The baron rose shakily. "I shall do my best, Longdirk, I swear it!"
Don Ramon drew his dagger. "You understand that you will lose a kidney if you do not?"
"Yes, yes! And you understand that death would be a welcome release for me? But I shall do my best to make recompense for all the harm I have done you. I wish I could do as much for all the thousands of others." Shuffling like a very old man, the baron headed for the door.
Toby went to replace the lanterns and fetch that precious casket.
Hope is the mother of disappointment...
PART NINE
To Catch the Wind
CHAPTER ONE
Hope was also much harder to handle than despair. Despair was simple, merely a matter of courage, and courage was only pride. But hope was a tease. Hope was a temptress who flaunted offers of life and safety, or even happiness, and whipped them away again. Hope was a will o' the wisp dancing over bottomless swamps.
Step by reluctant step, Toby was driven to belief. No matter how he fought against hope or chided himself for starry-eyed dreaming, the evidence grew that the baron and even the mad don were to be trusted. Over and over he warned himself that the more he let himself believe, the greater would be his pain when the trap snapped shut around him again. Yet still that seed of hope kept sprouting.
The first inkling was the way the baron tugged his cloak around himself, to hide his muddy clothes and ringless hands, after he had rapped on the door. He had not been told to do that.
Locks clattered, hinges groaned, Diaz appeared in the opening. "Your Excellency?" He did not even glance at the two shadowy monks so close to the viceroy's back.
"Summon my carriage immediately."
"At once, Excellency."
"And bring out the other prisoner—Campbell. He will accompany me."
A moment's hesitation. "He is technically the Inquisition's now, Excellency. I have your authority to insist?"
"Certainly. Use force if you must."
A gleam of satisfaction vanished instantly. Lowering his voice slightly, the captain said, "The friars are here. They are anxious to begin the interrogation."
"Not yet. Not till tomorrow at the earliest. Wait," Oreste added as Diaz began to turn away. "Longdirk is to be left undisturbed. He... that is, he is being stubborn. We must teach him a lesson."
The captain raised his eyebrows, which for him was equivalent to a gasp of disbelief. "Left as he is, senor? Chained like that?"
"Exactly as he is. No food, no water, no inspections, even."
"But he cannot stand indefinitely, senor! He will faint eventually, and with his arms held up in that position, then he will certainly suffocate."
"I do not ask for advice!" the baron yelled. "He is not to be disturbed by anyone, for any reason whatsoever! Until I return."
"Of course, Excellency!" Diaz saluted. His face bore the nearest thing to a smile that Toby had ever seen on it—he obviously thought the baron was planning to cheat the Inquisition by granting the prisoner a merciful death.
***
There was another hint a few moments later as the baron and his escort walked along the arched passageway to the stair and its seductive hint of daylight. One of the soldiers who had chained Toby to the wall an hour earlier jostled him, muttered, "Beg pardon, Father," and seemed to forget him again immediately.
***
Out in the courtyard a wan noontime sun was trying to break through flimsy clouds without much success, but the rain had stopped. Toby clutched the ivory casket, ignoring the wide iron gates and thoughts of making a run for it—there was no safety for him in the streets. He could not walk freely under the sky like other men; he was officially certified as not human.
The baron leaned against a pillar with his eyes closed, pale as a corpse. Toby moved in close to him on one side, the don on the other with his dagger concealed in his sleeve. Guards stood around, exchanging puzzled glances, but no one showed any interest in the two Benedictines, not even a group of genuine Benedictines who wandered across the courtyard, deep in conversation. Now followed a torment of waiting, a time for hope to sicken and fear to thrive.
Then Diaz returned with a troop of soldiers, escorting Hamish, who shuffled along in leg chains. His hands were in manacles, his features puffed and discolored by the battering he had taken in the cage. He squinted against the light, holding his head high and trying to look brave—he might well be deceiving anyone who knew him less well than Toby did. He scowled when he saw the baron, but his gaze flickered past the two fake monks with no sign of recognition at all. Hope surged a little higher yet.
***
Eight white horses brought in the viceroy's carriage, a gilded cottage on wheels. The steps were set down, but then there was a delay while the prisoner was pushed forward, looking puzzled and alarmed. Toby squeezed past the watchers and scrambled up, into a scented salon roomy enough for a dozen people. He settled himself on a silk-padded cushion and held his breath.
It was going to work! Great spirits, you will not betray us now?
Hamish clambered up, one foot at a time, steadied by soldiers' hands. His eyes widened when he saw the luxurious interior, but he did not seem to notice that there were was someone there already. He sat down and scowled as he tried to make himself comfortable in his fetters. The baron's bulk darkened the doorway, with the don right at his back.
"Where to, your Excellency?" called Diaz from the outside.
"To Montserrat."
The door was closed, orders were shouted, and the viceroy's escort began mounting in a clatter of hooves and jingling harness. The baron flopped down on the bench beside Hamish, drooping like a man exhausted. Hamish frowned at him distrustfully. Whips cracked, voices shouted, and the cumbersome machine began to roll. Eight white horses clattered out through the arch into the street, and the great wheels rumbled behind them.
Toby threw back his hood. "Ceud mile failte!" A hundred-thousand welcomes.
Hamish gaped and made a croaking noise.
"I think we have just escaped, thanks to Don Ramon here, and Montserrat, and his Excellency. You know Baron Oreste, at least by sight—and by reputation of course."
The baron looked round. "Master Campbell? I am very pleased to meet you at last, and in happier circumstances than I could have anticipated." He did not look pleased. He looked like a man going mad.
"The baron," said Toby, "is now one of us."
Hamish licked his lips. "Well now!" he whispered. "Ain't that one for the books!"
***
The armed escort kept the population at bay, but there was booing in the streets as the freedom-loving Catalans expressed their opinion of the hated viceroy. Had they known that the coach also contained a convicted incarnate, even Captain Diaz and his troop could not have defended it. Only when it rumbled out through the city gate and began to pick up speed on the muddy highway could the flower of hope open fully.
It was going to be a strange journey. The baron relapsed into bleak silence, but from time to time he would lift his head to stare longingly at the ivory casket like a drunkard deprived of his wine. All would be lost if that lid were to open for even an instant, so Toby wrapped it securely with the girdle from one of the now-discarded robes and kept it on the bench between himself and the don.