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 pushed 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
