a counterpoint to the jangle of the lute.
The muck underfoot grew softer, treacherous to walk on. Water came up over Toby's ankles, agonizingly cold. Hamish was the first to slip, going down on his seat with a splash and a cry. His rope jerked on Toby's chest. He scrambled to his feet again and they continued to trudge forward, heading for that illusive beacon glow. It receded before them, leading them on. Leading them where? Following a bogy into a bog was not a traditional mark of sanity.
The mist had begun to take on nightmare shapes: women writhing in slow and silent dances, giant faces, vague hints of ghoulies or bogeymen. They gleamed with an eldritch light of their own. Toby wondered how much was his own imagination and how much the wisp's reported sense of humor. Tangles caught at ankles, bulrushes brushed with wet fingers on shivering legs. The world had shrunk to the size of Granny Nan's cottage, enclosed in silvery fog monsters. Mud sucked harder around his feet, and slowly the cruel cold climbed higher on his shins. The footing was sludge or moss or tangled grasses, and never sure. Every step involved hauling a foot straight up before it could be moved forward. The light kept changing position until he lost all sense of direction.
Could the wisp detect his demon? Would it resent the diabolic intruder? He was sure that the hob had been gone from its grotto when he went to look for Granny Nan. If the wisp reacted that way, then Rory might march them in circles until they all froze to death. On the other hand, the demon had proved it would protect Toby Strangerson, so it was not likely to let him freeze or drown. Which was stronger — Lady Valda's demon or the bogy of Glen Orchy?
Meg cried out and disappeared completely. Toby hauled on the rope until he could grasp her arm and drag her uprig
ht, spluttering.
"All right?" Stupid, stupid question! His feet were sinking deeper as he stood there. Rory had turned to see, still strumming vigorously.
Meg shuddered. "Yes! Keep g-g-going!" Her sodden dress had fallen out of its tuck and was clinging to her slender legs.
The journey resumed, curving to the left. Water lapped around Toby's thighs and mud sucked at his feet. He was a beetle wading through cold porridge. Everyone's teeth were chattering now.
Rory's suggestion that Lady Valda had expected Toby to escape was an unwelcome complication that he should have thought of for himself. It was certainly plausible, for surely a hexer as powerful as everyone said she was ought not to have botched a conjuration so badly.
She had not explained her real motives. He had no idea why she had gone to all the trouble of demonizing him. To believe that she wanted him as an incubus would be stupid vanity, and he did not doubt Rory's statement that she could bewitch any man she wanted. Surely love charms did not require daggers and self-mutilation and bowls of blood — those must be gramarye of deeper, darker purpose. Why go to so much trouble over the big Highland lad? She must have been playing for higher stakes than just a prizefighter or a very questionable gigolo.
Tendrils of mist floated over the water like glowing fingers. Here and there they seemed brighter than they should be, and not matched to their reflections in the dark mirrored surface below. He could see three or four lights now, and he wondered how Rory knew which one to follow.
The water was up to his crotch. He glanced back and saw both Meg and Hamish waist-deep and struggling. The cold was making his whole body tremble. The lute sang a wild lament.
Rory had hinted that there might be a hex on Toby, but had he guessed about a demon? Predictably, he was fleeing from the glen, heading for the rebels in the hills. In a sense, he was a loaded gun that could fire at any moment. Who was the intended target? King Fergan?
