village youngsters. He saw now that the donkey probably enjoyed the company but would certainly manage equally well on its own.
The miller was the fattest man in the glen and bragged of it in a croaky, wheezy voice that never seemed to have enough air to function. He was not only short of breath, he was also insufferably long-winded, which hardly helped. His hair and beard were naturally sandy, but a permanent coating of flour made him a pale buff shade all over — under his nails and in his ears; even his plaid had faded to that same drab shade. He was a human meal sack. His eyes seemed tiny, but only because they were encased in folds of fat like a pig's; they were as sharp as a pig's, too.
'Well, now. And what did old Bryce have to say?'
'He wants another six loads of flour before you bring any more oats.'
'Six loads, is it? Does that sound like a siege he's expecting? And it is far from a hint that the Sassenachs'll be taking their leave of us soon, I'm feeling. Well, it's oats I've got, so it's oats he'll get this time.' The miller chortled a wheezy laugh. 'Or do you want me to turn back?'
'If you do, I'll get off! I'm grateful for the rescue, sir.'
The old man stole a narrow, inquiring glance at him. 'They meant real mischief?'
'Just wind, I think, but I was glad to get away. Thanks.'
'Was no more than a man should do for his kin.'
Toby straightened up so fast he almost fell off the bench. There was not much room left with the miller there too. 'Sir?'
Iain seemed amused. 'Didn't know that? Your grandfather was my mother's cousin. I think that's right. You'd have to ask my sister — she can rattle off families like a chattering magpie.'
His sister was a shrew.
'No, I didn't know. Granny Nan always told me I had no family.'
The miller's laugh became a wheeze. 'None close.' He shot another glance under his snowy brows. 'But maybe closer than you suspect.'
Toby was already hanging on tightly; now his fists clenched on the cart hard enough to hurt. 'You're talking about my mother, sir?'
The miller shrugged his bulky shoulders. 'About both your parents, I suppose.'
'I know what my name means, sir.'
'It means your grandfather wasn't rich.'
'Huh? I mean… What?'
The miller wheezed an oath at the horse, which ignored him, plodding doggedly up the long slope.
'Nineteen years ago, son, the cream of the hills fell at Leethoul.'
The old man was embarking on one of his rigmaroles. Toby said, 'Yes, sir,' and prepared to be patient.
'The Battle of the Century, they called it, and the century won't likely see another like it.'
What Toby recalled was that Leethoul wore that name because it had been fought in the year 1500. And the century had already seen at least two more like it — almost as bad anyway.
'A fine company we were!' The miller sighed. 'Nigh two hundred of us marched off with the laird at our head — Kenneth Campbell, that was, the last of the real lairds of Fillan. His family had held Lochy Castle for hundreds of years. Not like these traitor puppets they put over us now.' His porcine eyes turned to study the effects of this treason.
'No, sir.'
'There's never been fighters to match the Campbells of Fillan. King Malcolm himself said so, when he inspected us on the eve of the battle. We tend to be small, he said, but we make up for that in enthusiasm. True that was! The best of the Highlander array, we were. Volley after volley the English fired, and our charge never wavered. Not forty of us came back to the glen, you know, lad. 'Twas a sad day for Scotland. King Malcolm himself fell, and two of his sons, and the laird of Fillan and both his sons, and the manhood of the Highlands was scythed like corn. The Sassenachs slaughtered us.'
'Yes, sir.' Leethoul had not been the first disaster, nor the last. It had been bloodier than most because King Edwin had grown tired of putting down rebellions every few years and had resolved to teach his Scottish subjects true obedience. Leethoul had been only the first lesson.
History was a very depressing subject. As taught in the Tyndrum schoolhouse, it comprised long lists of battles where Highlanders wielding spears or claymores faced Lowlanders or English — or sometimes both — armed with muskets and cannon. Result: massacre. In Toby's own lifetime there had been Norford Bridge and Parline, and Leethoul the year before he was born. There must be a limit beyond which raw courage became sheer folly. A boy learned not to say so in Strath Fillan.
Iain Miller bunched his thick white brows. 'They put a garrison in the castle that winter. Soldiers need women — but you know this.'
Toby knew only too well. 'They rounded up six girls from the village.'
'Aye, they did. Was shameful. And six women between so many men was more shameful yet. In the spring, when they marched away, they let the girls loose, every one of them with child. One of them was Meg Inishail. She wanted to call you Toby Campbell of Inishail, but your grandfather swore he wouldn't have his name hung on a… on an Englishman's bastard.'
'I didn't know that! Inishail?' Family gossip was a new experience.
'Rae Campbell of Inishail. Och, lad, he was a bitter man even before, was Inishail. Two wives he'd had, and both dying young. He never found a third. Meg was all he had, and he couldn't forgive. Not that it was her fault, but he couldn't see that. He wouldn't let her under his roof again. He didn't have much to spare, nothing to offer anyone to care for her, too proud to accept help.'
'My grandfather was a Campbell from Inishail?'
'Oh no, he was born here in the glen. I think it was his father came from Inishail, or his grandfather.'
Granny Nan had always been evasive about Toby's mother. Now he could see why — unexpected answers brought more questions. A man's clan and kin were determined only by his father, of course, but he did have Campbell blood in him, which he'd never known before. Where had Iain Miller been while his kinswoman was being rejected by her own father? Why had she been forced to bear her babe in the witchwife's cottage, with no company but Granny Nan herself?
'She named me Tobias.'
The miller shrugged and looked uncomfortable, as if he wished he had not brought up the subject. 'Doesn't mean anything, does it? She couldn't know which of the Sassenachs had scored. Granny Nan took her in; Meg bore you, and she died. That broke old Rae's heart, if it wasn't broken already. He died two days after you were born. He never saw you.'
His daughter had named her baby Toby with her dying breath — so Granny Nan said, and no one else could know. Tobias was not a Scottish name. Perhaps the Sassenach Tobias had been the one she liked best, or just hated least. Had he been a little kinder than the others? Didn't mean a thing about fatherhood, though. Just wishful thinking. Tobias Strangerson — Toby the bastard. Nobody could ever know who had been his father.
The cart was already high enough now that the village lay spread out below it. The sod roofs blended with the grass, but roads and walls showed like a cobweb. Farther away, halfway to Crianlarich, stood Lightning Rock, with Granny Nan's little hovel by its base — birthplace and home. Bossie would be grazing on her tether, but he couldn't see her at this distance. He could barely see the house. There was fresh snow on the summit of Ben More.
The miller jiggled the reins. The horse ignored his impatience.
'Are you knowing what happened to the other five, lad?'
Not much. 'I always heard that they left the glen.'
Who would speak of such things anywhere near Toby Strangerson? All Granny Nan would ever say was that they'd been sent off to visit kin over the hills and bear their bastards out of sight and mind. She had never admitted that any of them had come back later. She had never admitted that there might have been refugees come to Strath Fillan in exchange, although the English behavior had been just as barbarous elsewhere in the aftermath of Leethoul. The Taming, they had called King Edwin's revenge. It had kept Scotland quiet for ten whole years, even the Highlands.
