"Fairly well, my lord."
"Is one of them an artist?"
"Gavin Mason can draw."
Rory nodded angrily. "Somebody can draw. This is a printed poster with a woodcut of your face on it. It's a fair likeness, except it makes you look like a starving wolf. The description is clear enough: eighteen years old, over nineteen hands tall, heavily muscled, brown eyes, curly hair, and extremely dangerous. Fits you to a tee, doesn't it? A convicted murderer, suspected of conjuring demons. There's quite a price on your head, Longdirk — one hundred marks!"
"What?" Toby howled.
"Dead or alive. You're worth more than I expected."
The guards were smiling.
Rory shrugged. "This is the man, Malcolm. The official story lacks a few details, which I shall be happy to supply at a suitable time. Meanwhile — just to discourage gossip — perhaps his presence here should not be advertised."
"Lock him up, you mean?"
"Why, not at all! He deserves our famous Inverary hospitality. So does his accomplice. Grandmother — Hamish Campbell of Tyndrum."
Hamish bowed until his head almost vanished under his plaid.
Lady Lora boomed a laugh. "Welcome to Inverary, kinsman! Rory, trouble is your shadow. See to his men, will you, Malcolm? Come along, Father… and you, Miss Campbell."
The moment her back was turned, Toby found himself surrounded. No one barked orders, no one laid a hand on him or drew a weapon, and his attendants did not actually march him off — but he went without argument and he kept his fists at his sides. A hundred marks dead was easier to deliver than a hundred marks alive, especially when it stood nineteen hands tall. Hamish strode along, head high, smirking blissfully at having been described as one of Rory's men.
Their journey was short: out a side door and into a kitchen hardly smaller than the great hall. Its well-scrubbed tables would have fed half of Clan Campbell without crowding. Boot heels drumming on flagstones, they passed fires where two carcasses were already turning on spits in preparation for the evening's festivities and counters where women were chopping vegetables and kneading dough. Sir Malcolm led the way along a somber stone corridor, past many oaken, iron-studded doors. If their destination was not to be a dungeon, it would serve as well, Toby thought. Then a door was opened and steam gushed unexpectedly forth.
Their guide's green eyes had lost none of their vigilance or suspicion. "You will have the bathroom to yourselves at this time of day. The gentry have their own water, so use all you want. I'll send towels, plaids… We'll see what we can do about shoon." He looked Hamish over and turned to one of his men. "Come here, Ken."
One of the guards stepped forward, slipped off his boot, and laid his neatly socked foot alongside Hamish's muddy one.
"Aye, that's about the size. As for you…" He looked despairingly at Toby's feet and shook his head.
"Fishing boats?" said a whisper in the background.
Sir Malcolm obviously heard but pretended not to. "Go get the aches out, then, lads."
Toby lurched into the bathroom, mumbling thanks, too astonished to articulate properly. Through the fog he could see benches, peat glowing under a giant copper boiler, half a dozen wooden tubs large enough to launder a plaid. The garrison at Lochy enjoyed no such luxury. As the door closed, Hamish muttered, "Spirits!" and in one fast movement was naked.
One would get you twenty that guards stood in the corridor, but who cared? After what felt like a lifetime of wind and rain and cold, the warmth was sheer rapture.
Toby eyed the boiler uncertainly. "Do we climb into that?"
"I don't think so. I think we fill tubs and sit in them."
Hot water — enough to bathe in? Would that be healthy?
"Soap!" Hamish squealed. "Real soap! Smell it — lavender!"
Toby stripped to the skin, then almost stripped that off as well when he tried to fill a bucket with water and got a blast of scalding steam instead. He jumped back and let Hamish work out the mechanics of the taps. It was necessary to mix cold water with the hot to obtain a bearable mixture — more complicated than he had expected. No matter, they were soon kneeling in whole tubfuls of hot water, soaping themselves, basking in the sheer sensuous luxury of it.
A hundred marks would buy a herd or a cottage. The earl's men-at-arms lived better than the farmers and artisans of Fillan, but it would only take one, even if the master ordered them not to talk.
Without warning, Hamish burst into song. His treble voice was surprisingly tuneful, and the stone walls reverberated nicely.
Toby gave him the verse about the piper and repeated the chorus. Hamish responded with the two shepherds. Toby was halfway through the improbable accomplishments of the three sailors when a guard came in, scowling through the steam. It was probably not just the quality of Toby's baritone that was upsetting him, because one of his colleagues stood watch in the doorway with a drawn sword. He deposited a pile of bleached cloths on one of the benches and backed out again, still watching the extremely dangerous outlaw.
Eventually the singers ran out of lovers for the promiscuous lass and just lay back, soaking blissfully, heads against the stone wall, arms and legs dangling over the sides of the tubs. Another man delivered a plaid, shirt, socks, shoes, bonnet. He said, "For you," to Hamish, but he, too, kept his attention on the murderer, and again another man stood by, ready to intervene if there was trouble. Trouble? The monster was almost asleep. Now if they would just commute his death sentence to life imprisonment and let him die of old age right here…
A third man brought in two muddy bundles and dropped them distastefully on the floor.
Hot water, they found, had an annoying tendency to cool off. Hamish was up and yipping about the towels being real linen, and Toby still had to shave. He hauled himself from the tub and admitted that the towels were very enjoyable, whatever they were made of. Having dried himself as well as he could in the steamy air, he found his razor in his bundle and set to work reaping stubble. By then Hamish was dressed and eager to go exploring the castle in search of books. It would be interesting to see how far he was allowed to wander.
The door opened again, this time to admit the red-bearded Sir Malcolm himself. He closed it behind him, shutting himself in with a dangerous outlaw wielding a razor, but his green eyes smiled warmly. "Is everything satisfactory, Master Toby? Anything more you need?"
Toby was so startled by the change of attitude that he almost cut off his upper lip. "Everything's fine, sir," he admitted.
"I'm Malcolm Campbell, the castellan. If there is anything we can do to make your stay here more enjoyable, see you ask me right away."
Bewildered, Toby glanced at Hamish for clues. He was wearing his owlish look, which meant he was a step or two ahead.
"Now the best I can do for wear for you at the moment, sir," the castellan continued, "are these." He laid his burden on a bench. "The shoon we think belonged to Wee Wilkin, a great warrior who fell at Parline. I'm sure he would be honored for you to have them. If you'll just leave your plaids here, the women will get them washed and dried by morning. I'm afraid the shirt'll be snug, but they can run up something for you by tomorrow, and we'll find furs if you need to go out."
This sudden change of heart must be some sort of trap, but Toby could not see how, or what, or why. Hamish, damn him… if he looked any more owlish, he would fly away and hunt mice.