Two days of steady rain had left everyone grumpy, miserable, and soaked. Father Guillem, coming trudging back along the trail to rejoin the pilgrims, looked like a bedraggled black beetle, and the way he was wielding his staff suggested that he was a beetle in a very foul temper. But why was he so obviously ignoring the man on a donkey following a few paces behind him?
Toby was no more cheerful than anyone else. He ought to be practicing his meditation exercises and cultivating serenity of mind, but he had his hands full with Smeòrach, whose simple mind was anything but serene. He kept trying to stamp on Toby's feet and jerking his head to try and pull his bridle loose from Toby's grasp. He hated the rain just as much as people did, and standing still was never his strong point anyway. As a landsknecht horse he associated a village like that one with nice dry stables, perhaps even oats or hot bran mash, so please could they go there now?
Evidently not. There were men with guns and pikes at the gate, and Father Guillem's efforts to negotiate had obviously not prospered. He was wearing a very unpious scowl as he returned to report.
"We are not welcome?" Toby asked.
The monk shook his head, shaking water from his cowl. "They refused absolutely."
"Did you explain that I am a Castilian nobleman?" the don demanded incredulously.
"I did, my son. And also that I am a senior official of the abbey. I even mentioned they were turning away women and a child, but it made no difference."
"Did you offer to pay?" Josep asked. His lips were blue and his teeth chattered. Most of the others looked just as distressed.
"Even that." Father Guillem shrugged and made an effort to be charitable. "They have their reasons. The Fiend's forces withdrew a few weeks ago — they did not despoil the countryside here, because of the truce that had been agreed, but a company of landsknechte was billeted in the village and caused all the usual troubles. Now that they have gone, there are lawless bands marauding, preying on innocent travelers or anyone else they can catch. They warned me we must be on our guard."
"But there are no troops around?" Toby said. "No garrison around Montserrat?" For him, that was very welcome news.
"They know of none." The monk looked around his dispirited companions and raised his voice. "Be cheerful, my children! There is a fine campsite half a league farther on. Tomorrow is the last day. By nightfall tomorrow we shall be safe and comfortable in the monastery."
"It can't be too soon. Your companion, Father?"
Everyone turned to look at the other man, who was just sitting on his donkey and smiling in patient silence at nobody in particular. He was clean shaven, fortyish, bareheaded. His jerkin and hose were plain but well made, shabby from long wear yet still serviceable. Apparently he enjoyed being wet, because the hood of his brown woollen cloak lay unused on his sodden shoulders.
Father Guillem frowned. "His name is Jacques. He is a servant of the monastery — a gardener, cleaner, porter, anything of that sort. He says he was sent to meet Senor Longdirk."
Everyone now looked at Toby.
"I am Senor Longdirk."
The man smiled uncertainly at him.
"You have a message for me?"
"No, senor."
"Then who sent you to meet me?"
The smile faltered. "Don't know, senor."
All eyes switched back to Father Guillem. "He is simple. I know him and know of him, but I have never spoken with him, except to order him to fetch something or clean somewhere. The villagers say he arrived last night and was refused admittance. He must have slept under a tree. He was still there this morning, waiting for Senor Longdirk. Frankly, I don't think you'll get any more out of him."
Toby glanced hopefully at Hamish, but he seemed as bereft of ideas as everyone else.
"The tutelary must know I am coming, though."
"Obviously!" the monk growled. "But what does it wish to tell you and why pick so useless a messenger?"
"Would the spirit itself have sent him, or the abbot, or who?"
"I have absolutely no idea." Bad-tempered black beetles disliked mysteries just as much as Hamish did. "I wouldn't trust Jacques to find his left hand with his right. The fact that he found you at all suggests that the spirit guided him." With a little more grace the monk conceded, "There is no harm in him."
"Did you search him for a letter? His pockets?"
"Of course. He has nothing, absolutely nothing except a razor, a thimble, and some shiny buttons. I don't think he's eaten since he left Montserrat."
Toby tried not to smile at the cleric's annoyance. "So all we can do is feed him and take him back with us?"
"Apparently."
Strange! Why send a moron when there must be dozens of eager young novices who would enjoy such a break in routine? It was something to think about. Toby looked to the don. "Your orders, senor?"
The don pouted across the field at the guardians of the village. "Artillery is rarely reliable in weather like this." He twirled up his mustache. "Lead the troops out, Campeador. I shall join you shortly."
"Um…" Telling Don Ramon to be careful would be a futile exercise. Besides, Toby approved of what he thought the young maniac had in mind. "Just let me get the others out of range, senor. Mount up, everyone!"
By the time the procession was moving in some sort of order, the don was cantering Midnight around in a wide circle, warming him up. Then he swung his shield into place, couched his lance, and charged the villagers at the gate.
He had been right about the arquebuses, for not a shot was fired. Three of the defenders displayed military training, swinging their pikes forward in the standard drill to oppose cavalry. The rest just screamed and fled back through the archway. Seeing themselves deserted and the madman still coming, the pikemen chose discretion over posthumous honor and followed. The gate slammed shut just in time, although the don could certainly have come faster and ridden them down had he wanted to. Yelling his war cry in scorn, he set Midnight to prancing and cavorting on their doorstep for a moment, before coming after the pilgrims. As he galloped by them, heading for his place in the van, they all cheered him mightily, even — Toby was amused to notice — the normally humorless Father Guillem. The mysterious Jacques merely smiled, not understanding the joke.
"Sometimes yon laddie is not as daft as he lets on," Hamish remarked with glee.
"You don't think that was daft?"
"No, I mean he didn't wait around until they found a dry arquebus!"
"True." Toby shivered as more water trickled down his neck. "We'll have to keep our eyes peeled for rustlers tonight. Some young hotheads may try to redeem their honor."
"Not to mention the brigands. Um… you won't mind if I trade with the monk and take second watch?"
"Not if he has no objection." Toby eyed his young friend inquiringly.
"He said he wouldn't mind." Hamish was looking elsewhere.
It was standard procedure now for him to share first watch with Josep. It was also standard procedure for him to spend second watch with Eulalia, although presumably not watching anything. Quite often he was still off in the shrubbery with her when Toby was awakened to take third watch. Although Toby was careful not to pry, he had overheard enough angry words to know that their romance was not all honey and rose petals. Remembering how he had seen Hamish in earnest conversation with the acolyte that afternoon, he wondered if Father Guillem himself had suggested the switch.
"I don't mind. Just don't turn your back on Rafael tonight."
"I never do," Hamish said sharply. "Why not tonight especially?"
"Because tomorrow's our last day as a group. First thing in the morning, I plan to bring up the matter of the landsknechte's gold. I think there should be a friendly sharing-out of the loot."
"They know that?"
"They may guess."
"I agree about the sharing-out," Hamish said. "But you're dreaming if you expect it to be friendly."
The campsite, when they reached it, was a dense grove of cypress, but even there the ground was waterlogged. The pilgrims muttered and grumbled and made the best of it. Their fire smoked, people banged their heads on low branches, and the horses had to be hobbled to keep them from wandering in search of better grazing. No one was in a mood for singing.
The inexplicable Jacques ate as if he was starved. He spoke to no one unless he was addressed and even then provided no information. He could tell Toby nothing about the road he had come or people he had met on the way; indeed he had forgotten that he had been sent to meet Senor Longdirk. It had been the villagers who told Father Guillem that much. When he was not admitting that he could not answer a question, he just stayed in one place and smiled, but when Toby asked him to chop firewood he worked hard until he was told to stop.
Surprisingly, Pepita disliked him. She seemed frightened of him, and this was very unlike her. When Toby asked her why, she pouted.
"He is broken."
"He's not very clever. Do you think he may hurt you?"
She shook her head. "But he is broken." She seemed unable to explain what she meant.
Hamish found him an intriguing problem. "He's French, originally! Speak to him in Catalan and he answers in Catalan. But speak to him in langue d'oc and he answers in langue d'oc! He knows some German too. He must've traveled a lot. How did he manage that with no wits?"
"Pepita says he's been broken."
"What does that mean?"
"I wish I knew," Toby said soberly.
The night was black as pitch. Everyone retired as soon as the meal was over. Toby, having given the sentries' whistles to Josep and Father Guillem, rolled himself up in his wet blanket to sleep. Hamish was already curled up shivering in his, so he really had turned over a new leaf. Amazing! How long would it take Eulalia to turn it back again?
A white swan drifting across dark water, trailing a soft vee of ripple, one dark foot just visible below… Lochan na Bi, Lochan na Bi.
The swan was swimming in the back of Toby's mind, and it seemed to be working. He could not judge his heartbeat, but he felt no fear or even anger, no sweat or dry throat. Of course he always tended to stay cool when there was a fight coming, so perhaps this was not a fair test of Brother Bernat's technique. He could not hope to win against the don, so he must try and talk his way out of his predicament.
He said, "I am at fault also, senor. I should have wakened at the proper time, as you did."
About the hour he should have been coming off watch, the don's foot in his ribs had awakened him and not gently either. Hamish and Rafael should have called Toby and Miguel; they in turn should have called the don and his squire. They had not. Don Ramon had demanded an explanation. In the ensuing search, it had been Doña Francisca who found Hamish lying in the weeds, bound and gagged, one side of his face caked with dried blood. Now Don Ramon was demanding Hamish's head.
From the way Hamish was holding it with both hands, he might be very glad to be rid of it. He was barely conscious even yet, sitting there huddled under a blanket in the first glimmers of a very rainy dawn while nine people he had been supposed to guard stared down at him with expressions ranging from Pepita's sympathy to the don's homicidal fury.
Nine. Once the pilgrims had numbered sixteen. Now they were only ten, not counting Jacques who was still asleep in his cloak, and that was assuming Hamish and Toby survived the next few minutes.
"It was his job to call you, not yours to wake yourself," Don Ramon repeated. "He failed in that duty. He failed to sound the alarm. The penalty for failing on guard duty is death."
"Not in this case, senor," Toby said with the best blend of deference and stubbornness he could muster. "He was set to guard against intruders, not against treachery from his friends." Liar! He had warned Hamish not to turn his back on Rafael.
Hamish peered up at him blearily. He did not speak — fortunately so, because he was confused enough to say almost anything, even the truth.
"A sentry taken unaware," said the don, "is put to death. I expect he was fornicating in the bushes with the whore."
Hamish closed his eyes in abject misery.
"Were you?" Toby asked. He was taking a risk, but he was almost certain that the answer was no.
Hamish whispered, "No."
"I believe him, senor. Granted, the fire she lit in his belly has melted most of his brains, but he would not betray us when he was supposed to be on watch. Josep? You've shared watch with him more than any of us."
Josep's anger twisted into a grin. "No, Campeador. Sometimes he lay with her before and sometimes after, sometimes even both, but never during."
Hamish's great romance was common knowledge. He opened his mouth as if about to speak, then turned his head and vomited. Had he done that five minutes ago, he would have suffocated behind his gag and this inquiry would be a post mortem. He might easily have frozen to death. Feeling a rush of hatred for the people who had treated his friend so, Toby reached again for calm. Lochan na Bi!
He scowled at Eulalia, who was wearing what she might think was an expression of wounded innocence. "But the whore may have been an accomplice. I cannot imagine Jaume being taken like a broody hen unless he was distracted somehow. Did she come and talk with you?"
Hamish tried to shake his head and winced. "Don't remember," he croaked.
"Then they must have bribed her!" the don decided. "If we search her, we shall find some gold chains, I expect."
Eulalia screeched at this outrage to her honor and appealed to Senora Collel. The senora told her to shut her face. Gracia, who had been standing beside her, pointedly moved away.
"That wouldn't prove much," Toby said. "She may have looted some from the landsknechte." He had a strong suspicion that Eulalia had been helping both Manuel and Raphael enjoy their newfound wealth behind their wives' backs, but he would not say so in front of Hamish.
Again Eulalia erupted in torrents of Catalan. The senora silenced her with a slap as loud as a gunshot.
Hamish's eyes had opened wide. He turned to look at Eulalia and suddenly produced a strange sound, somewhere between a laugh and a choke. "I do remember! She came and told me she's with child."
"She is lying," Senora Collel declaimed. "I know it."
True or false, that assertion would certainly have been a potent distraction, and for a moment even the don looked amused. Then he found his anger again. "Very well, Campeador, we shall let Jaume live. See that he is thoroughly thrashed. We are wasting time. We must hunt down the traitors."
"No, senor."
Icy silence.
"Do I hear you correctly?" the don said very quietly.
Lochan na Bi… "Yes, senor. They will travel at least as fast as we can, and they have several hours' start on us. To chase them would be folly. They have stolen some horses from us, but we stole them in the first place. They do not seem to have taken much else that did not belong to them."
He waited for contradiction from Josep or Senora Collel, who used their moneybags as pillows, but neither disagreed. Whatever balance Miguel and Rafael still owed on Don Ramon's wages was a debt that must not be mentioned, and his mother had always known that her chances of collecting from them were slim.
But not all wealth was beneath a caballero's dignity. "You forget the rest of the booty!" the don snapped. "That belongs to all of us. You, especially, earned your share. They did not."
A penniless fugitive fleeing from the long arm of Baron Oreste would certainly find a few gold chains useful, but Toby could not accept that he had earned a link of them. It had been the hob who destroyed the landsknechte, not he. The fight had not been honorable, so the prize was tainted and he would shed no tears over losing it. He was probably being stupid again, but that was how he felt.
"We cannot ride down the fugitives without their seeing us coming, senor. They will have ample time to make the evidence disappear before we reach them."
"We can make them tell where it is!"
"Not I, senor."
The don's hand was on his sword hilt. The blue eyes flamed madness. "You are refusing my orders?"
"I am advising the noble hidalgo that to pursue those worthless peasants would be folly. We can reach Montserrat by evening."
"This a matter of honor you cannot comprehend. We shall pursue the thieves."
"Not I, senor."
Day by day Toby had been taking over the leadership of the group. Spirits knew he had not planned to and had done everything he could to preserve the fiction that the hired guard was still in charge, but no one was deceived. Now he had thrown down the gauntlet. It had been inevitable, probably, because he could never tolerate authority for long and was especially incapable of obeying nonsensical orders, but to upstage the deranged caballero was to die for insolence. As the don's great sword slid from its scabbard, his mother caught hold of his arm with both hands.
"Ramon, he is right!"
He froze. He could not have looked more shocked had she stabbed him.
Gracia stepped in front of him. "Senor, please!" she whispered.
"I agree with the campeador and your noble squire, my son," Father Guillem boomed. He rolled forward to clap a hairy paw on the don's shoulder. "What good will be served by a long chase and then bloodshed? As Tobias says, we should merely be trying to steal back stolen goods, and some of us might be hurt in the fight. It will be you and he against the two of them."
Toby waited, arms folded, doing his breathing exercises. The don just continued to glare at his mother, and she glared right back at him — truly, there was a most admirable lady! At last he opened his hand, the sword dropped back in its scabbard, and death flew away.
He was still insanely furious, though, and he would never forget this insult. "We must be guided by the counsel of the holy scholar in matters of righteousness. The woman will remain behind, though. She has forfeited any claim on us."
Eulalia cried out and threw herself on her knees. "Senores! Senoras! You will not abandon me!"
Hamish opened his mouth—
"No!" Toby barked. "You owe her nothing. She didn't tell you her lies earlier, did she? She came to distract you when you were on guard. She was in on the plot, Hamish. She set you up so Rafael could cosh you."
Hamish groaned and buried his face in his arms.
"Senoras!" the don proclaimed. "Take this harlot over there and strip her. Find out what—"
Instantly Eulalia was gone through the trees, arms and legs flying. Only Toby or the don could run her down and catch her, but that would be beneath the don's dignity, and Toby was glad to see the last of her.
Pepita moved over to Hamish and clasped his head between her hands. "Let me try to ease your pain, senor." Everyone else was suddenly made uneasy by this suggestion of gramarye.
"Prepare to move out, Campeador!" The don spun on his heel and stalked away. The others dispersed, and Toby began to consider the problem of catching the remaining horses, because the deserters had removed their hobbles to delay pursuit. Fortunately Smeòrach would usually come to his whistle.
Montserrat lay somewhere in these forbidding hills. This was the last day.
The last day was likely to be the worst. At times Toby could barely see two horses ahead of him, either because the trail was winding through forest or because the fog had closed in like gray bed curtains — and frequently both. The rain varied from annoying to drenching. Once in a while terrain and weather would open up to reveal a breathtaking, unreal landscape, towering almost vertically overhead in bright green slopes and spectacular beetling cliffs whose tops were lost in cloud. It was perfect ambush country.
Father Guillem insisted that there was only one road up this valley and hence no chance of getting lost, but Toby was far less worried about losing his way than he was about the reports of bandits molesting travelers. To send scouts out ahead would be useless in these conditions, even if he had any to send.
One way or another, the pilgrimage was ending. If he could deliver his charges safely to Montserrat, then Pepita, Gracia, and Father Guillem would remain at the monastery, while the others would resume their journey to Barcelona in a day or two. Toby himself would carry on alone, toward France, but here he was very close to Baron Oreste, who must be hunting for him with gramarye.
All day the don rode a few lengths ahead, bearing his lance and shield ready for use. Toby mostly stayed at the rear with the rest of the men, but from time to time he would ride along the line, trying to raise people's spirits. It was hard to keep up a cheerful front in such weather. When he asked Senora Collel to take a turn at leading the packhorses, she refused vehemently.
"I did not entrust myself to the don's protection," she snapped, "in order to serve as a mule skinner. Furthermore, I contracted to be escorted directly to Barcelona, not dragged up into these wild hills."
She was probably looking for an excuse to refuse further payment, and she was undoubtedly annoyed at no longer having a servant to nag and bully. But she had not mentioned hiring Toby as her resident Pretty Boy since she learned he was possessed, and that was an improvement.
Even the normally sparkly Pepita seemed glum, although that was partly because she still mourned Brother Bernat. She perched on her horse like a sodden bundle of laundry, her tiny, pinched face peering out from a cocoon comprised of every spare garment the pilgrims possessed. "You are my friend. I do not want you to go away and leave me."
"I do not want to leave you either, Senorita Pepita. I have enjoyed traveling with you, but life is full of sorrows, and parting from friends is one of them."
"You sound just like Brother Bernat! Why cannot I teach my spirit friend about happiness, instead of just about sorrow?"
"You have taught it about friendship by being my friend. Friendship is a great happiness, perhaps the very best of all."
"I shall not forget Brother Bernat, because he was my friend, and I shall not forget you."
"And I shall always remember you. You have taught me many things about carrying the burden of a spirit."
She wagged a minute finger at him. "You must not let it throw thunderbolts at people again! That was a bad thing you let it do."
"No, I never shall. I promise." He would at least try.
Even Doña Francisca was not quite her usual indomitable self. "I will pray to Montserrat for you, Senor Toby. I am very grateful for all your help. We should not be here now had it not been for you."
"Oh, that isn't true. In fact, I put you all in danger. You would have done better without me. Your son would have managed perfectly well."
She smiled disbelievingly. "I only wish we had money to reward you, for you have served us all loyally without a hope of—"
"I wish you had money, too, senora, for then I could refuse it. Journeying with you has been its own reward."
Gracia was better company, foreseeing the end of her strange mission. Either she did not comprehend the pervasive danger, or she had faith in her voices.
"These mountains must be very splendid when the sun shines, must they not?"
"Indeed they must," Toby agreed. "Brother Bernat said that spirits choose beautiful places for their domains, so I suppose very great spirits should have very wonderful scenery."
"My sons will be happy here, and all those other wraiths also." Her hand closed around the bottle. She had not been parted from it since he rescued it from the Inquisition.
"I am sure Montserrat will cherish them. And what of yourself? You will enter the nunnery?"
She hesitated. "I swore I would not mention… But this is our farewell, yes? We shall never meet again, and I owe you so much that I cannot bear not to tell you… You will not betray my confidence, senor?"
"Of course not."
"Don Ramon and I are pledged to be married! He wishes his saintly mother to be first to hear the news, and she is presently at home, running his great estates, so we are to say nothing until he has a chance to write to her."
He looked down at the stars of happiness sparkling in Gracia's eyes and could say nothing except to offer his congratulations and best wishes. The don was a man of honor as he defined honor. Deceiving pretty girls did not count. It was a gentleman's privilege.
Jacques rode in silence, smiling blissfully at the fog, except when he was answering a question with a worried, "I don't know, senor." He claimed he could not remember how long he had lived at Montserrat, where he had come from before that, or even if he had ever been married. Once he burst into song and sang to himself a long romantic lament in French without ever hitting a wrong note or stumbling over the words; and another time, as Toby came by, he was shaving while still riding on his donkey. He did an excellent job, too, without a single nick. Toby was tempted to borrow the razor and try the same feat just to see if he could do it, but his courage failed him. Jacques was a total mystery.
Josep was so muffled under a sodden fur hat that little of his face was visible. He smiled with blue lips, though, and held out a purse. "Your fee, Campeador."
It clinked. It was weighty.
"Senor Brusi!" Toby protested, without even opening it. "This is too much! And the journey isn't over yet."
"Too much for my life? No, you have earned every blanca of it. I included an open letter to my agents in other cities. If you can find your way to any of them, they will give you employment."
Toby thanked him sincerely, but he untied the purse and removed the letter. "This will be incriminating evidence if I fall into the Inquisition's clutches, senor."
"Then read it and destroy it, but memorize the names. I shall write and tell them to look out for you."
"You are very kind," Toby said awkwardly. Kindness was a phenomenon he had met so rarely that he hardly knew how to handle it.
Father Guillem, who normally wore a solid frown, was beaming cheerfully because he was almost home. That did not stop him from giving Toby several stern lectures on the importance of keeping the hob under firm control in the future.
"Had it not been for Brother Bernat's testimony," he concluded, "I should certainly have reported you to the Inquisition in Tortosa. By all the customary criteria, you are possessed by a demon. Your watchword from now on must be eternal vigilance!"
It must be Lochan na Bi. Toby assured the learned acolyte that he was aware of the dangers.
And Hamish.
Hamish looked like a three-day corpse, very different from his usual merry self. The bandage round his head failed to hide all of the bruise swelling like a slice of raw liver on his temple. Unless the spirit was willing to heal him, he would need a week in bed to recover from that injury. He spoke little, which was an ominous sign, and he was visibly weakening as the day dragged on.
Under the pall of cloud, darkness seemed to come hours earlier than it should. The road entered a dense pine forest and grew steeper and steeper until it was zigzagging up a precipitous hillside. The horses found it hard going, although wagons obviously used the trail, for the stony surface was deeply rutted, running rivulets of reddish-brown water.
"Are you all right?" Toby asked anxiously, several times.
Usually Hamish just nodded, although the answer was obviously, No. Once he asked, "How much farther now?"
"An hour or so, Father Guillem says. Maybe less. He isn't sure where the safe zone begins, but he expects there will be a checkpoint soon. Look, if you want to hear some good news, I'm not having any feelings of déjà vu. None at all! I've never come this way before, I'm certain."
Hamish squinted at him blearily, his face a white blur in the gloom. "But when we get to the checkpoint it's goodbye?"
"Father Guillem will show me the trail out to the north. Josep has promised to find you a ship, has he not?"
Hamish nodded, looking even more miserable.
"I wish you safe voyage," Toby said awkwardly. Life without him was a dismal prospect. "Don't bother giving my love to the glen. I'll miss you, friend. We've had good times in among the tough ones."
"And you don't want me around after what happened last night."
"That has nothing at all to do with it. I have made blunders of my own often enough, and you have pulled me through them."
"Not on that scale. I wish I could be strong like you. You don't let women bother you."
Could he really believe that? Sometimes the bookworm was as blind as an earthworm.
Toby tried repeatedly to cheer him up. "Look on the bright side — you're going home! It's just your sore head that's making you feel this way. Did Pepita help your headache? You want me to ask her to try again?"
"She did no good at all. Why don't you try instead?"
"Me?"
Hamish scowled. "This alumbradismo… When you called down the lightning on the landsknechte, that was gramarye, sort of. Like Brother Bernat's healing."
"I suppose there's a resemblance, but frying people is a strange way to cure what ails them."
"Very funny. He had an incarnate spirit, you have the hob. So why can't you learn to control it the way he could?"
"I don't think he could control it. He could ask, that's all — like praying to a tutelary. I wouldn't know how to start. He said I mustn't even try to control it, or it will end up controlling me. Maybe in thirty or forty years, he said, I will be able to risk asking favors of it, in small ways. I'm no saint, Hamish, and I'm sure I never will be. The hob isn't an elemental, and it isn't 'sitting right,' whatever that means. I was too old when I started. The best I can hope for is to keep it from interfering."
He suspected his chances of doing even that were slender as gossamer. He was bound for disaster, sooner or later. That was another reason to go on alone.
Hamish sighed. He liked the world to be more logical. "You're not planning anything foolish, are you? You're not going to go off with the don to try and kill Oreste? Or try to buy him off with the amethyst?"
"Never. Strangling that monster would be a very good idea, yes. I would dearly love to squeeze his throat until his eyes pop and his tongue sticks out and his face turns purple, but I know it's impossible. I just want to keep well away from him, and the Inquisition, and the Fiend. A quiet life for me and the hob, nothing exciting. A job as a woodcutter, perhaps, or a stonemason — something I can put my muscles to work on." Then he lied. "Perhaps someday a wife and children, if I can ever be quite sure that—"
"Demons, Toby! I don't want to go! Not yet. Please?"
Toby sighed. "Let's get you to Montserrat. If the spirit will cure your cracked head, then you'll be able to think straight again."
Hamish managed a smile. "Thanks! But I know what I'll—"
They peered into the murk.
"Toby? Isn't that the don shouting?"
Toby urged Smeòrach forward.
There could be no better site for an ambush. Overhanging foliage made the trail into a tunnel, gloomy and foggy. The slopes on either hand were impassable for horses, overgrown and much too steep. Don Ramon, in the lead as always, had just gone round the next bend and now came cantering back into view, his warning shouts growing clearer. Only one word mattered: Barricade!
For an instant Toby wondered if the man had panicked at the sight of the expected checkpoint, then discarded the notion. Other men might make such an error, but not the don, and the odds must be overwhelmingly bad for him to have turned tail.
Roadblock ahead meant danger at the rear, of course. Cliff down on one side, cliff up on the other. A perfect trap, lobsters in the pot.
The only hope was to turn tail and hope to break out downhill. As Toby reined Smeòrach in, he saw the women start to turn their mounts, but then Josep knotted up the pack train like kelp on a beach and blocked the don's path completely. Worse!
He spun Smeòrach around, back toward the last bend, shouting warnings to Father Guillem and Hamish. He drew his sword and reined in with an oath as the brigands came around the corner. There were at least a score of them, a ragtag band of pirates, all on foot and clad in a motley collection of garments and armor, but spread out in good order, not all clustered in an easy target. Someone knew his job well. Pikes, swords, no arquebuses — the don had proved the previous night that firearms were useless in such weather — but also crossbows. In desperation Toby looked again at the flanking slopes and saw more men above the trail, even a couple in trees on the downhill side. Chattering to Hamish, he had missed those, but so had the don. A dozen bolts were pointed at his heart. They would have difficulty missing at that range.
It would be small comfort while dying to know that Baron Oreste was not going to get him, nor lay his fat hands on the amethyst.
Sick with despair he glanced back. Jacques had jumped from his donkey and was disentangling the pack train, apparently very expertly. The don would get by it in a moment. But even he could do nothing against this force.
Had they been landsknechte, Toby might have hoped to give himself up in return for the others' freedom, but one glance at these ruffians was proof enough that they were only after loot, not him in particular. He felt mostly anger at being taken so easily… frustration at failing so close to his destination… sheer terror at what those bolts could do to his flesh… an urgent disinclination to die… the hob! Not the hob!
Swan. Lochan na Bi. Swan. Lochan na Bi. Swan. He lowered his sword and strove to breathe as he had been taught, struggling to calm his racing heart. He must not let the hob rampage! It might strike down his friends as easily as his foes.
And besides: If you ever travel that road again, you must not expect to return.
"Company halt!" barked the leader. He was big, although probably more blubber than muscle, with a coarse, black-bearded face. He wore a steel helmet and breastplate. Alone among the group he carried no weapon in his hand, but a gilded hilt protruded from the scabbard at his side. He regarded the catch with satisfaction. "Throw your swords over there."
His arrogant smirk made Toby's fists clench and brought sweat to his forehead even as he repeated his mantra and tried to think of the swan. "We are but poor pilgrims, senor. We have little worth stealing except our mounts."
"We'll be the judge of that. Throw away your sword, boy."
Gold did not matter now, and certainly the horses did not. Even if the pilgrims lost everything except their lives, they could walk to Montserrat from here.
Toby eased Smeòrach forward to place himself ahead of Guillem. "Will you spare our—"
Before he completed the move, the monk roared, "Fools!" in a voice like a cannonade and kicked in his heels. Startled, his horse leaped into motion.
Toby shouted, "Careful, Father!"
Still bellowing, the monk rode straight for the brigands, going much too fast over the rocks and mud. "You are within the domain of the holy tutelary of Montserrat. It will not condone such violence!"
"Take him, Jordi."
A crossbow cracked. Father Guillem and his horse went down together in a somersault and rolled on the muddy, rocky trail. The horse screamed, tried to struggle to its feet, shrilling in pain, but then collapsed in a heap and fell silent. Father Guillem lay face down, half dragged out of his robe. The bolt must have gone right through him without hitting bone, or the impact would have hurled him backward out of the saddle. If the shot had not killed him, then the horse had smashed him to pulp. He was either dead or dying.
"Seems he was wrong," said the leader. "Nice shot, Jordi. Throw down your sword, boy, and dismount." He had summed up the group and picked out Toby as the leader. He knew his business. He had the same cold blooded efficiency as Arnaud Villars the smuggler; he even looked like him.
"You will spare our lives?"
"Your lives are no use to me, sonny, but if you don't get off that horse right now, we'll shoot you off it."
Smeòrach was fast and nimble. Toby might get one of them — the leader or another — before they got him. Maybe even two. By then he would be a hedgehog of crossbow quarrels and what would happen after that? Unless a bolt took him through the heart, his body might fight on without him. Or the hob might lash out with lightnings, destroying brigands and pilgrims and forest indiscriminately. Or it might flip him back in time to the Inquisition. Whatever it did, Brother Bernat had said, If you ever travel that road again…
He threw his sword into the trees and turned in the saddle to address the others. "Do as they say! They will spare our—"
"King Pedro and Castile!" Hooves thundered, mud sprayed, horses whinnied in alarm. Having won his way past the pack train, the don came charging down the trail with his lance couched.
It should have been obvious that Don Ramon de Nuñez y Pardo would not surrender to a common footpad, nor even forty of them. Or perhaps he thought he was leading a whole army of armored knights against the Moors. Whatever the reason, honor demanded death. Toby spun Smeòrach around and kicked him harder than the poor beast had ever been kicked. Astonished but ever willing, Smeòrach leaped forward. Toby rode him straight into the oncoming maniac.
The don held his lance in his right hand, aimed to strike an opponent approaching on his left — that was correct technique for jousting, and he was undoubtedly well practiced in the arts of chivalry. But the terrain was very treacherous, and one thing that almost never happened in the best tilting yards was a horse careering into you at high speed from the right and a young man of very large size hurling himself on top of you. Lance, shield, knight, Longdirk, and Midnight all went over together in an explosion of mud and stones. The outraged Smeòrach carried on up the trail as fast as his hooves would carry him.
The brigand leader walked over and put the crippled Midnight to death with a single deft thrust to the heart. He peered at the don, then wiped his sword on the animal without bothering to administer another coup de grace. He took a longer, warier look at Toby.
The world had not quite stopped spinning. He had managed to rub most of the mud out of his eyes but had not yet catalogued all his scrapes and bruises. Still too sick and shocked from the impact to think of sitting up, he returned the brigand's calculating stare as well as he could from ground level.
Total disaster! In three years of wild adventuring, he had never failed so hopelessly. Even in his visions of Oreste's dungeon or the Inquisition's torture chamber he had been alone, whereas here he must endure the reproach of friends who had depended on him. Now he could appreciate Brother Bernat's warning that he would no longer have the hob to defend him. Worst of all, he had accepted the old man's word for it that next time the hob would take him over permanently. He might have been wrong. It had never done so before. For the others' sake, Toby should have risked possession. The don had done the honorable thing, while he must live with his guilt — Montserrat piled on Mezquiriz.
Only the monotonous hiss of the rain disturbed the silence of the forest. Then Doña Francisca threw herself on top of her son with a wail. His helmet had fallen off; his auburn hair trailed in the mud. He was either dead or stunned.
The surviving members of the company arrived on foot — Pepita, Josep, Gracia, Senora Collel, and Hamish leaning on Jacques's shoulder. Brigands closed in around them with drawn swords. Others had already taken charge of the horses, moving as if they had performed this operation many times.
Toby sat up — carefully and painfully.
"That's far enough, sonny!" snapped the leader. "Jose, keep an eye on this one. If he as much as twitches, kill him."
"With pleasure, Caudillo." The nearest guard took up position in front of Toby, aiming a cocked crossbow at him. He was a rangy youth with a nasty leer on his unshaven face. "It will not be a difficult shot."
Toby groaned and just sat where he was in the mud. The spinning slowed.
Night and fog were closing in. Vague shapes of horses jingled and splashed as they were led away down the road. The captives huddled together at the verge, surrounded by their grinning captors. Some of the brigands dragged Francisca off the don and began searching his body for valuables. The monk lay where he had fallen, ignored.
The caudillo stepped up to Gracia and leered. "You're worth keeping. You'll come with us." He raised his voice. "The rest of you take your clothes off — all of them."
"That is barbaric!" Toby roared.
"Kill him if he speaks again, Jose."
"You promised not to harm us—"
"I promised nothing. Shoot him at the next word, Jose. That's an order."
Toby stared up helplessly at Jose's teeth and eyes shining mockingly in the gloom.
The caudillo sneered down at him. "Too late for heroics, little boy. You can keep your lives if you behave, but that's all. Nothing more. The run up to the monastery will warm you. This one has a treat in store for her." He poked a finger at Gracia's bottle. "What's in this?"
She clutched it with both hands and tried to step back, but there was a tree right behind her. "Nothing, senor!" she wailed.
"Nothing?" The caudillo seized the bottle in one hand and her throat in the other. With a yank, he broke the thong and snatched it from her grasp.
Gracia screamed and tried to reach for it. Toby ground his teeth, horribly aware that any visible move would provoke the twitch of Jose's trigger finger that would end everything. At his back, his hand groped the gravel in search of a rock small enough to throw, large enough to damage…
The caudillo pulled out the stopper and tilted the bottle. Nothing emerged. He snorted and tossed it over his shoulder. It shattered. "We'll fill your flask for you tonight, senorita. I told the rest of you to take your clothes off. Do I have to kill one of you to get…" He turned and peered up the road. "What's that noise?"
The crossbow menacing Toby fell away as Jose stepped back, staring fixedly at something in the woods. His eyes seemed uncannily bright in the gloom. "Oh, no!" he wailed. "No, no!"
Toby risked a quick glance around and saw nothing behind him except darkness and tree trunks. What was going on?
With a shrill scream, the caudillo drew his sword. "Leave me alone! Begone!" He parried like a fencer, then began slashing and leaping as if beset by invisible foes, gradually drawing away from the captives.
More of the brigands cried out and started flailing pikes or swords at the fog. Their frenzy grew wilder, their screams of terror louder. Metal clashed against metal. The prisoners were being totally ignored. Injuries forgotten, Toby lurched to his feet and made a dive for a fallen sword. He came back armed and much happier for it, although he could see that there would soon be no enemies left. His friends huddled in around him, as if he could defend them from what was happening. Gracia clutched at him, and he put an arm around her.
"The voices!" she cried. "Oh, do you hear them, senor? Do you hear what they are saying?"
"I hear nothing." But he could feel the hair on his scalp stir.
Pepita's squeal sounded more like laughter than fright. Senora Collel shrieked wordlessly and kept on shrieking until Toby gave her a shove. "Be quiet!" he said. "Will you draw attention to us?" She choked into silence.
There was no escape, for the road was blocked in both directions by cavorting weapon-wielding madmen, whose windmill strokes were inevitably starting to find flesh-and-blood victims. Screams of terror were being overwhelmed by screams of agony and mindless rage. Jose was still the closest; he swung his bow like a club at a swordsman, who turned on him with a string of lurid oaths. The two of them engaged in a wild duel, bow against sword, both slashing ineptly as if they could not see each other properly, both shrieking hysterically.
"Villains! Monsters!" the caudillo bellowed. "I will not accept your lies!" He felled Jose from behind. The other man promptly reversed his sword and threw himself on it. A crossbow bolt thudded into the caudillo's breastplate, toppling him backward. He kicked a few times and then lay still.
It was almost over. A few vague figures still screamed and howled in the fog, battling one another without mercy or any visible reason. When they lost their weapons they went for each other with bare hands, punching and strangling, battering heads on rocks. Several hurled themselves over the edge of the track, their yells dying away in thuds and crashes among the trees on the slope below.
"Wraiths?" Hamish said. "Can you see them, senora?"
"I can hear my voices!" Gracia cried.
"Victory!" Josep cried shrilly. "Senora de Gomez has defeated them!"
The last two brigands rushed at each other in a duel, shrieking nonsensical insults, hacking wildly with no attempt to parry. One dropped, the other took a couple of paces and pitched headlong to the ground. The gurgling cries of pain died away into silence.
It was over, all over. Incredibly, the enemy had destroyed themselves in their madness, to the last man. No one would mourn them, but they might have claimed two worthy lives in their villainy, and those lay heavy on Toby's mind. He had come to like the mad don and admire him. Lately he had even come to terms with the crusty old monk. In fact, if not in name, Toby had been in charge, so their loss was on his conscience now. He also owed Gracia a profound apology for doubting her and her voices.
More screaming… in the distance, farther down the hill.
"Listen!" Josep shouted. "The wraiths have gone to rescue our horses." His voice cracked with fear or excitement.
Pepita laughed. "They will drive them back to us!" She was much less upset than any of the adults. "Those bad men were fighting ghosts. Did you see, Toby? Their swords went right through them!"
"I did not see, but I guessed." He saw that Doña Francisca was kneeling over her son again. "Is he alive?"
"I believe so, senor."
"I am glad."
The don was young and fit, and all he had suffered was a fall. Was there any chance that Father Guillem had survived? Stepping over corpses, picking his way through the slaughter, Toby set off down the road to where the acolyte lay beside his horse. Everyone except Francisca came after him, wanting the comfort of his presence. He was a failure and a coward, but he was all they had.
He squatted to lay fingers against the stricken man's throat. Astonishingly he found a pulse — weak but regular, not the fluttering uncertain beat of a dying heart. Although it was hard to tell in the gloom, he could see no trace of a wound, or even injuries. Another miracle? He felt anger surging and struggled to suppress it.
He rose. "Father Guillem's still alive! We must get him to the sanctuary as fast as possible."
"I do not think that will be necessary," Hamish said quietly. "Listen."
Hooves clinked and splashed on the downhill bend — apparently the horses were returning as Pepita had predicted. But there were voices from the opposite direction. Balls of brightness in the fog came into view around the corner and gradually resolved into flaming torches as they approached, a dozen or more of them.
The five at the front were nuns in black robes and head cloths, and although four of them held lanterns, almost nothing of their faces could be seen. They halted a few feet from the huddle of pilgrims and just stared at Toby, who had remained standing when his companions knelt. The one in the center was taller and probably younger than the others. She carried no light, but the rain around her glimmered with another sort of brightness.
Behind them came a dozen monks in the black robes of Benedictines with their hoods raised against the drizzle, so that the flicker of their torches showed only disembodied faces floating in the gathering dark. They divided into two lines and took up position like a guard of honor along either side of the road, shedding light on the battlefield. More monks without torches followed them.
"Is this not wonderful!" Gracia enthused, reaching up to pull on Toby's arm. "After so many troubles, to find sanctuary! And the wraiths tell me that Montserrat will cherish them…" She prattled on.
Toby kept his attention on the silent women and especially the one with the golden shimmer around her. So this was the famous tutelary of Montserrat! Why had it not intervened sooner to prevent so much anguish and so many deaths? He felt he had a bone or two to pick with Montserrat, but it was obviously not going to speak until he behaved like a grown-up. Angrily, he threw down his sword and sank to his knees on muddy stones that felt accursedly sharp and cold through the only pair of hose he possessed.
As if that were a signal, four novices came forward bearing a litter. In reverent silence they lifted Father Guillem onto it and then bore him away up the road. Others were similarly attending to the don. Lay servants arrived with clattering, squeaky carts to remove the dead.
So the two casualties were to be cured of their injuries, were they? But why bother with the litters? Why not perform the miracles right here? Toby's own aches had almost totally disappeared. And Hamish's, also, apparently, for he was holding his head up and smiling as much as anyone, and he had not smiled all day. And that meant…
He struggled to quell fury. That meant that the fight had been a hoax. Not an illusion, for those dead men seemed real enough. And dead enough. But a fraud, nevertheless. The arrogance of it! The callous, deliberate slaughter! A tutelary should never allow such evil things to happen within its domain! Father Guillem had known that, but Montserrat had silenced Father Guillem before he said too much. Montserrat had been playing tricks — evil, evil tricks. Why? Something to do with Toby Longdirk, certainly. Dangerous tricks. The brigands might have provoked the hob into another rampage, putting everyone at risk. What had happened to the hob, which had always shunned tutelaries in the past?
The incarnation spoke, her voice clear and cold like the note of a bell, a voice to brook no argument. But she addressed the words to the night, not to anyone in particular. Her eyes were closed.
"Pepita, you would be welcome here for Brother Bernat's sake, but you are equally welcome for you own. Stay with us and be cherished."
Pepita beamed. "I like you! You make me see rainbows." She ran forward. One of the older women smiled and bent to hug the sodden bundle, then scooped her up and carried her away. As they disappeared from view, a childish voice shouted: " 'Bye, Toby!"
" 'Bye, Pepita," he shouted. "Spirits bless you."
"Gracia," said the spirit, "Margarita, Josep, Hamish… and Tobias. You may rise." It fell silent until they did so. Perhaps it spoke then in confidence to Hamish, for he suddenly pulled off his bandage and grinned at the incarnation with all the stupefied adoration of a spaniel.
The last bodies were being wheeled away; the last of the pilgrims' horses led off. The monks with the torches remained, human candlesticks to illuminate the proceedings. Somewhere higher on the hill a large wagon squeaked and rattled. And more feet, more hooves? Unless there was a freak echo at this spot, it sounded as if two minor armies were approaching, one up the hill and one down, and they were going to meet right at Toby Longdirk. That could not be coincidence.
The rain was growing heavier.
"You come seeking sanctuary," the spirit said. "But your petition has already been contested. Antonio?"
Surely a monastery wouldn't throw a man out in the hills on a night like this without even Smeòrach? Why couldn't they all go indoors and hold this meeting in front of a roaring fire of pine logs?
Many men had halted in the background, their weapons and armor glinting faint reflections of the torchlight. The Antonio the spirit had summoned marched forward out of the darkness. He saluted the incarnation, then stared at Toby with only a faint trace of curiosity in his customary granitic expression.
It felt much like an uppercut to the jaw. Toby knew Captain Diaz of the Palau Reial in Barcelona, but Captain Diaz would not recall their previous meetings, because they had never happened.
"Repeat your concerns, Antonio," the incarnation said, eyes still closed.
"Your Holiness has already seen the document. I have a warrant for the arrest of the foreigners Tobias Longdirk and Hamish Campbell."
Toby shrugged with as much unconcern as he could manage, sending numerous trickles of water racing down his back. He wished his insides felt as cool as his outside. "On what charge?"
"No charge is specified. You are to be detained by order of his Excellency the viceroy."
Toby spared a glance for Hamish — who returned a grim scowl — then addressed the incarnation. "Holiness, I appeal for sanctuary! This is gross injustice."
"We agree. Catalans cherish their ancient freedoms. Antonio, you must present a reason."
Diaz frowned, and if he had been a man who showed emotion it would probably have been surprise. Surely he had not expected the tutelary to hand over a suppliant without cause? Or had he already been assured that in this case it would? The stench of trap was unmistakable.
"The civil power's warrant is cause enough, Holiness, when it deems that lives are in jeopardy."
"If Oreste can be so arbitrary, then so can we. We require you to give us a specific reason."
Another voice intervened before Diaz could respond, a voice whose rasp of age did not lessen its deep authority: "I can present a reason. Captain Diaz is acting on my behalf. The man Longdirk is possessed by a demon." Out from behind the soldiers came a tall, elderly Dominican.
Randal's first punch. The first and last bout in Longdirk's brief career as a professional prizefighter had opened with a sickening lesson in just how hard a man could hit a boy. This punch felt even harder. He had been told repeatedly that tutelaries would never have dealings with the Inquisition. Why must he always turn out to be the exception to every rule?
The old man's pouched eyes inspected him, then a smile like a sword cut parted the skull face. "There can be no question that this creature belongs to the Inquisition, Holiness."
"No question?" For the first time the spirit lost a little of its inhuman calm. "There can be no question that our authority is paramount within our domain! Do you dare dispute this, Vespianaso?"
Hamish recognized the name and muttered something fiery under his breath.
The friar's bow was perfunctory. "Of course not, Holiness. But unless you plan to retain him here, then you must hand Longdirk over to the appropriate authority outside, and in all Spain that proper authority is the Inquisition." He cupped his hands and blew into them to warm them.
"This is not our concern!" Senora Collel cried. "I have no truck with demons! Holiness, I beg you—"
"Be silent, Margarita! The rest of you may be required as witnesses, depending on our decision. Tobias, do you deny the charge?"
Surprise! Perhaps there was hope after all? — if Montserrat was willing to defy both Oreste and the Inquisition. Again he wondered whose were the feet and hooves coming up the hill. It was late for anyone to be on the road, especially in such weather. Things were happening too quickly.
Still, he had no choice now but to gamble on the tutelary's honesty, no matter what tricks it had been playing earlier.
"Yes, I deny the charge."
"State your case, Vespianaso."
The friar shrugged as if that would be a waste of time. "The man was identified as a creature years ago in his native land. He has been pursued across all Europe, spreading death and destruction in his wake. He was indicted again in Castile this summer and escaped again. We set up a checkpoint to intercept him near Tortosa. It was wiped out. Thirty-four men died. I am surprised that your Holiness would even—"
"This is all hearsay. Have you witnesses?"
The rain that sizzled in the torches was driving hard in Toby's face, but more than cold was making him shiver. Yes, there were witnesses: Gracia, Josep, Collel, and the others now up at the monastery. He must not let them be dragged into the Inquisition's coils.
"I do not deny that I was there, or that the men died. But I am not possessed of a demon."
"In that case," inquired the inquisitor with heavy sarcasm, "I assume Captain Diaz is here to enlist you?"
"Tobias," the incarnation said, "you quibble about the nature of the sprite. Do you seriously expect us to release you so that you may continue your bloody course?"
He wiped his eyes. "Brother Bernat instructed me in how to control this sprite you mention."
"Did you control it at Tortosa, or did it act without your guidance?"
That fast one-two left him no defense. He had admitted that he bore the hob. Which of them was master did not matter. "I had not yet had time to master it," he mumbled. "It is behaving itself now."
"That is only because we have subdued it. Do you regret what happened?"
Both Oreste and the Inquisition had underestimated the hob in the past, but Montserrat had centuries of experience and far greater wisdom than either of them, so perhaps the hob was truly incapacitated this time…
He shrugged. There was no way to deceive a spirit. "Yes, in the sense that I wish they had just left me alone. I do not enjoy killing. But put me in the same circumstances again, and I would still not submit to violence. The reverend friar reversed the truth. I am not possessed, and yet I have been hunted and hounded across all Europe. For three years I have lived in dread of being stabbed through the heart by any stranger I met, and what the Inquisition planned for me was a great deal worse than that. I have the right to defend myself, do I not?" The best method of defense, he recalled, was attack: "And who are you to judge me? You slaughtered as many or more here tonight."
"That was not our doing."
"This is your domain. You let it happen."
"They came to loot and rape and so deserved the death they met. We intervened only to save innocent lives."
"You absolve yourself very glibly!" He wished the spirit would lose its temper and shout back at him, but immortals did not do that. The icy girlish voice was slaughtering him. "I was saving innocent lives at Tortosa — my own and other people's. I don't see that my actions are any different from yours."
"We are not on trial here, Tobias. You are." Punch!
"Sauce for the gander is not sauce for the goose?"
Hamish thumped his arm with a warning growl. "Be respectful, you big oaf!"
"Why should I be respectful? If this is a trial, then the judge should be in the dock with the accused. I was being threatened with the most humiliating and painful death imaginable. Does an immortal deny a mortal the right to defend his life?"
"We do if he is deserving of death," the spirit said. "The men you slaughtered were doing their duty, legally and morally."
"You call torture moral?"
"Would you have submitted had the penalty been beheading?"
Punch! Feeling as if all the breath had been knocked out of him, Toby again wiped his face with a sodden sleeve. He could never win a battle of wits against one of the wisest tutelaries in all Europe. If this went on long enough he would freeze to death.
"It wasn't!" he shouted. "It was torture. You argue in circles. I deserve death because I defend myself from being put to death for defending myself?"
"And what were you defending yourself from at Mezquiriz?" the spirit persisted in the same calm tones. "What threat to you were the sailors on the Maid of Arran? Or the women who died in Bordeaux? Or the soldiers at Limoges…"
Punch, punch, punch! He would not survive much more of this. Perhaps the tutelary was dragging all the details from his own memory. The incarnation's eyes were still closed, but the nuns attending her and the monks with torches all stared at him in wide-eyed horror.
He found his voice; it sounded strange to him. "You know that the hob is not a demon."
"Tell that to the dead in Mezquiriz. Tell them in Tortosa. You may not think of the sprite as a demon, but who else can agree with you?"
"Brother Bernat did!"
"We are not bound by his conclusions," the spirit said. "He was fallible."
"And you are not? The hob's motives—"
"The hob's motives do not matter, only its actions. Your promises to make it behave in future are not credible. You show no repentance. We judge you to be possessed."
Now he was on the ropes!
For a moment no one spoke. He caught Hamish's eye and answered the horror in it with a shrug. There was certainly some truth in what the tutelary said — the hob could be very demonic at times. If he were just given time to learn the techniques Brother Bernat had taught him… but he might never succeed, and every failure would risk more innocent lives. Toby Longdirk was not guilty of anything except wanting to go on living, and the hob would not have let him kill himself anyway. Could it rescue him from the Inquisition again? This time, after Tortosa, the inquisitors would be very careful.
"So you will hand the creature over to us, Holiness?" Father Vespianaso inquired, rubbing his skeletal hands. He looked pleased.
"Unless the man asks us to exorcize the demon, or sprite, or hob, or whatever he chooses to call it."
Hope pealed like thunder. Toby came out with fists flailing. "Is that possible, Holiness? I have been wanting that for years!"
"It is possible," said the incarnation. "You had time to become acquainted with Jacques?"
Oh, bloody demons! Knockout!
Jacques! Toby had completely forgotten the inexplicable messenger and had not seen him since the ambush, but he was inexplicable no longer, and neither was his message. This was the worst blow yet. He stared in revulsion as the gardener-cleaner-porter came shuffling in through the misty rain with a bemused smile on his empty face. Horror, horror!
"He is broken," Pepita had said.
"No, Jacques, do not kneel," said the spirit. "You are no less worthy than any of these men. Tobias, make your choice."
Desperately fighting for time to think, Toby shouted, "No! I don't understand."
"You do understand, but we will spell it out for you. We can exorcize the sprite, the hob, but much of you will come with it."
"That? You will turn me into that?"
"Something like him."
"He was possessed by a hob too?"
"An elemental. Dejamiento does not always work. Jacques was a very fine man in his way, but he lacked the patience and self-denial needed to become a true alumbrado. He succumbed to carnal temptations and the spirit ran amok, just as your hob did at Mezquiriz. When it was exorcized, much of Jacques was lost. The same will happen in your case, although perhaps not as severely, for he had been invested since childhood. You may not be as badly damaged as he is, but you will certainly lose something. You will do no more harm to others. You will be happy as he is happy and remain here, being well cared for, but you will not be the person you are now."
"You would turn him into a rabbit?" Hamish shouted. "This is barbaric!"
"Possession is worse," said the spirit. "Choose, Tobias."
In his vision of cutting off Hamish's head, he had been free of the hob. And he had been a slobbering moron. A demon had enforced his obedience to the baron, but the demon had not made him into that cringing idiot, that butt of the court's humor, that bumbling sycophant who would shamelessly take women to bed at his master's orders or cut off his friends' heads without a care.
To become a moron or be tortured to death? A long life of useless idiocy or a short one of unspeakable agony? It would not seem short. He wanted to ask Hamish to advise him, but that would be grossly unkind, for no man should be expected to make such a decision — not for himself nor for anyone else.
No, he could not subject his flesh to the inquisitors' torments again. And if he accepted what Montserrat ordered, he would at least be cheating Oreste of his triumph.
Hoarsely, he said, "If you will grant me asylum, then I accept the exorcism, Holiness."
"On that condition we grant you sanctuary for the remainder of your days."
"Wait!" Captain Diaz had been watching in grim silence. "If we cannot have the man, then I must still claim a certain purple gemstone he possesses. Sergeant Gomez!"
"The amethyst is mine!" Toby roared.
"What is this gem?" Father Vespianaso demanded angrily. "An immured demon?"
"No, it does not contain a demon," said the tutelary. "Give it up, Tobias. You have no further use for it."
"It has great sentimental value for me. My foster mother gave it to me, her last gift. It is my property. Will you tolerate armed robbery in your realm, Montserrat?"
Diaz stepped forward with another soldier at his heels. "You have admitted to being a demonic husk, so you have no rights in law. Give me the stone."
It was another failure, but a man should know when he is beaten. Toby fumbled at his collar to pull the thong over his head; he opened the locket and rolled out the amethyst onto Diaz's waiting palm.
Surrender.
The captain walked over to the closest torch and inspected the purple crystal. "Thank you." He came and took the locket from Toby, replaced the stone in the little bag and turned to his companion, who held out an ivory casket. The locket went in the box, and then the box into a satchel, which Diaz slung over his shoulder.
"I wish I could say that you were welcome," Toby said ruefully. "Do you know why the baron wants it so badly?"
"I do not want to know." Diaz turned to the incarnation. "And the other man, Holiness? My warrant also names Hamish Campbell."
Toby had forgotten that. He stared in horror at Hamish's pale face.
"He is not possessed! He is not guilty of any crime!" He was guilty of knowing the truth about King Nevil, though. Oreste would see him dead for that.
"He has been your accomplice for three years," Father Vespianaso retorted. "It was his duty to aid the authorities in apprehending you."
"The man Campbell belongs to us!" bellowed a new voice.
They had all been too engrossed to pay attention to the newcomers whose clattering and splashing Toby had heard earlier. Heads turned to peer in the downhill direction, where a second troop of soldiers stood in the darkness, a considerably larger force than Captain Diaz had brought. After everything that had happened already, it was not surprising that they were landsknechte.
The tutelary would never be surprised by anything. "Approach and state your claim, Leopold."
In marched the mercenary captain, a solid, powerful-looking young man whose russet beard failed to conceal a monstrous scar deforming his mouth. His doublet was splendid, his ermine-trimmed cloak hung open to display a wealth of gold chains adorning his chest. He saluted the incarnation respectfully, but he merely sneered at Diaz.
"The man slew our comrades!" His Castilian was almost incomprehensible under a harsh Germanic accent. "He to us belongs!"
Captain Diaz cocked one eyebrow. "I have a warrant from the viceroy."
"It is a matter of honor!"
"It is a matter of law. Your presence here violates your contract, Hauptmann von Münster. Why are you absent from your post at Lerida?"
"For honor, Captain. Perhaps a Catalan cannot appreciate honor?"
"My warrant names both men," Diaz said stonily, turning to the incarnation, "as your Holiness is well aware. His Excellency would be highly displeased if—"
"Are you threatening us?"
"Not at all, Holiness. I merely quote my orders."
Lightning on a dark night, claw marks in the sand — of course it was a threat! Toby should have seen the truth much sooner. The Fiend's army was supposedly excluded from Montserrat by treaty, but Diaz and Vespianaso had been waiting up at the monastery. Nevil's viceroy would never let a mere treaty stand between him and the hated Longdirk. And although Montserrat's wisdom and power were legendary, and its mountain realms immune to almost any mundane attack, it would not be able to withstand the baron's demonic legions. Oreste had sent Diaz with an ultimatum, and the spirit had yielded. The tutelary had sold out to the hexer and the Inquisition.
Von Münster was scowling at Toby with hatred and disgust. "About the creature nothing we can do, but the man is ours for justice."
"It is nice to feel wanted," Hamish remarked airily. "Shall we start the bidding at ten ducats?"
Toby shot him an admiring smile. "The fault was not his. Let him go, Hauptmann. Promise me a quick death, and you can take me instead."
"Fools you think us, demon? You stay here. We a witness have." The mercenary turned and barked orders in German.
Two men strutted forward as if they had been waiting for the command, hustling a woman along between them, and of course it was Eulalia, which explained how the landsknechte had tracked Toby into Montserrat so easily. But they must have been close on his heels even before they caught her.
"Tell the friar what you to us told!"
Although she was bedraggled and looked half frozen, her eyes flashed triumph at the sight of the prisoners. "The big one burned up the men with thunderbolts." She tossed her head defiantly and smiled as she pointed to Hamish. "I saw Jaume killing one of the foreigners with a sword."
Father Vespianaso massaged his bony fingers. "This may be more serious than we thought. Did you see evidence that he was possessed, child? Did he behave strangely, talk aloud when there was no one there, fall into trances? Did he use unnatural powers — to take advantage of you in some way, perhaps?"
Eulalia accepted the threads offered and began to embroider. "Oh yes, Father! Oh, yes! He summoned me to his bed by night, and I was unable to resist. I didn't want to go, but he had some terrible power he used that made me helpless to refuse his demands. He violated me many times, and he was supernaturally strong, strong beyond all mortal men, never tiring, never satisfied. And he would mutter strange things I couldn't understand, about foreign places and secret books and—"
"That will do for now, my daughter."
Hell hath no fury…
Oh, Eulalia! Her spite really should be directed at Toby, because Hamish would certainly have forgiven her by bedtime, but she must have heard enough to know that Toby was beyond her reach now. Oh, Hamish, Hamish! See what I have brought you to in return for your loyalty and friendship?
He wanted to scream. He wanted to blast the spirit of Montserrat and its famous monastery to ashes. And the Inquisition. And Oreste, who had won at last. And Nevil the Fiend, demon Rhym, the ultimate cause of all this evil. But he could do none of those things. He had lost everything.
"One hundred ducats?" Hamish said. "Do I hear two hundred? I am flattered, but unfortunately she is lying. Isn't she, Holiness?"
"She was telling the truth about the sword," the spirit said. "Everything else was exaggeration and wishful thinking. Campbell is not possessed."
"Then I take him!" snapped Diaz.
"How far do you think you will get?" the landsknecht sneered. "Spare your men's lives and your own and give him to us."
"What an unseemly squabble!" Hamish remarked, shaking his head. "Why not just agree to let me go?"
Then it was Father Vespianaso's turn again. "We must of course accept the holy spirit's declaration that the accused is not possessed. But he has undoubtedly known for many years that his companion is, and he has done nothing about it. He bears much guilt as an accomplice and must be questioned at length. If the facts are as I have just stated, then justice will be done."
"Under torture questioned?" von Münster demanded.
"Possibly."
"Only possibly?"
"Very probably. We must make quite certain that he is telling the whole truth, you understand."
"And what his penalty will be?"
The friar shrugged as if such details were unimportant. "Assuming he is found guilty, I would expect him to be sentenced to a series of public floggings followed by some years in the galleys. At least ten years. It will depend on the evidence."
Even Hamish could not smile at that.
"One of my comrades he to slay was seen!"
"Of course, there is that, too," the friar agreed. "Then, Leopold, my son, I can assure you that the man Campbell will ultimately be handed over to the civil authorities for execution — to be hanged for murder or burned at the stake for consorting with demons. Do you agree with my opinion, Antonio?"
"I am no lawyer, Father." Captain Diaz was much too wily to get caught in that mill. "My orders were to arrest these two men, take them to Barcelona, and deliver them to you for examination. His Excellency reserved only the right to ask them a few questions if he so wishes. Before you ask any, that is." His emphasis implied that after the Inquisition began its interrogation would be too late to obtain useful answers. "Longdirk has been granted asylum here, but I shall take Campbell and deliver him to the Inquisition. Does that satisfy you, von Münster? Have I your word that you will return your troop at once to Lerida and make no attempt to interfere with the transportation of these prisoners?"
The mercenary displayed his gargoyle smile again. "I so promise."
Father Vespianaso rubbed his hands in undisguised pleasure. "You will also take the witness into custody, Captain. And these other witnesses also."
Senora Collel wailed like a trampled cat.
"No!" Hamish snapped. "I confess to the killing. There is no need to arrest anyone else, Captain."
Toby moaned. Hamish was headed to torture and death, and he was to live on, growing old pottering contentedly around the monastery herb garden? It was intolerable. Everyone else here was bargaining madly — couldn't he? He was the one Oreste and Vespianaso really wanted. Could he buy back Hamish's life with his own?
"Your confession is recorded," the inquisitor said with a macabre smile. "But there is another matter that must be investigated. The massacre here tonight — was that also the demon's doing? Or do we have another demon to hunt down?" He peered at Josep, Senora Collel, and Gracia. "I still think we need to interrogate these witnesses."
Gracia uttered a shrill cry of alarm.
And Senora Collel opened her mouth…
"Yes!" Toby yelled. "The brigands' deaths were my doing also! My demon slew them and I gloried in it. If I change my mind and refuse the exorcism, will you release all these others, including Campbell, and swear not to molest them in future?"
Would the tutelary expose his lie? Or had it planned this to fulfil its agreement with Diaz?
Father Vespianaso considered his confession with sly calculation. "Whom are you protecting? Only Campbell?"
"We accept those terms for the others," Diaz said. "But not Campbell. The two of you come and the rest can go."
Toby's mouth was incredibly dry in marked contrast to the rest of him. He knew what was in store, and strappado would be the least of it. But he could not let the inquisitors get their claws in Gracia. And he could not betray Josep, either. Hamish was beyond saving, thanks to Eulalia.
"And what happens then?" demanded von Münster. "A sword through the monster's heart? It is too good for him."
Father Vespianaso continued chafing his fingers. "He will be taken to Barcelona for examination."
"Examination?" barked the mercenary. "What is this examination? Has he not confessed? What need is there of examination? He slew our friends, and justice we seek."
The friar shook his head regretfully. "It is revenge you seek, my son, and we cannot countenance that. The Holy Office is guided by mercy and does not put men to death. It seeks only to drive out their demons. As the accused is refusing exorcism, it will be necessary to use harsher means."
"You mean you will torture him until the demon he expels?"
"Regrettably, we will have no choice. But we are moved by compassion, not a craving for vengeance."
"So he will suffer, suffer a long time?"
"He is a strong man and apparently a very determined one."
"That means yes?"
"I fear this may well be so." The friar blew on his hands again.
The scar made Hauptmann von Münster's smile particularly horrible. "Then I am satisfied. Will it be possible to view the body?"
"No. It would be too distressing for those who do not understand the need for—"
"That is enough!" said the spirit. "Antonio will take the two men named in the warrant. Leopold and his men will return peaceably to their post. And Vespianaso renounces any further proceedings against the rest. Is this your decision, Tobias?"
Unable to speak, he nodded, not looking at Gracia or Josep. He wouldn't mind taking Senora Collel and Eulalia by the scruff of their necks and banging their heads together, but that was not possible. The Inquisition would have him.
"So be it," said Montserrat.
The audience was over. When the golden shimmer vanished, the abandoned incarnation staggered. Her companions steadied her, whispering inquiries. She nodded reassuringly, and they all walked away with their heads down. One of the torchbearers went with them to light their path. Josep and the three women were hustled after them by more monks before anyone could think of suitable farewells.
Failure, despair, cold, exhaustion…
"Sorry, friend," Toby said. "This looks like the end."
"Ah, you're as daft as I am." Despite his pallor, Hamish managed to produce a faint smile. "We never died before, did we?" He widened the smile into a reasonable facsimile of his favorite grin. "I hate ships, anyway! I didn't really want to go home. Life around you is never dull."
"You may wish it was before long."
"Trust the hob!"
Too late. Toby would be damned if the hob intervened and damned if it did not, but he must not let Hamish outdo him in courage. "Of course. We must be as strong as the rocks in the hills."
"Strong as a billy goat's third horn," said Hamish.
Horses clattered and snorted. Men were hurrying around: Captain Diaz taking over the torches from the departing monks, von Münster mounting up and preparing to move out. The wagon Toby had heard earlier had been waiting in the background and now began squeaking forward. He was not at all surprised to see that it carried a bear cage.
"Longdirk!"
Toby looked down. "What can I do for you, Captain Diaz?"
The soldier studied the prisoner for a moment. "You're a cool one."
"I'm a very cold one at the moment. We're also hungry."
"I'll see what I can do. You are going to come quietly?"
Father Vespianaso and three other friars were standing guard around them, all four holding jeweled crucifixes. A circle of a dozen armed men backed them up. The cage would certainly be warded. It was almost flattering to inspire such precautions.
Toby managed a hollow laugh. "I know when I'm beaten."
The captain nodded. "Hands in front of him, sergeant." The last remark was addressed to a man standing beside him holding chains, and it was a welcome concession, a surprising one. It produced a frown of disapproval from Father Vespianaso.
Toby held out his wrists for the manacles.