"I am not your man!"
The boat jostled against stone steps. Rory shrugged. "Then I offer you hospitality as my guest, as I offer my home to your charming companion. Nobody hangs my guests, either. Not even me — it's bad manners. Miss Campbell?"
He handed Meg ashore, then offered help to Father Lachlan, who shot Toby a disapproving and warning frown.
Toby and Hamish were left to manage by themselves, following up a paved road to the castle, bent against the driving rain. The few people they met on the way all recognized their leader. Bonnets came off. Men bowed, women curtseyed.
Hamish walked at first in worried silence, clutching his muddy bundle. Then he muttered, "Toby, you'd better take care! He's the Campbell's son! He's the heir to Argyll — that's what 'master' means!"
"I know that! And I would still like to ram his teeth down his throat!"
"Toby!" Hamish's voice rose to a batlike squeak. "He'll have you beaten! Or branded! He can throw you in a dungeon."
"That's no way to treat guests, either. And he wouldn't dare now!" That hurt more than anything — nobody would dare threaten the hexer who could haul down mountains. Inhuman! Leper! "You know what he wants of me, don't you?" Getting no reply except an unhappy nod, he said, "Well? He thinks I'm an adept. He wants me to hex the bloody Sassenachs for him!"
And what did he want of Meg?
Hamish mumbled, "Maybe."
"What else, then?"
"Earl Robert's one of King Nevil's strongest supporters in Scotland. What's his son doing running with rebels? And do we know that he is a rebel at all just because he wears a feather in his cap? Or is he trying to find Fergan and betray him?"
Toby thought about it as they hurried to the barbican. "You worry about that," he concluded. "I don't care either way."
By then, Hamish had forgotten the problem and was gaping up at the towers and battlements. "This is one of the strongest castles in Scotland. It's never been taken."
No Scottish lord had cannon to blast a way into a citadel like this, so of course the earl would be on the side of the English. And strongholds made good prisons. Toby saw the arch with its daunting portcullis like a giant mouth about to swallow him whole. He was an outlaw, with every man's hand against him. His only possessions were the sodden clothes on his back, a few coins, and a pretty stone in his sporran. It was too late to run, though, and he had nowhere to go.
"You suppose a great castle like this would have a library?" Hamish muttered.
More to the point, would it have a gallows?
The archway cut off the rain at last. Two guards stood in their path, but they were Highlanders in plaids and leathers, shoes and steel helmets; they held pikes and wore swords. They jumped to attention and saluted — which was a surprising courtesy to offer a band of mud-plastered vagrants — but they seemed more interested in 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?"