He had not had to move his feet. He frowned and scratched his stubbly chin. "If you're trying to rile me, sir, you'll have to hit me a lot harder than that."
"I will." Rory came dancing back and swung a deliberate low blow — one that Toby was certainly not willing to absorb. In blocking it, he put himself off-balance, feet wrong, hands too low. Rory grabbed his wrist and… flip! Caught by a cross-buttock throw, Toby hit the ground with his entire length. Ooof! The sky spun and steadied…
"I could kick your head in now," Rory said calmly. "Would that be hard enough? Ready for Lesson Two?"
Toby scrambled up and raised his fists, keeping a firm grip on his temper. He was a boxer, not a wrestler, as Steward Bryce had warned him. The glen followed the Fancy's Rules very strictly, and discouraged throwing. Like a fool he had been expecting Rory to fight as he did. Well, now he was ready…
Rory's bare foot shot up and struck his elbow, jarring his entire arm. "With a shoe on, I could have disabled you. Lesson Three?"
Toby blocked a fusillade of jabs, felt his wrist caught again and hit the ground again with his face in the dirt and his opponent on his back, holding him in a painful arm lock. He discovered that there were angles at which muscle made no difference.
"I could dislocate your shoulder, you understand," Rory murmured in his ear. "Ready for Lesson Four?" He broke loose.
The bareknuckle champion of Strath Fillan staggered up again and looked at the mocking silvery eyes through a red fog of fury. The desire to flatten that arrogant nose had become one of the world's most urgent concerns.
As his opponent came dancing in again, he ignored defense, feinted with his left, and threw a right cross that slammed into Rory's shirtfront like a cannonball demolishing a castle. Against an opponent of equal size, it would have been a wasted blow and possibly costly. Perhaps its very clumsiness caught Rory unprepared. Certainly poor wee Rory could never have been swatted like that before. He struck the grass spread-eagled and skidded before he came to a stop; he lay there, dazed, gasping, and comically astonished.
"I could jump on your guts now!" Toby bellowed. "Lesson Five… Get up!"
"No!" Meg screamed, rushing between the two of them. "That is enough! I won't have it! Put your fists down, Toby Strangerson!" She knelt to help poor Rory.
Toby forced his hands to his sides, quivering with fury. He wrestled his anger back in its cage, took a couple of very deep breaths, and turned on his heel. He stalked away into the trees, boiling. So he was the stronger — who would have questioned that? Rory was the better fighter. The uppity little runt had beaten him three times. The real world would offer no fourth chances. His one talent had betrayed him. He needed lessons in fighting.
CHAPTER TWO
He might have stormed off and fallen into the bog, or become lost in the woods, had he not come face-to-face with another man heading toward him. They both halted, staring at each other with mutual surprise.
He was small and plump, of middle years. The top of his head had been shaved, leaving bare scalp surrounded by a black-and-silver tonsure. He wore a heavy wool robe, ostensibly white, although now bedraggled and smeared with grass stains, and he held a cloth-wrapped parcel under one arm. On the extreme end of his pudgy nose perched a pair of glass lenses in a contraption of gold wire that hooked over his ears. Toby had heard of eyeglasses, but never seen any before.
The newcomer peered up at him over them and demanded urgently, "Was she wearing any jewelry?" His voice was high-pitched and squeaky.
Toby blinked. "Who?"
"The Valda woman, of course, the one you think was Valda."
"Er. No. Well, she had a sort of crown thing on her head at table. It was sparkly, so I suppose—"
"But no rings? No pendants?"
"No… A big gem on the pommel of a dagger?"
"Ah! What color?"
With distaste, Toby concluded that the older man was either drunk or mentally deranged, and the only thing to do was humor him. "Yellow."
The little man shook his head as if that was a wrong answer, then quickly raised a finger to push his glasses higher, although he continued to peer over them instead of through them. "Black crescent emblem? You're sure? Curved left or right?"
"Um. No. Hamish saw it."
"Tell me everything you saw, then."
"Why?"
At Toby's back, Rory laughed. "You'll have to take it slowly, Father. Short, simple words. Toby of Fillan — Father Lachlan of Glasgow."
Toby noted that the robe had a hood and remembered what Hamish had told him. "You're an adept?"
Father Lachlan twitched angrily and again caught his spectacles before they slipped off. "I prefer to be described as an acolyte, although I am on leave from my office at present. I am also a friar of the Galilean Order. I must hear all about this Valda woman."
"Why?"
The little man seemed to find the question incomprehensible. "Because she is dangerous, of course! And evil, if she is who you think she is. Now sit yourself…" He peered around as if looking for a chair. "Right here will do, I suppose." He flopped down on the loam, adjusted his spectacles again, and addressed Toby's sporran. "I must hear everything you saw, everything you heard."
"Why?"
Rory laughed again. "He's trying to help you, Baby Beef."
Toby almost asked, "Why?" again. What reason could a total stranger have to aid him? On the other hand, he had a demon in his heart and had resolved to seek out a sanctuary. Although he distrusted any friend of Rory's on principle, he would have to ask help from somebody. He stared down uncertainly at the shiny bald scalp.
"You can talk on the way, Father," Rory said. "Are those my shoes?"
"Oh… yes, of course."
Rory helped the little man rise and took the parcel, which comprised a pair of silver-buckled shoes wrapped in thick tartan socks. "You don't need that, Man Mountain!"
Meg and Hamish had arrived also, and Hamish was solemnly offering Toby his broadsword.
He said, "Thanks!" and put it on. Then he accepted his bundle also. Meg looked cross, Hamish uncertainly amused.
"I said, you don't need it!" Rory repeated angrily. "It makes you stand out like Beinn Bhreacliath. It's liable to get you shot on sight."
"I am not your man!" Toby snapped. "Go away. We don't need your help to walk to Oban."
Rory scowled, unconsciously rubbing his chest as if it hurt. "You need someone's help, Longdirk. All right — carry the horrible thing if you want. Now tell Father Lachlan the whole story, everything you can remember, every detail. And don't forget your dreams in the night."
He waved for Hamish and Meg to accompany him and marched off through the trees in his shoes.
The acolyte had been ignoring the bickering, looking mostly impatient. He put a hand on Toby's arm to urge him forward. "Come along, my son. Tell me about the woman. Did you have dreams of her in the night — vivid dreams, I mean?"
"Yes, sir. Very vivid. I… I think she conjured…" He clenched his fists and said it: "I think I may be possessed."
The little man shrugged. "That's what we fear, of course. Tell me everything, and we'll see. It's possible, but there are other possibilities." He peered quizzically at Toby and then smiled. "I'm not about to stick a knife in your heart! Even if what you fear is true, there is still hope! But you must give me all the facts. Did you, um, couple with the woman?"