"I think it's worth a lot."
Hamish brightened. "Really?"
"Really." Strategically it might be. The people weren't much.
As the trail descended the northern slope, it began skirting puddles of brown, peaty water. In another fifteen minutes, it was accompanied by a chattering burn, splashing over rocks and plunging into pools. Toby headed for one he knew.
Leaving the sack on a rock, he dropped his plaid and plunged in, with Hamish shadowing every move. The cold mountain water was agony and yet thrilling. They clowned a little and splashed. Hamish chattered all the while like a flock of starlings.
"How long have you had hairs on your chest, Toby?"
"This one or those two?"
His questions became more impertinent and finally he called Toby "Longdirk." That was a common enough nickname for growing lads, one that had been thrown at Toby often in the past, and one that Hamish himself must be starting to hear now. Addressed to a grown man, though, it could have more personal implications, especially in certain circumstances. As these were such circumstances and that was the way Hamish meant it, Toby roared and went for him. Hamish scrambled ashore and scampered off over the moor, squealing with glee; Toby caught him, carried him back to the pool by his ankles and dunked him head downward until he could stop laughing and choking long enough to beg for mercy.
Honor satisfied, they scrambled from the pool.
"You going to wash your plaid? Ma says August is the only month to wash plaids."
"No. Let's just give them a good shake."
Both shivering now, they shook out each plaid in turn and prepared to dress. A belted plaid was a simple length of woolen cloth — usually checkered in black and green in these parts — and up to nine feet long. Toby's was more than six and a half feet wide. He laid out his belt and spread the plaid over it. With the sureness of a man doing something he has done every day of his life, he pleated it across its width, leaving unpleated flaps at either side. He lay down on the pleats, the hem behind his knees, folded the right flap over to his left hip, the left side over that to make a double thickness in front. He buckled his belt, took hold of the corner beyond his left arm, and stood up. He pulled the left edge over his shoulder to support the weight and fastened it to itself with his pin, thus covering most of his back and half his chest. He tucked the long right end into the front of his belt and arranged all the folds to his satisfaction. With his bonnet on his head and his sporran on his belt, he was ready to go.
So was Hamish. Toby swung the meal sack onto his shoulder and set off.
"You do love the glen, don't you, Toby? Really, I mean?"
Toby sighed. The world must have more to offer than this barren gorge. It would be his home as long as Granny Nan needed him, but he felt no fondness for it. "How can I tell? I haven't seen the rest of the world yet."
"You going to?" Hamish asked wistfully. "Going off to seek your fortune?"
Again the same question: Whose man will you be? "Maybe. Heard any more from Eric?"
"Just what you know — he's working for a printer in Glasgow."
Hamish's brother was Toby's age, and the closest he had ever had to a friend. Like him, Eric had been too young to fight at Parline. He'd gone off to seek work, a few months ago, as so many others did nowadays — dispossessed young Highlanders whose laird had no more land to offer and no need of fighting men. Eric had been lucky, for most seemed to end up as coal miners or mercenary soldiers. None could be more landless than Toby, but he could not imagine himself as a miner. He would jam in the tunnels. As for soldiering, he would certainly offer a tempting target.
He had other ambitions. The soldiers said there was good money to be made in the prize ring in England. He was going to find a wealthy sponsor and be a prizefighter — but he couldn't leave while Granny Nan needed him, and he wasn't about to tell Hamish anyway.
"Toby?"
"Mm?"
"If you do go… would you take me with you?"
Startled, Toby laughed. "Why? Where?"
"Anywhere. I want to see the world, too." Hamish scrunched up his sharp features in a scowl. His father was in poor health. Everyone knew that Hamish would be the glen's next schoolteacher. Fighting men did not read books, and he already had more learning than he would ever have need to teach.
What use would a prizefighter have for a skinny bookworm companion? None. To say so would be unkind. This was the worst case of hero worship he'd met yet — complicated by too much reading of romantic books, likely. "Sure you can come! I need someone reliable to hold down the horses while I hold up the stage. We'll hang together, on the same gibbet." No matter what happened to Granny Nan, he would not likely be leaving before spring at the earliest, and by then the lad would have more confidence in himself. Toby thumped his shoulder. "That's a promise."
Hamish's eyes widened before he decided this was a man-to-man joke and required a smile. "Long as I get half the loot!"
On they went.
Strictly speaking, they had come down into Glen Orchy now, with cottages scattered around the flats and Loch Tulla a couple of miles ahead. The main length of Glen Orchy, though, stretched off to the southwest, between Beinn Bhreacliath and Beinn Inverveigh. No one lived there. It was too marshy, for one thing.
Hamish twisted his head around to study the glen. "You ever seen the bogy?"
"Never went to look for it."
"My grandfather's uncle went hunting in Glen Orchy and never came back!"
"He probably sank in the bog."
"If Strath Fillan has a hob, then Glen Orchy can have a bogy."
True, but Toby was not interested in the bogy of Glen Orchy. The sack weighed much more than it had when he set out. He plodded grimly. His feet hurt. Tomorrow he would ache as if he'd been beaten all over, but it would be worth it — more muscle! He felt proud of himself and at the same time ashamed of his pride. He'd made it. The hamlet and the guard post weren't far now.
"Who can they be?" Hamish gasped.
Toby looked up. A line of riders approached at a trot. He made out six of them. Who could they be?
When evil came to the glen, it often came this way.
His skin shivered. He told himself not to be a superstitious idiot.
Soon he could see that these were not soldiers, then that their mounts were of far better stock than the shaggy ponies of the glens. That meant English, almost certainly. The leader was a woman, riding sidesaddle on a truly magnificent black. Another woman followed her, and then four… four people muffled in dark robes with hoods hiding their faces. They bore swords, so they must be men, and either Sassenachs or rebels.
Toby had no idea who these intruders might be. He cursed himself for a craven fool, but the hob's prophecy ran around in his mind like a cat after a rat and he felt a foolish urge to run away and hide somewhere. He stepped well clear of the trail, slid his burden to the ground, and just panted.
"Hexers!" Hamish said hoarsely. "The ones with cowls? Adepts!"
He was the teacher's bairn. He read books. Didn't mean he didn't talk stable-washings sometimes, though.
"And the lady?"
Hamish shook his head, eyes wide. "A lady!"
Now he made sense. Only wealthy gentry could afford a horse like that, or the tack studded with shiny metal, perhaps even gems. The lady herself wore a robe of deep purple and a matching high-crowned hat with a black plume. Her collar was black fur, and the trim on her robe, too. When she drew nearer, Toby saw the aristocratic pallor of her complexion, her dark eyes and black arched brows. She was tall, she rode with grace; a haughty beauty, a great lady.
As she went by, he pulled off his bonnet and bent his head respectfully.
She did not go by. She turned her horse aside and rode over to him, while her followers came to a halt and waited. She reined in and looked down at him and Hamish. No, she was just looking at him. Heart hammering, he bowed and awaited her pleasure, staring at the jeweled buckles on her tiny boots, the sable trim on the rich fabric of her robe. He had never seen a real lady before.