"His father was… the schoolmaster and… rich by local standards." Longdirk had eaten just about everything the old woman had put out. He washed it down with a gulp of wine and reached for the bottle to refill his beaker. "What I'm saying, ma'am, is that any future with you and Hamish in it can only bring misery to both of you. Think on it. You are not stupid, only naive."
"You cannot imagine how relieved I am to hear that."
"Let's find something you will listen to, then." He dropped a small leather packet on the table and fumbled with the catch. "I have a trifle here that is rightfully yours."
"I don't recall losing anything. How long have you had it?"
He glanced up. His eyes glinted very brightly, although his expression was indeterminable against the light. "Six years? More than five." He tipped a shiny pebble out onto the table. "This is an amethyst."
"I've never seen—"
"I know. Just listen for once, will you? As a gem it's worth nothing, pennies at most, but it has other values. The first, to me, is that it was a parting gift from my foster mother, the woman who raised me."
"Your… But I couldn't possibly…" Was he playing some sort of elaborate joke? "I mean—"
"Listen! She was the village witchwife and more than a little crazy. She and the hob both. But that isn't what makes this stone special, my lady. The baron didn't tell you everything that happened on the Night of the Masked Ball. You and your mother escaped, but so did Valda, your, er, the king's…"
"My father's mistress."
"Accomplice. And Nevil — or the demon Rhym, I should say — hunted her for years and had his minions hunting for her. He put a huge price on her head. That's important, because it's the only confirmation we have of what Valda told me when… Yes, me. She turned up years later in Scotland. Where she'd been we don't know, but somehow she'd acquired more demons to replace those she'd lost, and she was looking for a good…" He paused as if he had reached a difficult part of his story and tried another tack. "Valda believed that when Rhym possessed your father, your father's soul was displaced in the confusion. That doesn't normally happen in a possession, but remember they were playing with very powerful gramarye. She was convinced that the soul of the mortal Nevil, the real Nevil, had become immured in the yellow diamond that had formerly contained Rhym."
Again Lisa took a drink. Yes, this had to be a joke, in very bad taste.
The condottiere refilled her beaker. "So when Valda reappeared five years ago, she was prepared to redress that misfortune. She wanted to reincarnate your father's soul in a mortal body. She chose me." He was not looking at her now. "An honor I was more than glad to be spared. Things went wrong again. It's a complex story, my lady, but the short of it is that the soul of your real father is now immured in this gem."
Lisa stared in growing horror at the shiny purple crystal. After what seemed a long time, she found her voice. "You can prove that?"
The big man sighed. "I'm very sure. A great tutelary confirmed that there is something in there, something not potent enough to be a demon."
"You mean… my… my father is imprisoned… fifteen years? In there? Is he conscious? Aware? Does he know—"
"I don't know." He shrugged his great shoulders. "Nobody does. In a thousand years of tending mortals, Montserrat had met no precedent. If he can be restored, he may well come back as a raving maniac — and who supplies the living body? But this pebble contains the rightful King of England." Before she could speak, he went on. "There is more. Valda is dead. Hamish killed her."
"Hamish? But she was a hexer, an adept… Baron Oreste—"
"And Hamish is Hamish. Get him to tell you that story, too. Yes, she was a hexer. Both she and your father knew Rhym's name, the conjuration that was supposed to control the demon."
"It didn't cont—"
"That one time it didn't. Nevertheless, if properly invoked, it may still control Rhym. If your father can be restored to life, he may be able to snare the Fiend with a simple incantation, bottle Rhym up again, and so stop all Europe's suffering with a word of command. So before you accept this gem, you should be aware that the Fiend will stop at nothing to lay his—"
"Constable, no power in this world will persuade me to touch that amethyst!"
"Your father, my lady—"
"No! No! No! It is yours! Keep it." She would not believe such a tale.
He sighed and nudged the stone back in its case with a meaty finger. "Very well."
"May we go now?" This had not been a very successful outing.
"Yes, if—" He frowned and looked around. "Can you hear something?"
"Flies. Lambs bleating."
He shook his head. "Sounds like drumming."
"The children?"
"Perhaps." Longdirk was unconvinced — puzzled and uneasy, cocking his head as if listening to a distant beat.
Perhaps it was the wine—"Is it true that you are possessed by a demon?"
She flinched at the look in his eyes. It seemed he was not going to answer, but then he said, "How can I be? If I were, I would already have raped you, mutilated you, and tortured you to death. That's what demons do to pretty little girls."
PART TWO
March
CHAPTER ONE
The condotta was signed where important civic ceremonies were always held — under the high, three-arched loggia adjoining the Piazza della Signoria. The crowds cheered lustily to hail their dashing new Castilian captain-general and his big deputy, who could undoubtedly defeat all the Fiend's horses and all the Fiend's men single-handed with a club. Their betters were of another mind, though.
The new slate of civic officials, especially the dieci della guerra, were steamingly furious, because the agreement had been finalized before they took office, cheating them of their just share of the graft. For this they blamed the barbarian giant, who had actually begun striking camp at Fiesole, preparing to move to Milan, and had thus forced messer Benozzo to ride out in haste and agree to initial the terms. Toby had been bluffing, of course, but the big mutt was a mile more devious than he looked and could outwit anyone anytime when he wanted to.
All the two-lire politicos and their wives were now snubbing him as obviously as possibly. If that made the ceremony unpleasant for Toby, it was pure torture for Hamish Campbell. A chancellor was supposed to steer his condottiere safely through the quicksands of Italian politics. That was his job, and to plead that the sands of Florence were quicker than others or that a non-Italian could not understand their constant shifting would be a confession of incompetence. If only someone knowledgeable had written a book on the subject! — someone like that slinky messer Machiavelli who advised the Magnificent, for instance.
However joyously the people of Florence hailed their new defender, the petty leaders were treating Toby more like a foreign conqueror than a guardian who had just sworn to defend them with his life. Most of the sumptuously garbed notables and their almost-as-sumptuously-garbed wives had just stalked by him with noses raised on their way to pay their respects to the captain-general himself before moving across to the Palace of the Signory for the banquet. The don was posturing in his silver helmet, flaunting his baton of office within a circle of fawning admirers. Apparently he had managed to overcome his dislike of taking orders from a rabble of moneylenders and haberdashers. The worst must be over, though. The slow grind of protocol was now about to bring forth the larger parasites.
"The people like you," Hamish muttered.