Demon Sword Page 6

  Not a woman at all, just Meg Tanner, Vik's sister, only a kid. How could that putrid louse have tried to force himself on a child? Even if he'd only been trying to kiss her—and maybe that was all he had intended at first, because Forrester had never seemed like a monster—now he was dead. But he had ripped her dress, and that wasn't kissing. He had scared her out of her wits, and that wasn't kissing.

  "Come on, Toby!" Hamish was tugging at his arm. "We've got to get out of here!"

  Toby reached for Meg. "He's dead, Meg. Stop doing that."

  "Dead?" She shuddered and stopped doing that. Her chest heaved. Her chest was more visible than it ought to be and there wasn't much more than chest there. She was so little! Funny that this morning Vik had accused him of being involved with Meg and tonight he had saved her from, well, from whatever Godwin Forrester had been up to.

  Meg realized her dress hung open. She gasped and clutched it tight. "Dead? Well, good riddance! Serves him right! Monster! Bully!"

  "What are you doing here, Meg?" Just Meg? He still could hardly believe that a man would pick on a child like Meg.

  Hamish wailed. "Toby, they're coming!"

  Meg blinked. "Doing? I came to see you. Came to warn you."

  "Toby, come on!"

  "Warn me of what?"

  "Colin! Vik's given him a knife, it's full moon, I think he set him onto you... I came to warn you, silly!"

  "You promised I could hang on the same gibbet," Hamish said shrilly.

  Demons, oh demons! Toby glanced up at the silver globe floating through the clouds. Full moon. Well, he had much worse things to worry about than Crazy Colin, who was probably off in the hills somewhere, cutting up sheep.

  Lights, torches coming, voices...

  "Come on!" he said, and began to run, hauling Meg along with him. They would have to leave the road soon, but it would give them a start.

  Meg! Stupid, stupid little Meg! This would not be the first time she had turned up at the castle at sunset. He had walked her home more than once. He had not connected... Vik had noticed and he hadn't. Meg was a sweet kid, but only a kid—scrap of a thing, didn't come up to his shoulder, probably no older than Hamish, breasts like two muffins, wore her hair in long braids...

  Stupid kid!

  They ran down the road, stumbling and reeling. He was almost carrying her, with a hand around her arm—his fingers closed around it.

  Had the Sassenachs found the body yet?

  He was a dead man for certain.

  "This way!" Hamish shouted, veering to the left, onto the path to Murray MacDougal's croft. They left the road. The moonlight faded out. They slowed down of necessity—no use breaking an ankle now.

  He had killed an English soldier. No traitor now. Even Vik... Damn Vik! Terrible things. Worry about his own neck. No escape from the glen. The Sassenachs would ride him down in the hills. Who would look after Granny Nan?

  "Stop!" he said. They stopped. A moonlit glimmer ahead must be smoke from MacDougal's chimney. "Hamish, take Meg home... Be quiet, Meg! Explain what's happened. You weren't there, friend. You didn't arrive until I'd done it, all right?"

  "They'll hang me anyway. Take me with you! Don't leave me to—"

  "No. Tell Meg's folks exactly what happened. Then go and tell your Pa. Tell everything. The glen will stand behind you."

  It wouldn't stand behind Toby Strangerson, though. If he wasn't handed over right away, the Sassenachs would take hostages. Hamish was just a kid. Kids were hanged, too, of course, but if Hamish could disappear into hiding for a few weeks, until the English wrath subsided a bit, they might decide they would look foolish raising a hue and cry over a stripling like him and accusing him of hurting Forrester. Big brute Strangerson was a different matter. Granny Nan...

  He forced his wits to come to order. "Hamish, take Meg home. Now! I have to go, and it's best you don't know where I'm going. Run, both of you."

  "Crazy Colin!" Meg squealed.

  "Never mind him! I'll give him what I gave the Sassenach. Now off with you! Thanks, Hamish. Good man. Relying on you."

  Right on cue, the moon floated into a lagoon between the clouds, and Toby began to run.

  He needn't go through the village. He could cut across country. Going home was rank stupid, but he must say good-bye to Granny Nan. He could survive a night in the hills in just his plaid at this time of year. The English would head for the cottage, but he could probably get there before them. They wouldn't push their horses in the dark; they'd stay on the road. He could go around.

  He knew the landscape like a spider knew its web. He followed trails from cottage to cottage, short-cutting over the fields, hurdling the fieldstone walls, jumping the burn, ramming through gorse thickets, alarming sheep, setting dogs to barking. Everyone would think it was Crazy Colin up to his tricks. The moon dipped in and out of the clouds.

  Rapist! Rotten Sassenach rapist scum! He thought of the other Meg and would have laughed had he the breath for it. So there was justice in the world sometimes? Nineteen years ago the English brutes had imprisoned one Meg Campbell and used her as their plaything for the winter. Now her bastard spawn had rescued another Meg Campbell. Justice! He had avenged his mother.

  There was a silver lining to all this—he must leave the glen now. However much Grannie Nan still needed him, he could be of no further help to her. Escape was what he had really wanted, wasn't it? Now he had it. Now he need not worry about the steward's slimy betting schemes.

  Go where? South, to lose himself in the crowded Lowlands? There was only one road south, and they would picket that first. Curse the moon!

  Or hide out for a day or two? There was one place in the glen where he might find sanctuary and no one would dare come hunting him. No one else would dare hide in the hob's grove, but the hob might agree to take him in if Granny Nan asked it. It might also forget who the intruder was, of course, and turn on him.

  Soon he needed all his brain just to keep moving, and could no longer work on the greater problems. The one thought that remained was that Granny Nan's hands couldn't grasp anymore. She couldn't milk Bossie. The first thing he must do when he got home was milk Bossie.

  CHAPTER TWO

  The trees around Lightning Rock were almost the only trees in the glen. No one cut the hob's wood except Toby Strangerson, and he took only what Granny Nan told him to take, not a twig more. The cottage cowered on the edge of the copse, glowering under its shaggy sod roof and half hidden in broom. Shaking and panting, with the wind cold in his soaking hair, he staggered around, looking for Bossie. Even if she'd dragged her tether, she ought to be there in her shed, bellowing to be milked. There was no sign of her anywhere. He looked in the pens: no pig, no poultry. Just silence.

  Thinking was an impossible effort. He wanted to fall on the ground and sleep for weeks. No Bossie. The Sassenachs couldn't have gotten here yet. They wouldn't have taken the cow—not yet anyway.

  The shutter was closed. He could smell no smoke. With rising alarm, he lifted the latch and ducked through the doorway. A tiny fire glowed on the hearth, giving barely any light at all. It was just enough to show her white hair. She was huddled in her chair with her shawl over her lap. He fell gasping on his knees at her side, peering anxiously at her face.

  Her voice came softer than falling leaves. "It was a just fight."

  No need to tell; no need to explain or apologize. He dropped his head on her lap and panted. She laid a hand on his sweaty hair. The shutter rattled gently in the wind. Slowly his heart found peace.

  Once she murmured, "A good fight. You're a good man."

  He did not feel like a good man. He felt like a lost boy.

  How small she was!

  When he had his breath back: "I can't find Bossie."

  "Sold her to Bryce Twotrees. Sold the fowls."

  He looked up in dismay. A twig flared on the hearth. He saw the wrinkles of extreme age, the silver hair loose to her shoulders, the sad, wise eyes, the withered sadness of a smile. She was in her wi
ts, apparently. He was the confused one...

  "Why—"

  "You must leave now."

  "But—"

  "Follow the others," she murmured. "So many leaving! Where do they all go? What happens to all the men? They leave the glen and they never return. The hob is worried."

  The hob was worried? How could a hob worry? And how could a solitary, friendless fugitive ever hope to escape in a bleak land like this—a man without a clan? But he mustn't distress her by mentioning that problem. He started to speak, she shook her head and he fell silent. He did not understand, but he often did not understand—even now, after a lifetime. She was not acting strange in the way she did so often now. Not crazy. Odd, yes, but a witchwife would always be odd. She had seen his confusion and was amused.

  "I made up a bundle for you. I put some money in it."

  "But—"

  "Shush!" Her voice strengthened. "You must hurry. You have far to go, but I can't see where. Here, I have this for you. Take it with you, keep it safe."

  He felt for her bony fingers, found something hard, about the size of the top joint of his thumb. It was cold, although she must have been clutching it. Her hand was cold, too. Firelight twinkled. It was one of her pretty stones.

  He mumbled thanks and dropped it in his sporran.

  "A just fight," she repeated. "Good man. I promised your mother. I've kept my promise."

  "What promise?"

  "Have to make your own name in the world. Your father didn't give you his... Go now, boy. Good spirits preserve you, Toby! Hurry."

  "I can't just leave you here like this."

  "Hurry. I'll be taken care of. He'll be here soon."

  "Who will?" He peered closer, saw tears glinting in her eyes. Granny Nan? Never before had he seen her weep, even when she'd delivered stillborn babies.

  "You must go before he comes. They'll be after you! Go now!"

  "You're leaving, too? Who's going to look after the hob?"

  She chuckled. "I found someone! If the hob's happy, then you needn't worry, my little Toby, now need you?"

  "But... listen! They'll be looking for me tonight. If I can hide out for a few days—maybe wait until there's fog, or rain, or no moon... Would the hob let me—"

  "No! No! You mustn't!" She hissed and cocked her head. Then she pushed at his head. "Go! Go!"

  He heard it now, a sound of hooves, many hooves.

  Granny Nan wailed. "Too late!" she said. "Too late!"

  The English had come. The time for being a lost boy was over; now he must be a man. He heaved himself to his feet, aching in every bone and shocked at how much he had stiffened up. He was too tired to run more. He had had time to say good-bye, so it had been worth it, but he could run no more. He bent and kissed her, trying to mumble something of what he felt, but the words wouldn't come. She kept insisting he go, becoming fretful.

  Thinking this was the last time he would ever stoop under the lintel, he walked over to the door. Shivering in the cold air, he latched it behind him.

  From the thunder and shaking of the earth, there must be at least ten horsemen coming. They ought to know better! Sergeant Farmer had marched a squad past the copse once with drums beating, and half the men had been stricken with cramps, rolling on the ground and screaming. Where the hob was concerned, any loud noise was dangerous.

  Perhaps Toby ought to feel honored that they had sent so many, but he was too weary to feel anything at all. To run and be hunted down like an animal... no. He walked out into clear moonlight and stood with his hands raised to show he held no weapon. He had killed one of their own, and they would not be gentle.

  They streamed in around both sides of the cottage as if they were charging a Burgundian artillery post. He half expected them to ride him down, but they encircled him, and when they halted, he stood within a cordon of angry eyes, steaming horses, jingling harnesses. Hands pointed wheel locks at him, and swords. He held his hands up and his head down. He said nothing—what was there to say?

  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.

  CHAPTER THREE

  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.