Demon Sword

Toby than in their chief's son. Why?

'Bran!' Rory said cheerfully. 'How's Ella? The twins all right? Inform Lady Lora that her favorite headache has returned, will you? And Sir Malcolm.' He glanced around at Toby and Hamish. 'You'd better come along, too. Leave your trash here.'

CHAPTER FOUR

The hall was larger by far than Castle Lochy's. It rose clear to the roof. The windows were tiny, but glazed, and on this miserable day they gave less light than the blazing pile of driftwood in the great stone fireplace. A long table for feasting occupied the center of the floor, flanked by benches. Chairs like thrones stood on either side of the hearth, but the visitors were all too muddy to sit in them. Meg and Father Lachlan and the master had gathered before the flames to warm themselves.

Toby and Hamish stood back at a respectful distance, wriggling their toes in the rushes. Hamish was gazing open-mouthed at the minstrel gallery, the banners hanging from the rafters, the collections of weapons adorning the stonework. Toby just watched Meg. She seemed content enough, smiling, laughing at Rory's banter, but he remembered what she had told him, and amid all the splendor he saw her as a tiny bird in a cage.

She had wits and spirit — she had her head on straight, as the acolyte had put it. All true, but she was only a tanner's daughter. Rory was master of Argyll, heir to power and wealth. He promises, she had said. I'm not afraid of him, so much as afraid of me. He could promise, he could even threaten, and no one would hold him to account for whatever happened. How long could a poor country lass resist him?

Why should it concern Toby Strangerson? There was nothing a penniless outlaw could do to deflect one of the most powerful men in Scotland — except try personal violence, and even that was unlikely to achieve anything except his own death. His promise to protect her was worthless against an opponent like the master of Argyll.

'Rory!' boomed a new voice, reverberating from the high stone walls. Astonishingly, it seemed to originate from the very small lady now sweeping into the hall with an escort at her heels. This must be Dowager Lady Lora, the earl's mother.

So 'Rory' was a family pet name for Gregor. How cute!

'Just look at you, you terrible bairn!' It seemed impossible that so tiny a person could be so loud. Her hair shone pure silver, yet her face was barely wrinkled and she still displayed a delicate charm that testified to the beauty she must have been long years ago. She wore a gown of fine violet velvet; she had jewels on her fingers. Followed by maids, pages, and a dozen armed men — all of them much larger than herself — she was as unobtrusive as a volley of artillery.

'Father Lachlan! How wonderful to see you again! You honor our house.'

Toby's attention settled on the man at her side. He was big, gruff, red-bearded, and solid as the castle walls. He wore a gleaming leather jerkin under his plaid. His helmet and sword were grander than the others'. He bore a pistol and powderhorn on his belt. He was appraising Toby with eyes like green pebbles, and with more than trivial curiosity.

Lady Lora turned to Meg and raised carefully tended brows.

'Miss Meg Campbell of Tyndrum, Grandmother,' her grandson said, sweeping a bow. 'Maiden in distress.'

'You poor child, you must be frozen! Have you walked far? Trust that Rory… I am not surprised you are in distress if he has had anything to do with it. I'm sure you would like a hot tub and some fresh clothes and something to eat before…'

She registered Toby and the echoes died away into silence.

He overlooked every one of her burly warriors handily. She herself was no bigger than Meg.

'Toby Strangerson of Fillan,' Rory said innocently. 'Youth in distress. Lora, Dowager Countess of Argyll.'

Toby bowed.

Lady Lora gave her grandson the sort of look a mother gives a tiresome two-year-old. Then she turned to the man at her side, as if he had emitted a silent warning. 'Sir Malcolm?'

'We received a communication this morning concerning a man of that name, my lord.' He produced a paper from his sporran.

Rory beckoned Toby with a nod of his head. Then he took the paper to read and his eyebrows rose.

Toby walked forward with Hamish at his heels. The warriors clasped the hilts of their swords. He bowed again.

Rory looked up, thunderously displeased. 'How well did you know the Sassenachs at Lochy?'

'Fairly well, my lord.'

'Is one of them an artist?'

'Gavin Mason can draw.'

Rory nodded angrily. 'Somebody can draw. This is a printed poster with a woodcut of your face on it. It's a fair likeness, except it makes you look like a starving wolf. The description is clear enough: eighteen years old, over nineteen hands tall, heavily muscled, brown eyes, curly hair, and extremely dangerous. Fits you to a tee, doesn't it? A convicted murderer, suspected of conjuring demons. There's quite a price on your head, Longdirk — one hundred marks!'

'What?' Toby howled.

'Dead or alive. You're worth more than I expected.'

The guards were smiling.

Rory shrugged. 'This is the man, Malcolm. The official story lacks a few details, which I shall be happy to supply at a suitable time. Meanwhile — just to discourage gossip — perhaps his presence here should not be advertised.'

'Lock him up, you mean?'

'Why, not at all! He deserves our famous Inverary hospitality. So does his accomplice. Grandmother — Hamish Campbell of Tyndrum.'

Hamish bowed until his head almost vanished under his plaid.

Lady Lora boomed a laugh. 'Welcome to Inverary, kinsman! Rory, trouble is your shadow. See to his men, will you, Malcolm? Come along, Father… and you, Miss Campbell.'

The moment her back was turned, Toby found himself surrounded. No one barked orders, no one laid a hand on him or drew a weapon, and his attendants did not actually march him off — but he went without argument and he kept his fists at his sides. A hundred marks dead was easier to deliver than a hundred marks alive, especially when it stood nineteen hands tall. Hamish strode along, head high, smirking blissfully at having been described as one of Rory's men.

Their journey was short: out a side door and into a kitchen hardly smaller than the great hall. Its well- scrubbed tables would have fed half of Clan Campbell without crowding. Boot heels drumming on flagstones, they passed fires where two carcasses were already turning on spits in preparation for the evening's festivities and counters where women were chopping vegetables and kneading dough. Sir Malcolm led the way along a somber stone corridor, past many oaken, iron-studded doors. If their destination was not to be a dungeon, it would serve as well, Toby thought. Then a door was opened and steam gushed unexpectedly forth.

Their guide's green eyes had lost none of their vigilance or suspicion. 'You will have the bathroom to yourselves at this time of day. The gentry have their own water, so use all you want. I'll send towels, plaids… We'll see what we can do about shoon.' He looked Hamish over and turned to one of his men. 'Come here, Ken.'

One of the guards stepped forward, slipped off his boot, and laid his neatly socked foot alongside Hamish's muddy one.

'Aye, that's about the size. As for you…' He looked despairingly at Toby's feet and shook his head.

'Fishing boats?' said a whisper in the background.

Sir Malcolm obviously heard but pretended not to. 'Go get the aches out, then, lads.'

Toby lurched into the bathroom, mumbling thanks, too astonished to articulate properly. Through the fog he