He wondered if Lady Valda was now shackled in the dungeon in his stead. It was an appealing thought, if not a very probable one. Lady Valda might be dead. Or Lady Valda might be alive and using more gramarye to reassert her control over the laird and the garrison. Did she still have a need for the stalwart young man? Spirits knew! To try and outguess the hexer was ridiculous. Or outguess a demon, either. Blocked in its efforts to possess Toby, it might have settled for Lady Valda. He did not even know if there were male and female demons, or whether it mattered. There were all sorts of possibilities.
Assume, though, that Lady Valda was not in control. What would the laird do to counter an outbreak of diabolism in the glen? He would believe the witnesses who had seen the demon ride off in Toby Strangerson's body, so he would order it hunted down and an iron spike driven through its heart. Most likely he would also send to a sanctuary — Dumbarton or Fort William or even Glasgow — for an adept to come and exorcise the castle. Whether the exorcism would succeed, of course, was another matter. Cowshed or palace, if a demon took up residence in a place, it usually had to be abandoned. Many a deserted ruin in the Highlands testified to the truth of that.
Even from Fort William, an acolyte would not arrive for a few days. In the short term, the laird would seek advice closer to hand. The local authority in such matters was the glen's witchwife, Granny Nan.
Toby decided that the situation held some interesting irony.
But he still had not solved the problem of where he could seek refuge, or even hide out until another night gave him a slim chance of escaping from the glen. He was an outlaw, a murderer, and credibly believed possessed. No one would dare shelter him. He bore the scars of fetters on his ankles and neck; he had rusty metal cuffs on his wrists.
He wondered if he was still under the protection of the hob. Its influence would not extend beyond the limits of the glen, and it might have forgotten about him already. Hobs were fickle, not to be trusted. All the same, it was a hope to cling to. It was all he had.
Twigs crackled underfoot as he neared the door. Then his heart lurched. Dismay! Moonlight shone on wraiths of smoke coiling up from the chimney — far more smoke than would come from any fire Granny Nan ever set. She must have company, or intruders.
For a moment he dithered in despair. Then he decided that whoever had come visiting, it could not be the English. If it was a bunch of Campbell neighbors and they decided to turn him in, then he could have a little enjoyable exercise. He limped over to the door, lifted the latch, and ducked in under the lintel.
There was no one there. The extravagant fire crackled and sparked, shedding a joyful light. The warmth of it reached out to him like a lover's arms, or what he supposed lovers' arms would feel like. But there was no one there. He shuffled across to the hearth and eased himself to the floor. At once he began to shiver and shudder and break out all over in more goosebumps than he would have believed possible. He rubbed his feet, trying to work some life back into them.
Granny Nan's chair was empty. Her bed was empty. The bundle she had prepared for him lay in the corner where he slept. Nothing seemed to be missing: the kettle on the ingle, the two black pots hung by the chimney, the crocks on their shelf, the loom. A list of everything in the room would not fill one sheet of paper. Ah! Her bonnet hung on its peg, but her cloak was gone. And his bonnet was hung in its place! That was the most welcome sight he had seen all night. Granny Nan must have found it after the soldiers left. But where could she be?
She had said she was going away. None of the villagers were rich, but they cherished their witchwife. She had pulled most of them from their mothers' wombs. She had tended their sicknesses. If she had announced that she needed care in her last years, then someone would have agreed to take her in, no question. Someone would have come with a cart to fetch her — Iain the miller, or Rae the butcher, or someone.
Someone had put logs on the fire not very long ago, someone accustomed to burning peat or broom, not wood, so perhaps the glen had a new witchwife. Until tonight Granny Nan had never mentioned choosing a successor, but she had been acting so strange these last few months… Other women had taken over the midwifery. The glen did not lack for widows. One of them must have agreed to serve.
She would not have gone far without her bonnet. The logical conclusion was that she had slipped over to visit the hob — perhaps introducing the new witchwife, or inducting her, doing whatever was required. She was taking a long time about it. Toby must go and find her.
He should also find the salve she used for scrapes and cuts, but he lacked the energy to move. His thawing limbs ached and throbbed, which was the penalty for coming back to life. He was also starting to feel intensely sleepy. His eyelids were as heavy as rocks. He must not sleep! He turned around to roast his back and stretch his legs. First, he must find another pin for his plaid, and he thought Granny Nan had a spare somewhere. Then find her and thank the hob. Then decide where to run and start running. The idea was an impossibility, but his only alternative was death.
He was still facing the door when it opened and the men came in with drawn swords. Their eyes were filled with the same hatred and accusation he had seen earlier that night in the eyes of the soldiers.
CHAPTER SIX
Plaid-clad Campbells crowded the cottage. The first in was Iain Miller, faintly coated in flour so that he seemed like a fat ghost in the firelight. His plump hand looked absurd holding a sword, but that same hand had wielded that same blade at Leethoul with deadly effect. No eyes more deserved to be called piggy, but they glinted with the same dangerous shrewdness as a boar's.
Behind him came Eric Smith, who was broader but shorter, whose arms shamed even Toby's. No one would question his right to hold a sword — his hand was crooked and twisted from long years of hammering, but the smith was the strongest man in the glen. He had been bareknuckle champion for ten years and could still be, if he wished. When words led to deeds, it was usually Eric who took the combatants by the scruffs of their necks and dunked them in the burn.
Then came Rae Butcher… bushy black brows, shaggy black mustache, usually a hearty smile and a joyous greeting, but somber now.
These three were understandable, for they were the unofficial leaders, men who would take charge whenever there was trouble that did not involve the laird — especially in these troubled times when the laird was a stranger and a suspect traitor. Toby thought of them as Brains, Brawn, and Blarney.
Surprisingly, there was a fourth: the peg-legged Kenneth Tanner, leaning on his cane. Nobody thought much of that souse, so why was he here?
Toby pulled up his knees and dragged his plaid over his shoulder again, resisting the temptation to stand. He was taller than any of them. They were armed; down on the floor he was less likely to provoke violence.
"What's happened?" he demanded sharply. "Where's Granny Nan?"
"Suppose you tell us," Iain Miller said.
Toby raised his hands to show the manacles. "I don't know! I escaped. I just got back here."
"The Sassenachs did not take her?"
"Of course not! Even English must know better than to meddle with a witchwife."
"Then where is she?"
"I don't know. She was here when I left. She said she was going away, that someone was coming to fetch her." With rising panic, Toby stared at the blankly accusing faces. "She knew I would have to leave the glen. I thought someone in the village…"
"News to me," the miller said.