which king his people would support.
'Which king, Longdirk?'
The tables had been turned.
'You just told me not to discuss politics here, my lord.'
'May I intrude?' Meg asked, intruding. 'When an ox can't be led, it can sometimes be driven. Lord Gregor has made you an incredibly generous offer, Toby. You spurn it. What do you
He scratched his head. 'You safe in Oban, to start with.'
Rory smiled like a well-fed wolf. 'You need worry no more about Meg. My grandmother is even now writing a note to her parents, and it will go by runner tomorrow. They will know that she is safe.'
Safe from whom? Meg had lowered her gaze to the forgotten food on the boards. Her parents would be enraptured at the news. The tanner was a rich man in Tyndrum, but the humblest scullery job in Inverary Castle would be a great advancement for his daughter. Toby was relieved of his promise.
'Next wish, Longdirk?'
'To be free of my hex, or demon, or whatever it is.'
'That means Glasgow. And after that?'
The ox was being driven. 'I don't think Valda's dead.' Mindful of Meg's reproach, Toby added, 'That's why I can't accept your offer, my lord. If I stay here, she'll find me, and I may not be the only one who suffers then.' That was true, if only part of the truth.
'It would have been tactful to say so sooner,' Rory murmured. 'I told you I'm grateful. So
The barn door closed. He said the words he'd never spoken aloud before. 'I'm going to be a prizefighter.' He saw Meg shudder. 'It's all I've got! I'm big, and I can box. I can't do anything else. There's good money to be made in the ring in England.'
Even Rory seemed disappointed. 'There's also gambling, and cheating, and criminals. A very low crowd.'
'Making a living by hurting people?' Meg said. 'Breaking bones, smashing faces? And what do they do to you? In a few years you'll be a pug-ugly, shambling hulk with no brains at all!'
'Note that I refrain from making funny remarks here,' Rory said airily. 'Prizefighting sponsors I cannot produce. The best I can do is to refer you to Sir Malcolm. He has some of the finest trainers in Scotland. No boxing instructors, so far as I know, but you can brush up on your holds and throws. They need work.'
He rose, graceful as a swallow. 'Come, Miss Campbell. We must leave the lads to their meal and go see what Grandmother has provided for us. Our solar is greatly praised, but your beauty will transform it.' He offered her a hand. 'Hamish — you want books? I'll show you the library.'
Hamish sprang to his feet, food forgotten. 'That would be wonderful, my lord!'
'There's about a thousand volumes, I'm told. Reading is not my favorite pastime. Help yourself. You, Knuckles, have to keep under cover. Master Stringer is another idiot, but stay out of his way if you value your cervical vertebrae.'
Toby's nails dug into his palms. 'For how long?'
'Until the storm blows over and the boats can leave. Then we'll ship you and Father Lachlan off down to Dumbarton. It's a good idea to let a hue and cry die down — people always assume after a week or two that the fugitive has fled to foreign parts, and they forget. Do keep your mouth shut.'
Rory nodded a mocking farewell and departed, with Hamish tagging at his heels like a puppy and Meg on his arm in her courtly gown.
Damn him! Damn him! Damn him!
CHAPTER SIX
Toby was trapped. Even if he was allowed to leave the castle, he would never escape from Campbell country against Rory's will. In any case, he could not desert Meg, although she had not asked for his help and probably never would. He must just accept the master at his word and wait for the Atlantic to stop throwing gales at the coast. Then, if Rory were to be trusted, he could risk his neck in Dumbarton, seeking an exorcism at the sanctuary.
So he had time to kill. The Campbells were respectful but distant; he must not talk politics with them and he had nothing else to discuss. Meg and Rory and Father Lachlan could float amid the gentry, hobnobbing with Master Stringer and dining with Her Ladyship. Hamish would be happy to eat, drink, breathe, live, and sleep books. Not Toby! Reading had always been torment for him, one plodding word at a time.
Much as he disliked admitting a debt to Rory, the idea of wrestling lessons had a strong appeal. The next morning, he accosted Sir Malcolm.
The castellan scratched his red beard as if perplexed, but a twinkle in his eye hinted he had already been warned. 'Just wrestling? How about a few of the other manly arts as well? Fencing? Musketry? We can't do much on archery or horsemanship without going outdoors. That's true of artillery, too.'
'All of them!'
'Then all of them you shall have. If you'll just come with me, Master Toby.' Sir Malcolm led him upstairs.
Toby followed, wondering if he had been overly brash. He might have chopped down more than he could saw up. 'This is very kind of you, Castellan.'
'Not at all. Good for the lads. I always tell them that instructing's one of the best ways of learning, because it shows you what you thought you knew and don't really. This is the armory. The man with the shoulders is our wrestling champion, Neal Big, and that antiquated spider over there is Gavin the Grim, who can still chop any man into sausage filling in the twinkle of an eye.'
Thereupon Sir Malcolm set the entire Campbell warband onto Toby, or so it seemed. Baby-faced recruits no older than Hamish knew more about swords and guns than he did, while the old-timers knew more about everything than he could ever dream of knowing. Every man in the castle could teach him something and seemed eager to do so. He intrigued them — he was a hero, a fugitive, and a baby giant. They came at him in relays. The day became a blur of locks and throws… longbow and crossbow… pistol and musket… saber, rapier, and short sword… matchlock and wheel lock.
He soon realized that they were making a game of it, seeing who could work him to exhaustion. Fine — just let them try! They couldn't, of course. He had the stamina of a mule, always ready to go again as soon as he caught his breath. With blades he won polite praise and a few heady compliments about being a natural athlete, but he lacked the speed ever to be a top fencer. He could already handle a quarterstaff, and he took to wrestling like a bat to bugs. Along about what felt like noon, he realized that night was falling already. By the time he retired to the little tower room he shared with Hamish, the candles were burning low and his roommate lay fast asleep, flat on his back with an open book spread on his chest.
Morning dawned in one solid ache, but the first ten minutes on the mat with Neal Big limbered him up again.
That afternoon, as he hammered short swords with Gavin, he observed the dumpy shape of Father Lachlan perched on an empty powder keg in a corner of the armory. When the fencing paused for a breather, Toby trotted over and dropped on one knee beside him, panting.
The acolyte beamed at him over his spectacles. 'From the breadth of your grin, I take it you are enjoying yourself, my son?'
He nodded, that being easier than speaking.
'No bad dreams?'
Head shake.
'You are certainly working hard enough. Do you know, Tobias, from one cause or another, I don't think I have ever seen you totally dry?'
Toby chuckled. 'What… you mean when… told Rory… I might… cause terrible damage?'
