She winced at the sight of his face. He made a courtly bow, as well as he knew how and as much as his bruises would let him. She curtseyed solemnly, to the manner born.
"Congratulations, my lady. I am very happy for you. I wish you well." His throat hurt even more than his jaw. Why?
"Thank you, Toby."
Silence. He wished he could read the expression in her eyes. Under the shock and fear, there was a glimmer of triumph, wasn't there? Well deserved, yes? He wished he could make speeches.
"Is there anything more to say?" Meg asked. "Except thank you, of course. None of this would have happened without your help. I am very, very grateful."
What did she mean by that? His hurtful efforts to advise her might have strengthened her resolve to resist Rory's blandishments and thus provoked him into proposing marriage. Meg could never say that openly. He hoped that he had not offended her to no purpose.
"I am very sorry I said those bad things to you. I didn't mean to. I felt real bad."
She tossed her head. "You could have sent me a note."
Ah! Dear Rory!
"Well, I'm not much for writing, or for giving advice. I'm not much of anything, except muscle. I never had a family, never had friends. I don't know how to be friends, so I don't suppose I'll ever know anything about love. Lord Gregor's a fine man, and I'm sure he'll make you very happy."
She turned to the fireplace, so he could not see her face.
"Rory says love is like a flash of lightning, but it isn't like that for most people. My Ma told me she was almost sick every time Pa even looked at her — after what the Sassenachs did to her, you know — and she thought her Pa had done a rotten job of finding a man for her anyway, she admits that, but eventually, she says, she managed… She says she grew to love him."
Meg must not be allowed to ramble on like that. She didn't know her fiance was listening up there in the minstrel gallery.
"I think you fell in love with Rory that night in Glen Orchy. You just didn't realize it."
She spun around. "Really? You really think so?"
"Yes, I do. The way you looked at him, and the way you kept telling me how handsome he was, the way you laughed at his jokes…"
She blushed and turned away again. "Thank you, Toby. I'll try to believe that. Is Hamish going with you? You need someone to… Well, Rory says I mustn't ask where you're off to."
"Ask all you want, I don't know." Oh, Meg, Meg! He couldn't keep this up much longer. "I'll always remember you…" even if I live a whole week "…and our escape together. One day I'll be able to brag that I know the countess of Argyll!"
"You can brag that you saved her from being raped or murdered."
"No, I won't mention that. People might think you'd been stupid."
"Toby!" she stormed, but then she laughed. "I've learned sense now, haven't I? No romantic foolishness now. Hard, cold—"
"I won't kiss your fingers, my lady. I might get blood on them." Or tears. Funny — he wasn't usually a sentimental person. "Be happy." He bowed, and turned, and started to walk away.
"Toby! Wait!"
He went back.
She gazed up at him, frowning. "Will you not give me a wedding present?"
"Everything I possess — which is still nothing." He had his prize money, of course, but Meg had no need of money now.
"A promise?"
"What promise?"
"That you won't be a prizefighter anymore? Please?" Meg Tanner pleading was as dangerous and disconcerting as a wild cat rubbing against your leg.
"Why not?"
"Killing for money? Hurting people?"
"It's no worse than being a mercenary soldier."
"Yes, it is! A mercenary's only a hired killer, anyway. But at least a soldier has a chance of winning. He may not die, may not be wounded, may grow rich on his loot. But a fighter always loses. Even if you win every match, Toby dear, you'll finish up a slobbering wreck! You know you will. Promise me?"
He shrugged. As a king's man he would not be prizefighting, even if he had no hint of a clue as to what he would be doing. "That's not what Master Stringer wants me for, so I'm not planning to fight in the immediate future. And I promise I'll remember your words if I ever have the opportunity again. All right?"
That was not enough for Meg Tanner. She shook her head vigorously.
"Just say the words, Toby, even if you don't mean them. Then I'll be happy and not worry about you."
"I don't say words I don't…" He sighed. "I give you my promise."
He wasn't going to live long enough to break it.
"Good-bye, Meg."
"Good-bye, Toby."
CHAPTER SIX
He came to the castle entry and was stopped in his tracks, because King Fergan and Father Lachlan were there, being seen off by Lady Lora and Sir Malcolm. Sure he must not intrude, he hung back in the shadows. The only light came from the doorway, which was smaller than the door on an average cottage, although the door itself was as thick as his arm, studded and banded with iron. In a minute or so, the king bowed graciously, Father Lachlan muttered a benediction, and the two guests ducked out into the wintery sunshine.
He supposed he should follow his new master at a respectful distance, but that would mean he must pass by his hostess. He ought to thank her. He was no good at speeches! Why hadn't he foreseen this and asked Hamish to make up something for him to say? It was too late to hide, because the castellan had noticed him. He hurried forward.
Lady Lora was bundled in a dark fur robe and a plumed hat. As he loomed out of the dark above her, she smiled up at him, then frowned when she caught sight of his face.
"Master Strangerson! I hope you are recovering from your wounds?"
He opened his mouth and it ran away with him like a startled horse. "My lady, it was very kind and very brave and very generous of you to take in a wanted fugitive and give him shelter and I hope my visit here will not bring trouble on your house but I know that all my life I shall remember what you did for me and I thank you from the bottom of my heart." He bowed clumsily and turned to Sir Malcolm. "Sir, you and your men were very kind to a gawky lad, and I shall probably bless these days many, many times in future. I thank you."
Then he bowed again and ran out the door, ducking low under the lintel. Gibberish! With any luck they would not have made out a word he had said. However he might serve King Fergan in future, it would not be as a diplomat.
He blinked in the sunlight. The tall king and short acolyte were crossing the bailey, heading for the barbican. He followed, passing close to a cart of peat being unloaded, dodging washing hung out after the long spell of rain. Then he remembered that he had forgotten to collect his things from the tower room. Zits! It was too late to go back for them. Well, they weren't worth much. But his prize money… Hamish had the prize money…
Out from behind the cart came Hamish, with his own bundle on one shoulder and Toby's on the other. He handed Toby's over without a word and fell into step at his side, straining mightily to take the necessary strides.
"No library?"
The kid looked up with his bony face twisted in abhorrence. "I wouldna' work for that man if you paid me a million marks! He was going to throw you out and hunt you down in the hills! Whatever happened to Highland hospitality?"
"Keep your mouth shut about that!"
"Think I'm crazy?"
"You'd best ask Father Lachlan if you can accompany him to Glasgow, and don't mention His Majesty."
Hamish grinned. "Wasn't that one straight out of the old ballads! He has a beard on the coins, but I was pretty much sure." He was understandably very pleased with his wee self, was Master Hamish.