He seemed oddly concerned about crossing the road. Some of the locals, he admitted, were unreliable, and Sassenach patrols had been sighted. The road itself, running from Glen Lochy to Dalmally, barely deserved to be called a track. It wandered from house to house, fording burns, detouring around bogs and peat cuts, frequently offering the traveler a choice of several ways, none of them appealing. Strath of Orchy was wide, flat, and marshy, but it was inhabited. No one could cross it by day unobserved.
"The rain helps, though, doesn't it?" Hamish demanded, wolfing the last of Annie Bridge's blood sausage — he had freely handed out his mother's stale baps in exchange. Rain was marching gray armies along the glen, ghostly giants.
"It helps blind the Sassenachs. I doubt it will stop demons."
Hamish gulped on a mouthful.
"So what are you planning, Master MacDonald?" Meg asked attentively.
"I've got patrols of my own out." He did not elaborate.
Just who was Rory MacDonald of Glencoe? Father Lachlan knew him by some other name, and although the younger man treated the older with diffidence, there was no question that the younger was the leader. The cottagers had doffed their bonnets to him, and Highlanders did that for few men.
What motivated these two? Meg and Hamish were here by necessity, but Rory and Father Lachlan would be far better off indoors, sharpening swords by the fireside, than struggling through storm-racked hills for no evident advantage. It was Strangerson whom Valda pursued, so why not just give the young bastard a head start and let him lead the hexer into someone else's shire?
The road — or the nearest branch of it — was only a few hundred paces away, and no one had come along it in the last quarter hour. Beyond it flowed the Lochy, which they would have to ford.
"That's where we're going, isn't it?" Hamish asked, peering into the murk. "That gap? The valley of the Eas a Ghail?"
"And the magnificent mountain to the left of it is Ben Lui," Meg snapped. "You can't see that, either."
"I can see the bottom of it. Going to be steep going, sir?" As Eas a Ghail meant "White Waterfall," he was making a reasonable assumption.
"Steep enough," Rory said. "Ah!"
Three men were approaching from the east, leading a pony loaded with broom, winter fuel. A few minutes later, two others came into sight from the west, with another pony similarly laden. The two groups paused for a brief word, almost opposite the watchers. Then they continued on their respective ways — having unobtrusively exchanged ponies.
"That's it!" Rory said with obvious satisfaction. "The all-clear signal. No patrols. Let's go."
Leaving only some crushed grass and not a single crust to mark where they had been, the travelers scrambled over the dike and hurried toward the road. The men with the ponies never looked around.
Toby found Hamish at his side.
"You don't mind if I use you as a windbreak?" His plaid was already sodden. His lips were blue, his fingers bone-white, but he was grinning happily. He was an outlaw and wore a black feather. Incredibly, the kid was actually enjoying himself!
"Be my guest." Toby suspected that the rain was starting to show signs of whiteness. "When we get higher, we're going to be in snow, and then we'll leave a trail."
"I d-d-don't think demons need snow to t-t-track people."
"Perhaps not."
After a moment, Hamish said, "Who do you think Rory really is?" He was shouting over the wind, but his manner implied that he was whispering. His dark eyes gleamed conspiratorially.
"I have no idea."
"He speaks the Gaelic like a Sassenach."
"Yes he does."
"You think he might have lived in England when he was a kid? Prince Fergan was a hostage in England during the Taming, after the Battle of Leethoul."
Toby shrugged, feeling the wet plaid rubbing his skin under the weight of his sword. "You think Rory is King Fergan?"
"No," Hamish said reluctantly, obviously wishing that he did. "He's too young. A lot of chiefs' sons were taken, too. He may be a chief's son, or even… No, he mentioned his father, so he's not a chief yet. He may be a chief's son!"
"What if he is?" He probably was.
Hamish stumbled along in silence for a while. They crossed the muddy trail, then waded across the foamy brown Lochy, following Rory and Father Lachlan and Meg, who was chattering as if they were all old friends.
"Toby… do you like Meg?"
Toby looked down coldly — which was not difficult under the circumstances. "She's a nice kid."
The boy grinned impishly. "She's madly in love with you!"
"No, she's… Well, she may think she is, but she's not old enough to be really in love."
"She's older than I am!" Hamish said indignantly. "Girls grow up faster than boys do, and she's only a few months younger than you are."
"She is? But…" Toby thought for a moment and then said, "Oh." School memories were no help, because boys were taught in the morning and girls in the afternoon. Meg had been around for as far back as he could remember. She might not be much younger than he was, after all.
Maybe that did make a difference.
Hamish grinned triumphantly. "She's in love with you!"
"How do you know?"
"Everyone knows. The other girls all tease her about it, because she's so little and you're so big."
Did that explain some of her brother's enmity? "I'm also an outlaw, and I'm probably bewitched. She ought to find a better prospect."
"Tell her that!"
"You tell her, if you think it's any of your business."
Hamish shot Toby a wary look. "Father Lachlan's a Galilean, did you know? He was telling me some of their teachings and he says they don't contradict what Pa taught in school, which is mostly Stoic, because there's more Stoics in Scotland than any others — Pa uses some of their tracts — but I know the Socratics have a chapter in Glasgow, and of course the Tartars favor the Arabic…"
Toby listened to the prattle with less than half an ear and mulled over the implications of what he had been told about Meg. The idea was oddly worrying. He liked little Meg. He did not want to hurt her feelings, and he had probably done so already. A man could tell a woman that he loved her and risk being rejected — that was part of the burden of being male. A woman must be more careful, lest she seem brazen. If she dropped a few hints and the man was too stupid to notice, what more could she do? That must make things very difficult for her. He had never really thought of that before.
He certainly couldn't start falling in love now — not with Meg, not with anyone. Until he had been purged of his demon, or hex, or whatever Valda had done to him, he was not fit for human society. And even after that, he would still be an outlaw, and a homeless wanderer with no trade, no money, no prospects. Love would have to wait a long time.
Besides, he had promised Kenneth Tanner that he would treat Meg as a sister.
"Down!" Rory shouted. "Down, you big oaf!"
Hamish grabbed Toby's plaid and tugged. Hamish was already down — they all were. He had been daydreaming. He dropped to the wet moss.
They had come about half a mile from the road. A band of riders had emerged from the mist, heading east, coming fast.
"Toby!" Hamish squealed. "It's them! It's Valda!"
They were too far off to be certain, of course, but horses like those were rare. It was not a military patrol, certainly. Six… the lady, her maid, four demons…? If Valda had used Toby's dreams to locate him, then she would have had no need to detour around by Bridge of Orchy. She could cut him off by taking the Glen Lochy road.