Demon Sword

could see benches, peat glowing under a giant copper boiler, half a dozen wooden tubs large enough to launder a plaid. The garrison at Lochy enjoyed no such luxury. As the door closed, Hamish muttered, 'Spirits!' and in one fast movement was naked.

One would get you twenty that guards stood in the corridor, but who cared? After what felt like a lifetime of wind and rain and cold, the warmth was sheer rapture.

Toby eyed the boiler uncertainly. 'Do we climb into that?'

'I don't think so. I think we fill tubs and sit in them.'

Hot water — enough to bathe in? Would that be healthy?

'Soap!' Hamish squealed. 'Real soap! Smell it — lavender!'

Toby stripped to the skin, then almost stripped that off as well when he tried to fill a bucket with water and got a blast of scalding steam instead. He jumped back and let Hamish work out the mechanics of the taps. It was necessary to mix cold water with the hot to obtain a bearable mixture — more complicated than he had expected. No matter, they were soon kneeling in whole tubfuls of hot water, soaping themselves, basking in the sheer sensuous luxury of it.

A hundred marks would buy a herd or a cottage. The earl's men-at-arms lived better than the farmers and artisans of Fillan, but it would only take one, even if the master ordered them not to talk.

Without warning, Hamish burst into song. His treble voice was surprisingly tuneful, and the stone walls reverberated nicely.

The lass I love lives up the glen,
She entertains all sorts of men.
She has no use for all the rest,
Because she knows that I'm the best…

Toby gave him the verse about the piper and repeated the chorus. Hamish responded with the two shepherds. Toby was halfway through the improbable accomplishments of the three sailors when a guard came in, scowling through the steam. It was probably not just the quality of Toby's baritone that was upsetting him, because one of his colleagues stood watch in the doorway with a drawn sword. He deposited a pile of bleached cloths on one of the benches and backed out again, still watching the extremely dangerous outlaw.

Eventually the singers ran out of lovers for the promiscuous lass and just lay back, soaking blissfully, heads against the stone wall, arms and legs dangling over the sides of the tubs. Another man delivered a plaid, shirt, socks, shoes, bonnet. He said, 'For you,' to Hamish, but he, too, kept his attention on the murderer, and again another man stood by, ready to intervene if there was trouble. Trouble? The monster was almost asleep. Now if they would just commute his death sentence to life imprisonment and let him die of old age right here…

A third man brought in two muddy bundles and dropped them distastefully on the floor.

Hot water, they found, had an annoying tendency to cool off. Hamish was up and yipping about the towels being real linen, and Toby still had to shave. He hauled himself from the tub and admitted that the towels were very enjoyable, whatever they were made of. Having dried himself as well as he could in the steamy air, he found his razor in his bundle and set to work reaping stubble. By then Hamish was dressed and eager to go exploring the castle in search of books. It would be interesting to see how far he was allowed to wander.

The door opened again, this time to admit the red-bearded Sir Malcolm himself. He closed it behind him, shutting himself in with a dangerous outlaw wielding a razor, but his green eyes smiled warmly. 'Is everything satisfactory, Master Toby? Anything more you need?'

Toby was so startled by the change of attitude that he almost cut off his upper lip. 'Everything's fine, sir,' he admitted.

'I'm Malcolm Campbell, the castellan. If there is anything we can do to make your stay here more enjoyable, see you ask me right away.'

Bewildered, Toby glanced at Hamish for clues. He was wearing his owlish look, which meant he was a step or two ahead.

'Now the best I can do for wear for you at the moment, sir,' the castellan continued, 'are these.' He laid his burden on a bench. 'The shoon we think belonged to Wee Wilkin, a great warrior who fell at Parline. I'm sure he would be honored for you to have them. If you'll just leave your plaids here, the women will get them washed and dried by morning. I'm afraid the shirt'll be snug, but they can run up something for you by tomorrow, and we'll find furs if you need to go out.'

This sudden change of heart must be some sort of trap, but Toby could not see how, or what, or why. Hamish, damn him… if he looked any more owlish, he would fly away and hunt mice.

'The evening meal's still an hour or so off,' Malcolm proclaimed cheerfully. 'But I expect you'd enjoy a little something to keep you going until then. Have you any preference in whisky, Master Toby?'

Toby shook his head, causing the soldier to nod his.

'Then I'll see something is laid out for you and, er… your friend. If you'll just come back to the mess whenever you're ready.' He reached for the door.

'What do we do with the water?'

'Oh, it gets ladled back into the boiler. But don't you mind it — I'll send a lad.'

The door closed.

Toby rounded on Hamish. 'What by the demons of Delia is going on? Why this sudden back-slapping, nothing-too-good, long-lost-brothering?'

The owl blinked. 'You don't trust him, do you?'

'Of course not!'

'Do you ever trust anyone, ever?'

'Tell me what's going on!'

'Why ask me? How can you trust what I tell you? I'm just…' Hamish's smirk wavered and he backed away as Toby advanced menacingly on him. 'Well, think about it! They knew what you did.'

'So?'

'Now Sir Malcolm knows how and why.' With an impudent grin, the kid added, 'You're a big hero, Longdirk!'

Toby resisted the urge to dunk the kid's head back in the bathwater. He was probably right, as usual. Any story coming from Meg would be well embroidered. Rory's might have no resemblance to the truth at all. He might as well go out and see what sort of trouble the two of them had gotten him into. Besides, it was a long time since breakfast at Sir Torquil's.

The shirt would have to go on first. He pulled it over his head and then tried to put an arm into a sleeve. The tussle ended in a sound of ripping as the stitches surrendered.

'You'd think the Campbell could afford better seamstresses!' Toby discarded the remains. Who needed a shirt? The plaid was smaller than his own and smelled unpleasantly of soap, but a plaid was an accommodating garment. Best of all, it was dry. He wiped mud off his belt and sporran with the remains of the shirt and struggled into the unfamiliar socks. Wee Wilkin's feet must have been longer and narrower than his, but the shoes would do if he did not have to walk far.

When the two still-faintly-damp visitors emerged from the corridor into the kitchen, at least fifty of the castle guards were assembled there, lounging around on the stools and benches. Sir Malcolm was waiting at the entrance. He took Toby's hand, but instead of shaking it, he raised it overhead. The men surged to their feet in a tattoo of boots and a fanfare of scraping furniture.

'Huzzah!' cried the castellan. The ensuing cheer rippled the banners overhead. 'Huzzah!'

Toby felt his face going red, redder, reddest. He was being applauded because he had misjudged a blow and killed a man? That was ridiculous! This was rank hypocrisy. No matter how lustily they shouted for him, some of them must be planning to become rich off him before tomorrow's dawn. Earl Robert was known to favor the English governor; his men could not possibly all support Fergan — a few perhaps, in secret, but not all of them!