A short walk brought them to Loch Fyne — forty miles long, Hamish announced, reaching all the way to the Mull of Kintyre and the Isle of Butte. As the rain hid everything out of bowshot, Toby was not impressed by the information. He had never seen the sea before, and found even the smell of it intriguing. The tide was out, exposing smooth gray rocks coated with strange weeds and barnacles. He would have liked to see the ships that Hamish insisted would be anchored off Inverary, but had to be content with bobbing gulls and the little boats that lay on the strand near every cottage, surrounded by intriguing tackle.
"Fishing nets," Hamish said, unnecessarily. "Lobster creels. They dry fish on those racks, don't they, Master MacDonald? And see yon harpoon!"
According to Rory, they passed within a mile of Inverary Castle itself, but the rain obscured it totally. Few folk were mad enough to be about in such weather, and any who had reason to watch for strangers must have been discouraged by the Campbells of Shira. The fugitives saw hardly a soul.
Their way lay east, a crude trail where the hills met the sea. At high tide, it might have been impassable. Hamish quartered like a questing hound, trotting back with shells and crabs and jellyfish to show.
The world was starting to offer novelty. With a cape to keep off the worst of the rain and free of his weighty sword, Toby was having a better day. Better was a relative term, of course.
They reached the mouth of the River Fyne and turned south, still following the shore. At the hamlet of Cairndow, two men emerged from the rain to interrogate the strangers. Rory stalked on ahead to speak with them, and they reacted in the now familiar fashion, doffing bonnets and bowing. The travelers were allowed to pass.
They crossed a river on stepping stones that were mostly underwater. They turned inland.
Miraculously, the rain had eased to a drizzle, revealing a straight glen ahead, almost narrow enough to be called a gorge. On the left, beyond the river, the hill was an imposing wall, soaring into the clouds without a break. It was not quite a cliff, although a man would need go up it on all fours. The near side was more gentle, although still too steep for any use but cattle. The river might be just a peaty burn most of the time, but days of rain had turned it into a roaring brown torrent, which had taken over the track in places and was washing it away in others. It frothed and thundered over boulders, setting Toby's teeth on edge with a sepulchral rumble of rocks rolling along its bed.
"Where is this?" he demanded after a while.
Rory said, "It's Glen Kinglas—" and stopped.
Toby looked back, seeing a glimpse of Loch Fyne framed in the glen mouth, with hints of the hill beyond like a wall of mist. "Then here we part."
Silence, except for rain and wind and the growling of the river.
He had calculated well in bringing Meg along. Now the moment of farewell had arrived, the other men were reluctant to desert him, even though they knew they could give him no aid.
"Go back," he said. "This is my battle. You have done more than was required, by many a mile, all of you."
"Just because you have escaped the woman before, Tobias…" Father Lachlan began, but he did not finish. What he meant was that there was no spirit of Glen Shira here, no hob of Fillan. Toby was alone.
He had always been alone. He always would be. Strong men could stand alone. The time for running away was over.
"Go back," he repeated, speaking to Rory's angry stare. "If you had a warband at your back, you could not help me now. Find a warm hearth down there in Cairndow, or somewhere. Or go back to Sir Torquil's."
"The tide is in!" Rory snapped. His pride was burning him alive. He was the leader. Sons of chiefs did not stay behind when their followers went into danger — he regarded Toby as his man, even if Toby refused to bend a knee to him.
"I am sure you have other friends close, to offer you shelter, Master… MacDonald."
That hint made the gray eyes glint dangerously. "Father Lachlan, you take the girl and the boy and—"
"No, my son," the friar said quietly. "This battle is not for you. Remember your grandfather."
"I'm going with you!" Hamish announced — bravely enough, although there was a strange whiteness around his eyes.
He was a puppy yapping at a bull, but Toby was touched. The courage of the Campbells of Fillan was very real to the teacher's son, and not to be mocked now. He squeezed the boy's shoulder. "Thanks, my friend. I know I promised you we would hang on the same gallows, but I'm not headed to the gallows today."
"Go with our prayers, Tobias," the friar said. "You can follow the trail without trouble, over Rest and be thankful—"
"What?"
"A pass. That's its name, Rest and be thankful. Then down into Glen Croe, between the Cobbler and the Brack, to Arrochar. You'll be only a mile or two west of the Loch Lomond Road, then. When you get to Dumbarton, ask at the sanctuary for Father Gregor…"
If he got that far. Toby braced himself. He had never reneged on a promise before, but in this case it was a distasteful duty. "I must ask you for your oath, Father. Promise me that Meg Campbell—"
The friar cried out. "Where is Meg Campbell?"
Meg Campbell was a tiny figure in the distance, trudging along the road, indistinct in the rain. With a roar, Toby took off in pursuit. He heard feet slapping in the mud behind him. How had she managed to get so far without them noticing?
He caught up with her and grabbed her arm. She swung around furiously.
"Take your hands off me!"
He took his hands off her.
She started walking again. He tracked beside her, fuming. "What the demons are you doing?"
"Going where you go. I told you."
She was being so stupid that he didn't know where to start.
"Meg, I'm an outlawed murderer, a demonic husk, a penniless vagrant. I've got a price on my head, a hexer at my heels…"
She glanced back at the posse. "Yes, but I feel safer with you than I do with Rory. Oh, Toby, I can't explain… I trust you. I more than just trust you, I…"
"You what?"
"Never mind. Rory frightens me!" She smiled suddenly, seeing his shock. "I don't mean he threatens me. He's witty and charming and attentive. But… I am afraid when I'm with him. Not afraid of him, so much as afraid of me!"
"What does that mean?"
Again she glanced back at the pursuers. "I don't know. I mean, I don't know how to tell you without hurting you."
"Try me!" He had never seen fiery little Meg Campbell so off-balance, so unsure of herself. Rory would be here in seconds.
She bit her lip. "He's so devious! He could steal a horse's shoes without lifting its feet."
"He's clever and I'm not, you mean?"
"Oh, you know that's not what I mean! He promises… You really think he's a rebel?"
What in the world was she trying to say?
Then Rory came splashing up to them, obviously furious that his followers were not following as he expected. Hamish was close behind him, handicapped by his bundle. Father Lachlan would come in a distant fourth. Below his leather cape, the hem of his white robe flapped madly, like a housewife's duster.
"Meg, you are being foolish!" Rory said sharply. "You go on, Longdirk." He reached for Meg's arm.
Toby struck his hand away. "She goes with me if she wants."
"To face Valda? And demons? Are you out of your minds, both of you?" Again Rory reached for her arm. "Come with us, Meg. You go on, Longdirk. We'll talk sense into—"