He found Hamish by himself in a corner, eating and reading at the same time. He sat down on the same bench.
"I want to write a letter!"
Hamish looked up in amazement. "Did I just hear—"
"Can you get me a piece of paper and a quill?"
"Steal paper?" Hamish said doubtfully. "Paper costs money!"
"And wax. And ink, too."
Hamish dutifully went off to the library and returned with a sheet of paper and writing tools. Toby turned down more fencing lessons and wasted the whole afternoon struggling over a letter. In the end he had five blots, six scorings-out, and three sentences: I am sorry about I was a boor. I was just am worried if you might get hurted and hoping you forgiving me. Your good friend, Tobias Strangerson.
He sealed it with the wax and handed it to a page to deliver. Then he ran up to the gym and threw Neal Big around like a sack of oats.
The next day the sun was shining, but no one came to summon him to the loch. They tried him on archery. In an hour he was putting his shafts alongside the gold at two hundred paces with a hundred-pound bow. In the afternoon he learned that he had a fair eye for firearms, although he knew most of his success stemmed from sheer brute strength, guns being cumbersome things that out-kicked any mule.
There was no reply from Meg — not that day, nor the day after.
He had no way of knowing if his letter had reached her.
CHAPTER SEVEN
It was another morning. Toby had been wrestling, so he was wearing trews. He had added a mask and plastron to fence short swords with Gavin the Grim, who had gained his name from his unchanging gentle smile — who had to be at least fifty but was still spry as a grasshopper and could wield a blade better than any man in Scotland. They were just about to face off for the second time…
Gavin said, "Break!"
Toby hauled off his mask and turned to see Rory, resplendent in full Highland regalia, from the silver badge in his bonnet to his shiny shoes and the black knife in his stocking that meant he was otherwise unarmed.
Gavin murmured "My lord," and tactfully departed.
Rory led the way over to a window. "I'm impressed, really impressed! You were giving the old boy a serious match there!"
That remark felt so good that Toby ground his teeth to stop himself smiling. He unbuckled the plastron and took it off with a sigh of relief — it was so tight on him he could hardly breathe in it. "I can't touch him. I was trying to wear him down."
Rory laughed disbelievingly. "That's all? Even I can't do that to old Gavin! Never mind, I have news."
"Good or bad?" Have you managed to seduce Meg yet?
"Good. But first… have you changed your mind? If not Pikeman Toby, how about Serjeant? Malcolm says he'll shoot any six men at random if he can have you."
Toby shook his head. He had been expecting something like this. Have you broken her heart yet? They had reached the window, well away from eavesdroppers. The old devilry was back in the silver eyes and he braced himself for treachery.
Rory shrugged. "I said I couldn't deliver a sponsor for a prizefighter, but I was being too modest, as usual. I've found you one. He's on his way here now."
"Who is?"
"Stringer."
"Coming to claim the reward?"
"I hope not." Rory spoke as if the matter was trivial. "A hundred marks isn't all that much to him. Listen carefully! Stringer's a trader. He buys here and ships back south. He's heading home for the winter in another week. He's rich enough and important enough that he won't be questioned at the docks the way you would be if you tried to board a ship. If we can get him to take you with him, you'll be free and clear, right?"
Away to England? That had always been Toby's ambition, hadn't it? Why did it feel so wrong now?
"Yes, but—"
"You can see Cruachan this morning. Unless the wind veers, the ships will be leaving on the next ebb, so there isn't much time. At breakfast this morning he happened to mention that he dabbles in the ring. And then he went on to relate that he has a pugilist of his own, and the man travels with him as a bodyguard. He's here in Inverary! Zing! Lightning struck!"
"Struck what?" Toby asked warily.
"My slow wits, I suppose. I should have discovered this sooner. Stringer is one of the Fancy, you numbskull! He promotes fighters. He was bragging about the money he would make this winter off this Randal of his. I told him I knew a Highland lad who could knock Randal's stuffing out and spit on it." Silver eyes gleamed.
"Oh, you did, did you?" Toby said, feeling something stir in his gut. "How big is Randal?"
"No idea. I just spoke up on principle — he can't be any bigger than you, can he? I offered to lay money on you, of course."
"That was very rash of you."
Rory was smiling dangerously. "Nonsense! The champion of Strath Fillan against a pansy Sassenach? You won't make a liar of me, will you?"
"I haven't seen him, this Randal."
"Stringer's gone to fetch him."
Sudden changes of plan suggested sudden changes of circumstance, and a chance remark at breakfast did not seem quite sufficient. Perhaps it did to gentry. "What about the dead-or-alive business? I thought I was hiding from Stringer so he wouldn't find out about that."
"A hundred marks is chicken feed compared to what Stringer will think he can make off you if you can beat his man." Rory raised his eyebrows. "I understood this was your ambition? He's your meal ticket, my bareknuckle friend! He'll take you south and promote you — train you, line you up with fights. If you want to rat out on him once you're there, of course, that's your business."
"I couldn't do that!"
The rebel snorted. "That's up to you. What I'm saying is that you fight his man today and make a good showing… You don't even need to win, just show promise. You're young yet. Stringer can spirit you out of Scotland better than anyone. Here he comes now. Are you game or not?"
It seemed to make sense. It was a challenge a man could understand, one Toby Strangerson could not refuse and did not want to. Best of all, it was a chance to do something for himself instead of depending on Rory or Lady Lora or even Father Lachlan. When it came to fists, he knew what he was at.
"I'm always game."
"Good lad!" Rory switched to English. "Max, old chap — this is the man."
Toby turned around, then bowed to the gentleman.
Master Maxim Stringer was well named, being almost as tall as Toby himself and extremely thin. He wore hose and knickerbockers, a fur-trimmed doublet over a frilly shirt. The hair on the top of his head was set in elaborate curls as a vain effort to hide a thinning crown, and his pigtail was wound with silver thread. He had an excessively long upper lip but no chin worthy of the name, and he looked Toby up and down with disdain.
"Frightfully young, isn't he? You'll break a foal's spirit if you run it too soon, you know."
"His spirit's as sound as his wind," Rory said cheerfully. "Name the stakes."
The man at Stringer's back laughed, displaying a wide absence of teeth. He was broad and bald and at least forty — not short by most standards, but shorter than Toby. He might weigh almost as much, though, for he was thick, bulging over his belt. His nose had been pounded flat, one of his ears was several times the size of the other. His face had a leathery look, like one big scar. This must be Randal.
So Toby had wind and reach on his side. He would have to keep the older man at a distance and just wear him down. He tried to see what shape the man's hands were in, but Randal was keeping them out of sight.
Randal wore a sleeveless shirt and short breeches, and his feet were bare. He had an anchor tattooed on his arm — there was room to engrave a whole navy on those arms — and his pigtail was tarred. He was a sailor, which did not exactly disprove Rory's tale, but didn't quite fit with it, either.