"Of course, he wasn't officially king until he had made the required visit to Sarai to do homage to the Khan and have his accession confirmed. He never did. Queen Jocelin left court within a week — probably the wisest move possible under the circumstances. The court gossiped, as courts always do. The courtiers wondered if Valda would be content to remain royal harlot or if she craved royal honors, and what would happen to Nevil's existing queen if she did. They wondered if her powers would extend to making him suzerain. They wondered what France and Burgundy would do — whenever a monarch dies, it's regarded as good manners for his neighbors to invade as soon as possible and grab off whatever they can before his successor gets settled in. Nevil was smart enough and subtle, he just didn't seem strong enough to be an effective ruler. The question was whether Valda could rule through him, or so the gossip went. Then came the infamous Night of the Masked Ball."
Rory glanced around as if to see who already knew about the Night of the Masked Ball. Everyone except Toby was nodding understanding.
"No one knows exactly what happened that night. The king did not attend the ball, and neither did Valda. In fact, Valda was never seen again. He put a price on her head the next day."
"Ten thousand marks," Father Lachlan muttered.
"That came later. It was less to begin with. Nevil himself was changed after that night, dramatically changed. Everyone noticed. Oh, he looked just the same, and he had the same gentle manners and soft voice, but something fundamental was different. He was nothing like a harp anymore, more of a bass drum. He began raising taxes, raising men, planning for war. One of the first things he did was to call us all in — the Scottish hostages his father had collected — and send us home."
Rory's face darkened and he stared at the fire for a moment. "Before we left, he made us swear allegiance at a grand public ceremony in Westminster Hall. I've told you how old I was, and I was not the only madcap youngster in the group. We agreed we were utterly determined to die rather than betray our beloved Scotland. We were going to smuggle knives into the hall, we were going leap out windows in a mass suicide… and so on. Of course none of us did anything of the sort. Nevil demanded the full Tartar obeisance, and we kowtowed and touched our faces to the floor and laid the king's foot on our heads and all that, just as we were supposed to. Well-trained dogs!"
He fell silent and continued to scowl at the embers for so long that Hamish plucked up the courage to whisper, "He used gramarye on you?"
Rory turned an eagle glare on him. "Would I admit this if he hadn't? I mean, would I ever admit he hadn't hexed me, when I confess to treason?"
The kid shriveled about three years younger, shaking his head vigorously.
Rory relented with a bitter smile. "Nine years ago and it still rankles! It didn't last, of course. Away from the source demon, hexes soon fade. Or go to any sanctuary and the spirit will take it off you. And in compensation, we were going home! We were all ecstatic at the prospect of seeing the Highlands again — at least we all said we were, but some of us had been prisoners for years and could barely remember our homeland.
"What we couldn't understand was what had come over Nevil. All those hostages his father had used to keep Scotland quiet for a decade — why was he letting us go? The court thought he'd gone crazy. As soon as we were safely home, the Highlands exploded, with every ex-hostage right out in front, screaming to enlist and prove his patriotism. The Lowlands followed. We knew what was going to happen. Everyone knew what was going to happen. It was inevitable. But Nevil knew what he was doing." He grinned. "Well, lad? Have you any suggestions?"
Again Hamish shook his head. "I don't know, sir." He was as intent on the story as a toddler hearing a favorite bedtime fairy tale.
Toby was bored. He stretched his long arms and yawned luxuriously. "Practice! Nevil's father wanted peace. Nevil wanted war. He used the Scottish campaign to temper the army he was raising. The Battle of Norford Bridge, June, 1511… it was an English training bout."
Hamish gaped at him as if he'd grown wings.
Rory laughed. "Muscles," he said, "you are acting out of character! Who told you that?"
"Don't remember." In fact he'd worked it out for himself, at the time, while the Fillan survivors were still limping home. He must have been a horribly cynical little boy to have seen that. He'd even been cynical enough not to speak such blasphemy in the glen, for he'd never told anyone.
"Well, you're absolutely right, although of course it wasn't apparent at the time. It's obvious enough in hindsight." Rory shot a reproving glance at Hamish, who shrugged bashfully. "Nevil was a different man after Valda's disappearance, and a military genius in particular. The French invaded the English enclaves in Brittany and Aquitaine. He invaded France. He didn't merely beat them back and rough them up as he was supposed to under the usual rules. He conquered France, annexed it, and had himself crowned at Reims. Then he went on to grander things. He has never lost a battle, never failed to hold a field or take a city."
"He hasn't conquered the Highlands!" Hamish protested.
"Hasn't he?" growled the keeper from his lofty perch.
Rory scowled at the fire and did not answer.
"Admit it!" said the keeper. "He has! He strangled you. Scotland has never been able to throw out the English without the backing of France or Flanders. Now Nevil rules both of them, and half of Europe besides. You have no money, my lord, no guns, no prospects."
Still watching the dancing flames, Rory said, "That's true. At the moment at least, that's true."
Hamish had subsided into horror-stricken silence.
"But?" said Father Lachlan. "If I were King Fergan, which I am not, then I might be thinking of other allies — such as the Tartars themselves." He smirked mischievously, firelight flashing on his eyeglasses.
"Dangerous talk!" Rory snapped.
"Oh, nonsense! If a peaceable old man like me can work it out for himself, then don't you think the English can? I've never heard of the Khan taking any interest in Scotland at all, I admit, but he must be getting seriously worried about Nevil."
The rebel did not want to talk about that.
"What has all this got to do with me?" Toby demanded. "Who was Susie?"
Rory turned thoughtful silver eyes on him. "Do you understand how the Golden Horde runs Europe, how government works?"
"The kings are vassals of the Khan."
"In theory. But in practice? You know the English have to reconquer Scotland all over again every few years. The Tartars haven't brought an army across the Vistula in two hundred years, and yet all of Europe still pays tribute to the Khan. Do you think the Golden Horde's hexers are so much better than ours that they do it with demons?"
"I never really thought about it," Toby admitted, shifting position. He hated being lectured at any time, and it had been a long day.
Hamish chuckled. "It's no use asking Toby about history, sir. My Pa could never beat any history into him."
"Couldn't he?" Rory studied Toby again for a minute. "Or couldn't he beat it out of him?"
The boy frowned. "How do you mean?"
"I'll bet it went like this: Teacher says: 'Strangerson, the Tartars overran England in 1244. When did the Tartars overrun England?' Horror Child says: 'Sir, I don't remember!' He does, but he won't admit it. So your Pa reaches for his birch and tries to beat the answer out of him. I would guess that, in this case, he usually lost and Horror Child won. Am I right, Longshanks?"