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Chapter 14
Return to Colonsay

 
I think it was the day the York Rebellion broke out that I learned not to make quick judgments about people, a lesson that I should not have had occasion to learn again since.

I was but a year in service, and on leave, guesting with my uncle Charles on the fifteenth of York.

He was the second eldest son of my maternal grandfather, and had come into his inheritance during his active time in the Order. When he took retirement to the Inactive List, he became a rather successful importer of wine from the Continent, and had married what the family thought of as a preposterously young and flighty girl, who proceeded to pop out an equally preposterous number of babies. He spent short days supervising the warehouses, long afternoons at his club, and evenings with his family.

It was hard to think of him as the knight that they had called Red Charles; he had a round, beaming face, framed only by wisps of white hair, and an easy laugh.

On my previous visits, it had taken some persuasion for him to understand that I really did not wish to interfere with his home life, but rather to join it to the extent that I was welcome, but he understood that well by this time, and when the front doorbell rang, the two of us were down on our knees on the rug in the sitting room with the children, playing with a new kitten, while his young wife stood over the lot of us, shaking her head half in amusement, half in disapproval.

 
The bell rang, and the butler brought him an envelope, which he opened. He read it quickly, then looked up at me.

"All hell's broken loose; we're called, Martin," he said, then turned to the butler. "No time for the coach—get four horses saddled, and be quick about it."

He paid no attention to the way that his wife fled from the room, taking the children with her, silencing their protests; he just walked to where his swords hung above the hearth, and took them down.

Well, you couldn't expect much better from women and children, I thought—until, moments later, she met us at the door, struggling under the weight of his his bags. It was only later that it occurred to me that either she had packed them in advance, or knew where he had left them, packed and ready to go.

I had seen him be affectionate with the children, but I had never seen him so much as lay his hand upon hers before. He reached out, took her hand, and pressed it briefly to his lips.

"I'm called—" he started to say, silenced when she laid a finger on his lips.

"Don't you worry about us," she said, her expression calm but somehow fierce, holding his hand for just a moment before she dropped it. "Not for a moment. I'll take care of things here."

He nodded, stooped to pick up his bags, and walked out the door, not looking behind. I followed.

She watched us from the door.

The next time I saw her, it was several months later, when I returned his swords to her, her dressed in widow's black. She accepted them with a grave nod, a word of quiet thanks, and without a whimper of complaint, and asked me but one question: "May I tell the children that he died honorably?"

Made me glad I'd never voiced my own misgivings about her; I'm not sure how I could have apologized for that.

—Becket

A sliver of moon hung low in the sky as the hull of the boat scraped noisily along the gravel just off the Strand. The mud flats stretched out in front of them, with Colonsay proper rising to the north, and Oronsay to the south. A boy who had been raised as a fisherman didn't have to look for a highwater mark to know that this was low tide, and that the mudflats would soon be underwater, separating Oronsay from Colonsay.

Niko stared intently at the strange shoreline, although he couldn't have said what it was that he was looking for. There was no trace of human habitation, which was understandable; the mile-wide mud-flats spent most of the day underwater, bridging the two islands only at low tide. It was theoretically possible to go between the two by boat at other times, but the natives never did. Not a seafaring folk, it was said, even though none lived far from it.

"Easy, there," Sir John whispered to the sailors. "We'll take it from here."

The bosun's mate grunted an aye-aye, and gestured to two of the sailors, who immediately shipped their oars and scrambled over the side to steady the boat, just after Niko.

There was no reason for him to wait. Getting in and out of a boat without tipping it over, after all, was something that he was more than passingly familiar with, and he gestured for Sir John to hand him his rucksack, which the big knight did.

The water was cold, and almost knee-deep.

"Back in the boat," Fotheringay said to the sailors. "We'll push you off." It was the work of a moment, and with the boat lightened of the weight of the knights and all of their gear, the boat easily and quietly backed, and came about, the sailors quickly rowing toward where the darkened mass of the Redoubt loomed, off in the night.

Niko led the way to the shore, vaguely irritated at the way that the other two splashed about too much. The idea was to make land on Colonsay stealthily; drawing attention could wait until the ship, with Sir Martin, the wizard, and the Marines aboard, anchored off of Scalasaig in the morning.

They emerged from the ocean, wet as rats. Niko shivered in the cold breeze, and clamped his jaw tightly together to keep his teeth from chattering.

"Easy, young sir," Fotheringay whispered. "I'll have you in dry clothes before long—and myself too, at that."

"And, with the wind blowing hard from the west, if we can find enough cover, perhaps we can have a fire," Sir John said.

Niko nodded to himself. He would have thought it too risky, himself, but when it came to woodsmanship, he would trust Sir John's instincts above his own.

There was no way to see it off in the dark, but the highwater of the Strand was always littered with driftwood at low tide, and fires on Colonsay tended to be driftwood as often as the native peat. The smell of woodsmoke would excite no particular interest, although you could reliably expect that the natives would, in daylight, find smoke rising from some place unusual to be of more than passing interest.

Niko would have been tempted to protest, to argue that they should just get to it, but he had already had that discussion with Sir John, and been overruled.

Their timing had been just this side of perfect; the mudflats were dry enough to support the weight of their boots, and even Sir John, the biggest and heaviest of them all, barely sank to the ankles even in the dampest spots, as they made their way across the mud, toward where Hangman's Rock loomed ahead of them, in the dark.

They walked in silence. The sounds of their boots against the hard-packed mud and sand would not carry far, but you had to be careful about voices, Sir John had said. Be it castle, forest, or sea, voices would sometimes carry farther than you'd think that they would.

They made camp in the lee of Hangman's Rock, and after a few minutes of Sir John listening and watching, he gave a signal to Fotheringay, who quickly started the fire that he had already laid. The tinder crackled and popped, and before long it was a modest blaze that somehow gave off more warmth than light.

Sir John slipped off into the night, still in his rough clothes, while Niko dressed. The fire warmed Niko far more than perhaps it should have, as he stripped to the skin and dressed himself in his Order garments, from the boots up.

"Just as well," Sir John whispered from just behind him, "that we got some sleep before we came ashore." He was still in his rough clothes. "And all, alas, is quiet."

"Yes, it is." Fotheringay grinned. "Did you expect that the Amadan Dubh would be sitting on a rock outside of Garvard just waiting for us to come kill him, Sir John?"

The big knight grinned back. "Well, that would not have bothered me, if it had happened, I can honestly say. But, no; fortune is rarely so kind." He quickly stripped off his own rough clothes as he spoke, then hung them up himself on the side of the massive rock. He picked up one of his dirty boots, as though to bang it against the rock and rid it of the mud, then clearly thought better of it, and accepted a small stick from Fotheringay; he cleared the mud from it bit by bit.

Niko had already dressed, with Fotheringay's help, and the two of them waited patiently while the big knight bent to lace his own boots tightly.

"Well," he finally said, as he stood himself straight, "let's have at it." He gestured to the west. "There's a path that forks both to Garvard and Scalasaig, and if I've read the maps right, it passes by a croft on the way."

They caught the family asleep, just barely, while the wan gray light of premorning, the light that the Arabs call the wolf's tail, filtered weakly over the eastern horizon.

More accurately, Sir John was the one who did the catching asleep; the black house, larger than some but smaller than most, stood on a hilltop, with the sheep pen barely to the east of it, and Niko was sure that he and Fotheringay couldn't have approached so closely, not without giving an alarm. Niko was certain that even Sir John couldn't make his way past the pen without waking the sheep—nervous creatures they were—but, once again, he was wrong.

They only started bleating when Sir John's big voice boomed out, as the big knight stood but a few feet away from the rough-hewn doorway. "In the name of the king, come out of your holes, the lot of you."

That was Niko's and Fotheringay's cue, and they quickly ran around behind the house, repeating Sir John's words.

There was a long moment of silence.

"Again, I say—and for the last time—come out, the lot of you, or I swear we'll burn your thatch down about your ears," Sir John said.

That hadn't been part of the plan, and Niko wasn't sure what he should say—or even if he should say anything—as the occupants stumbled out, one by one, into the wan light.

Not a terribly threatening lot, by the looks of them. A thickset woman, holding an infant in one arm and a three-year-old on a hip; two boys, neither older than fourteen, and a girl, perhaps ten or twelve, shivering probably more from fear than the cold, despite the thinness of her patched shift.

"And where," Sir John asked, not gently, "is David Bella, the crofter?"

One of the boys started to say something, but silenced himself at a shake of the head of his mother.

"My husband," she said, her voice holding just as much fear as anger, "died at Kiloran."

"As you know," one of the boys put in.

"No." Sir John shook his head. "No, I did not. I've not taken inventory of the dead bodies of the traitors who tried to murder the baron and his family. That's, in part, what we're here for."

"Traitors?" She shook her head. "You'll find no treason here, or elsewhere on these islands. It was not our doing, but his."

"You were there?"

She didn't answer at first, but looked at Niko, as though expecting him to say something.

Niko didn't recognize her, not particularly; the McPhees of Colonsay looked much the same to him: dark, thickly built people. If he had spent much time among them, no doubt that he would have come to recognize them individually.

Was she part of the mass of madness that had gone insane on the beach?

Finally, she nodded. "Yes, I was, and I was taken by the pipes and drums as much as the others." She handed each of the small ones off to her sons. "I don't ask for or expect mercy for myself," she said, "but I do ask that you take me away before you take my life, or whatever else you want of me before you do that. I'll not beg for my life, but I will beg for that." She faced Sir John with apparent resignation. "Not in front of my children. Please."

"We shall see," Sir John said.

What? Was Sir John actually thinking of killing the woman? No.

"Wait," Niko said, moving between the big knight and the family. "I was there, Sir John. It wasn't rebellion, but madness, brought on by the Amadan Dubh, and—"

"And where is this Amadan Dubh?" Sir John asked, his voice dripping with scorn. He made an expansive gesture with his hand. "I see none such here; just a woman who has, with her own voice, in her own words, admitted to being part of the rebellion."

Niko turned to the woman. "Please—tell Sir John where he can be found."

She shook her head. "I can not. I would, if I could. I'll admit to feeding the gruagach, yes, but not consorting with that hellspawn. I'd heard rumors of it, heard distant piping, true, but that night was the first time that I'd seen him, and the first time that I've heard that he has been seen since before my grandmother was a baby."

"That won't do." Sir John shook his head.

"Then you'd best show us where you feed this gruagach, eh?" Niko more pleaded than asked. "If you speak truly, we'll show you mercy."

"Yes, sir," she said.

"No," the elder of the two boys said. "Not without your word on that. All of you. You'll leave my mother alone, if we help you."

"You think to bargain with us?" Sir John took a step toward the boy.

"Please, Sir John," Niko said, holding up his hand. "It's a fair enough bargain, at that." He turned back to the family. "Yes, you have our word on that. I am Sir Niko Christofolous, of the Order of Crown, Shield, and Dragon; you have my word that if you act faithfully, and loyally, all of your lives will be spared."

"I want his word," the boy said.

Fotheringay's hand came to his face, probably covering a grin. The old sergeant admired a certain amount of impertinence, and the boy clearly had enough of that.

Sir John nodded. "Yes; you have my word. Show us to this gruagach."

The boy looked to his mother, who nodded.

"I can't," the boy said. "I can show you to the stone in the meadow where we leave the milk, but that wouldn't do you any good."

"We'll decide what does good or not," Sir John said.

The mother started to say something, then stopped herself, but the boy just nodded.

"Then, perhaps, you'd better get some milk. Hurry, please," Niko said.

"Yessir."

The sun was well over the gruagach stone before Sir John emerged from the scrub and walked out into the meadow, shaking his head.

"You may as well come out," he called out. "From what I think I know about the gruagach, they'll show at night, if at all." He sighed as he produced a pipe from his pouch. "We're about done for the day . . . and me without a fire kit."

"I've got that handled, Sir John," Fotheringay said, emerging from where he had stretched out in the scrub. He gave his blanket a quick shake to dislodge the brush from atop it, then quickly folded it.

Niko got to his feet slowly, emulating Fotheringay.

Sir John had helped them chop brush. They had laid leather groundcloths for them to lie upon, and then Sir John had covered them first with blankets and then with brush, before stalking off into the gray mist to make himself disappear.

The three wide-faced cows watched for a moment as they rose and walked toward the low gruagach stone near the center of the meadow. Two immediately returned to their foraging, while one looked at Niko with what appeared to him to be irritation, and then turned away and joined the others. Their udders were bloated and heavy with milk, and it was probably past time for young Donald to be up with the yoke and buckets.

"Well, so much for that," Sir John said, crouching near where Fotheringay quickly made a small fire, and produced a lit stick. He puffed his pipe to life. "Maybe tonight, perhaps."

"Are you sure?"

Sir John shrugged. "Little to be sure about in this sort of hunting." He grinned from around the stem of his pipe. "But there's been one about, I'd think." He dipped a finger into to hollow of the stone. "Young Donald didn't clean it, you might have noticed, and if he'd left milk to rot in the sun, we'd have smelled that. Something's drinking it, and being thorough about it. Well, it's another place to hunt tonight—but, for now, I think a quick breakfast in Garvard would be the thing to do, and not just because I'd rather eat other than my own cooking, or Sir Nigel's. Doubt we'll have much difficulty finding a public house, eh?"

"How so?" Niko asked.

Sir John grinned. "Think about it."

"What he means to say, young sir," Fotheringay said, "is that with the Reedy dropping anchor off of Scalasaig just about now, and a company of Marines coming ashore under Sir Martin, there'll be runners passing word of that all over the island. News of that should beat us to Garvard, I'd think, and where does a townsman go to hear and tell the news?" He patted his ample belly. "And, even if not, well, I could easily tolerate surrounding some food, myself, and think it'd be the same for you. Got some jerky, cheese, bread, and a bottle of plonk in my sack, though; give you something to nibble on while we walk."

"We'll wait on the wine," Sir John said, leading the way.

Their kits had been hidden along the path down to the village; they quickly retrieved them, and made their way down the path.

"You seem quiet, even for yourself, Sir Niko," Sir John said, after they had walked for a while. "Deep thoughts, perhaps?"

Niko shook his head. "No."

"Well, out with it. You've got something to say, and it's best to just say it."

"As you wish, Sir John." Niko shrugged. "I didn't much like scaring that family, and—"

"Like? Liking has nothing to do with what you have to do, Sir Niko. And we're likely to have to do worse before it's all over," Sir John said. "It's, well, the nature of what we are, what we do." His voice was light and casual. "Just be happy that you've got me here, not Lady Ellen, say. Or Gray."

"Gray?"

Sir John gave him a long look. "Ask him about Vlaovic, sometime. Difficult call, and an ugly situation, and until I've had a city in revolt, I'll not criticize him for how he handled it. Worst I've ever had to do was in the Kush, and I'm told that they're writing ballads about that. '. . . and the Pashtus said that an Englishman's head will be paid for with heads five-score.' " He shook his head. His expression was grim, but inutterably calm. "After you do that sort of thing, boy, scaring a woman and a few children comes easy. Just as well the boy stopped himself. Thought for a moment that he was going to take a swing at me."

"And what would you have done?" Niko asked.

Sir John gave him a long look. "No choice, Sir Niko. We called them out in the name of the king. He's not to be disobeyed, and when we speak in his name, we're not to be, either."

Fotheringay cleared his throat, and the big knight turned to him in irritation.

"Well, what is it?"

"Begging your pardon, Sir John, and all, but I don't think Sir Niko would have let you kill the boy, and—"

"And you think he could have stopped me?"

Fotheringay stopped walking, and Sir John and Niko came to a halt, too.

"I don't know, Sir John," the old sergeant said. "I hope we never have to find out," he said, quietly. "But I'll tell you this—you turn to fight him, you'd best strike me down first. Failing that, watch to your back when you turn to him, because I'll be on it, and with steel seeking your heart or your throat—whichever's handier." His voice was calm and level. No trace of threat or braggadocio in his tone, despite his words. "I'll serve two masters. The king—and God save him, Sir John, God save him!—and Sir Niko. Not three. Not four. Not them and you."

"Nigel—" Niko started, but the big knight waved him to silence.

"No, Sir Niko. Let the man have his say. Go on, Sir Nigel," he said. "You were saying?"

"I was saying, with all respect, that I've got no objection to lighting your pipe, Sir John, or doing your laundry while I'm doing the young knight's. I'll treat you with the respect due your station, and not feel any the less for that. But the king himself told me to watch out for Sir Niko, and he didn't say, 'Nigel Fotheringay, you watch out for the young knight unless another knight raises a hand to him.' "

Sir John seemed to relax. "You know about me. You're a hard man, Nigel Fotheringay, but you're no Order Knight. Even without the Goatboy, you'd not have a chance against me, Fotheringay, not with sword, spear, or with bare hands."

Fotheringay stared intently at the big knight. "I'm not calculating my chances, Sir John. Just giving you fair warning. And if it needs to be handled here and now, well then, I'm at your service, sir."

"Do you really insist?" The big knight smiled. "So be it, then."

Niko stepped between the two. "Back away, Nigel. Now," he said. Fotheringay's right hand was down by his side, fingers curled. "Put the knife away."

"Sir Niko—"

"Now, Nigel," he said, his eyes locked on Fotheringay's. "And you keep your swords in their sheaths, please, Sir John."

"I've no desire for a fight. Not here and now, Sir Niko," Fotheringay said. "But I've no desire to back away from one, either. Not when it comes to you laying so much as an angry finger on the young knight. Two masters, Sir John. Not three."

"And you think to speak so to a knight of the Order? To this knight of the Order?"

Niko should have been scared, but there was a sense of calm at his core, as he turned to face the big knight.

"As you will, Sir John," Niko said. "I don't claim to know much about being a knight, much less a knight of the Order, but I think it has something to do with standing up for what I believe in, and I don't believe I'll let you kill Fotheringay."

"We don't need to have this out now—"

"I think that we do." Niko let his hand rest on Nadide's hilt. "Nigel—back away." He needed to sound authoritative, and tried to find the words. Oh: "That's not a suggestion." The king had used those words, and they felt right.

He more felt than saw Fotheringay step back.

Niko? What is it?

I don't know for sure, little one. I think, though, that we've got a fair chance of fighting Sir John and the Goatboy.

Oh.

His training was useless here. Watch the eyes, as Becket had taught him? Sir John had had the same training, and more years of practice. He wouldn't give away any intention with a quick narrowing of the eyes, nor with a sharp intake of breath, nor with a subtle tightening of the body that you could watch for, and react to.

It would be sudden, and Niko would have to try to react to it, rather than anticipate it. If it could be avoided, he would avoid it, even if that meant—

"Easy, Sir Niko," Sir John said. "You've my word I'm standing down." John of Redhook slowly, carefully, moved his hands away from his swords and crossed them over his chest. "Well, I'll say this for you, Sir Niko: you've got courage enough. Good sense, well, that remains to be seen." He drew himself up straight and bowed briefly toward Niko, and then to Fotheringay. "And if my choice here and now is to fight to the death with the two of you, or beg your pardon for my rudeness, then I've an easy choice. On one hand, we'd find two of His Majesty's knights dead, and useless to the king; on the other, we find old John Little having to top his sketchy breakfast with a swallow of pride. It's not a taste I much care for, but it won't be the first time I've dined so. So: I humbly beg your pardon, and apologize for offense given. I hope that's sufficient."

Niko didn't need to be told how to answer that. "Of course it is; I accept your apology."

"And will you take my hand, Sir Niko?"

"Of course."

Sir John's much larger hand had strength in it, and Niko had little doubt he could have brought it to bear, but Sir John's handshake was just firm.

"Nigel? I mean, 'Sir Nigel'? Will you accept my apology and take my hand, as well?"

Fotheringay had made his knife disappear. "No offense taken, Sir John," he said, as he accepted the handshake. "I'm not much for taking offense, truth to tell," he said with a toothless smile.

They were expected in Garvard, and Niko would have been able to work that out even if he hadn't recognized the crofter boy, which he did. The boy spotted them at the same time, turned, and walked quickly away; they followed him into the public house.

It was a low building, made of mudded stones. Above their heads, birds nesting in the thatch warbled, as though in warning.

He couldn't make out the Gaelic over the door of the public house, and cursed himself for his awkwardness with languages.

It was almost silent inside, no sound save for the crackling of the fire under cook pot in the hearth. If they had interrupted the conversation, they had done so before entering.

His eyes strained against the darkness of the common room. Light through the shutters striped the packed dirt floor and tables with the early morning sunlight.

So early in the morning it was not surprising that only half a dozen men sat at one of the tables. They crowded too closely together. Eyes settled on his for only a moment.

The publican rushed over. He was a thickset man, sharp nose projecting from under a pair of distinct but almost preposterously bushy eyebrows.

"Good morning to you," he said, his tone making the words a lie. "We've porridge and beer, and little else. Probably nothing nearly fine enough for such fine folks such as yourselves, but—"

"Porridge and beer will be fine," Sir John said. "And conversation." He nodded at Fotheringay, who moved a bench over until it was back up against the wall opposite the hearth, then picked up one of the rough-hewn tables, and set it down in front of the bench. Sir John set his swords down on the table and sat, his back to the wall, and gestured for Niko to sit next to him, which he did.

The publican rushed two bowls over, set them down on the table without a rattle, and rushed back through the open door to the kitchen, returning with another, and with a large clay mug. "I'll be back in just a wee moment with the rest," he said.

Sir John just nodded.

"Go ahead, Sir Nigel," he said. "See what you make of the local beer. I've heard that there's worse."

"There's always worse," Fotheringay said, then took a sip. "No matter how bad it is. But bad beer is, I've found, better than no beer at all—and, then again, there's much worse than this," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "And I've no objection to being your taster, as well as the young knight's, Sir John."

The big knight chuckled. "You really think that we'll find Garvard a den of poisoners?"

If his voice was just a little too loud, nobody seemed to take notice.

"If I did," Fotheringay said, "despite being the tolerant man that I am, then I'd have an objection—a loud objection—and you can count on that, Sir John."

The publican returned with two more mugs, set them down, and scurried away, while the men at the table across from them seemed to be studying their own bowls and mugs with great intent.

At Sir John's gesture, Niko took a tentative sip. He was thirsty enough, but he had not acquired a taste for beer, which was perhaps just as well; a glass of wine was enough to make him sleepy.

"I'd heard that Garvard was known to be a talkative sort of town, and not quite so quiet," Fotheringay said, perhaps just a little too loudly.

Sir John shook his head. "Traitors, by and large, talk little when there's men loyal to the Crown about," he said, casually, if increasingly loudly. "And—"

"Sir." One of the men at the other table stood up, and shook off the hand of another, who had attempted to grab his sleeve, as he walked over.

The local was a big man, probably as tall as Sir John, although it was hard to tell while Sir John was sitting. His jaw was covered by a brush of uncombed black beard, but his cheek muscles were visibly tight.

"Sir," he repeated. "Private Miles McPhee, late of the Oban Guard, and no damned traitor, at your service. Sir."

"Sit you down, then, Private McPhee," Sir John said. "And have yourself one on the Crown."

McPhee seemed to hesitate for just a moment, but then he sat, and Sir John beckoned to the publican, who had suddenly appeared in the door to the back room.

"Glad to hear that there's at least one loyal man on Colonsay," Sir John said, then sipped at his beer, and as the publican dropped off another mug and scurried away, again, he gestured at McPhee to drink his.

"No disloyalty here, Sir . . ."

"John. John Little, of Redhook." Sir John smiled over his beer. "Not a relation, as far as I know, to the famous one."

"You're famous enough, Sir John," Miles McPhee said. "And, so it's said, famous for being a fair man, as well as a hard one." He hesitated for a moment. "Although I'd doubt that the Kali worshippers in the Kush would agree with the former."

Sir John shrugged. "What's left of them." The smile was gone from his face, and around his eyes. "Not something I'd much care to talk about. I'd rather talk about the—"

"Amadan Dubh." McPhee nodded. "That's all there's been talk about, since that night."

"Were you there?"

"No." He shook his head. "Not me. I don't plead any special innocence on that, mind. I would have been, though; I was abed, with the ague, and my wife watching over me. Never been all that thick with Calum Mary Machrins, either."

"No friend of yours?"

It was McPhee's turn to shrug. "He and I've never quite gotten along all that well," he said. "But it's a small island, and all; we're not enemies, if that's what you're asking, and I'd turn out for a barning at his croft, just as he did at mine, after mine burned down, and not think twice. Weddings? Well, that's another matter, I'd guess."

"And—"

"But I'd say this: he's a stingy man, and too quick with his sharp tongue and heavy hand, but he's no murderer, no rebel. None such on the whole island, I'd say—"

"And all of these loyal subjects of the earl and His Majesty were seduced by the pipes? By a piper that not one of them had ever seen before, who popped up at the shoreline, without any hint?"

"Now, I'm not saying that latter." McPhee raised a palm.

Niko started to say something, but silenced himself at a minuscule shake of the head from Sir John.

"And," Sir John went on, "you wouldn't want to say that the piper'd been seen before, and that it hadn't been mentioned to the baron." He had lowered his voice, and the softness of his words was somehow more menacing than the volume had been.

McPhee sipped at his beer. "I'm not sure why it should have been. If it'd happened, but . . ."

"But?"

"But. But . . . things happen here, and I don't know of a man or woman on Colonsay or Oronsay who would want to bother the laird about it. It's said that if you leave out an extra bowl of milk, sometimes, along with a skein of wool and a spinning wheel, you might find that you've slept better'n usual that night, and that it's all spun in the morning. So it's said."

"And why wouldn't you mention that?"

"Talk too much about such things, and they don't happen. So it's said. You hear music coming through the shutters of a night, you might want to listen to it, but that's about all. You don't want to top the missus, sure, as if you get her with child, the baby'll come too big and too early, and always, always have eyes of too deep a blue—so you just listen, maybe, and you let yourself drift off to sleep. Don't want to do much more; keep to yourself, is the way of it. You don't want to make no problems in this life, Sir John, not if you don't have to."

"Well, then we've a problem here. Rebellion—"

"Meaning no offense, Sir John, but there was no rebellion. You can blame the one whose name I'd rather not mention, if you'd like. I do. But—"

"But nothing," Sir John said. "Word's gotten out, Private McPhee. A rebellion on Colonsay? And none held to account for it—"

"Dozens of men, women, and children lie in their graves, and you say none?"

Sir John moved back from the table. "I'll speak as I see fit, and I'll ask you not to raise your voice to me, Miles McPhee."

McPhee took a long breath. "Then I'll give you my apologies, Sir John," he said, voicing the name and title as though it was half an insult. "But I'll say that it was not of their will that they tried to . . . to hurt the baron—"

"And his lady," Niko said. And Bear's mother.

"And my young master," Fotheringay put in. He was fiddling with his pipe. "Speaking just for myself, I don't take kindly to that, either."

"Aye, they tried to hurt the baron, and his lady, and Sir Niko; there's no dispute of that. But . . . but the baron—and his lady—have been nothing but kind and fair, as was his father before him. Yes, his father's father was called Laird Slataire, and it's said that my own grandfather was cuckolded by him.

"But Laird Giscard? There's no hatred there; if we're to be governed by outlanders, and we are, well, there's many worse and few better. But with the earl's soldiers tramping up and down the island, night and day, with swords in their hands and blood in their eyes, few'd want to admit to having heard anything, seen anything, known anything."

"Then somebody had best change his mind, Miles McPhee," Sir John said. "We've been sent by the king to deal with this Amadan Dubh. If he's gone, if he's fled, well then, we'd best pick up his trail. Because word of what's happened here has gone out, and if he's not brought down, there'll be those from New Londinium to Mumbai who will hear of what happened here and say to themselves that rebellions against the Crown will be tolerated, that those responsible for it will not be brought to justice, that the Crown forgives rebellion.

"The Crown, Miles McPhee, cannot forgive or forget or tolerate rebellion. Should every county, every barony, every grand duchy or satrapy be able to attempt rebellion, blaming it on some vanished local diety who others may not even believe in?

"I don't think so. I think that this must be settled soon, or His Majesty will have to take more serious action, and I'm afraid that the next knight of the Order sent will not be the likes of Sir Niko accompanied by myself, but perhaps more along the lines of Sir Joshua Gray. You've heard of Vlaovic?"

"Yes." McPhee nodded. "I've heard," he said, slowly, carefully, like a barefoot man picking his way carefully across a rocky beach. "And of other places—like Linfield, and even of Dunladen, in older times. But none in Scotland, not in living memory."

"Because there's been no damnable rebellion in Scotland, not in living memory," Sir John said. "That appears to have changed."

"And in the name of appearances, you'd kill every man, woman and child on the island?" McPhee shook his head. "That's not the Crown I've served, and I'll warrant it's not the one you do."

"It's not a matter of appearances, McPhee, but of reality. And the reality is that the Crown can't tolerate the appearance of rebellion."

Fotheringay's lips tightened, just a trifle, and he gave the smallest of nods. "Somebody had better be done for it," he said, "and it damn well had better be persuasive. The Oban Guard was in Szerbernica, when the Triune rebellion broke out. You look to be about the right age for that, Miles McPhee. Were you there?"

"No." McPhee shook his head. "I made my mark just after the Guard came home, sir. Heard the stories, though. Didn't much like them."

"Nobody much likes to hear them. Less to like being there—I'll tell you, after that, chasing down pirates in the Med was an easy cruise . . ." Fotheringay voice trailed off. "By comparison." He shook his head. "And instead of some governor who thought to work a better deal for himself with the Empire, imagine what happens if it's a French duke, or an Italian?"

"And centuries of loyalty counts for nothing?"

"Easy, man. It counts for much. It's us that are here, not Sir Joshua and the Khan, not the Corkies. You think that the king wouldn't sic the Irish on Scottish traitors?"

"Fotheringay—"

"I'll be still, Sir John, after I say this: it's right to have faith in the king's goodness, but we live in dangerous times, and only a fool would let treason go unpunished now, as much as ever. The king—and God save him—is no fool."

Miles McPhee raised a palm as Sir John started to speak. "I see your point," he said, still slowly and carefully. "I don't much like it, Sir Nigel, but I see it. If you'll meet me here this night, I'll see if I can help you find the one you seek. I make no warrantees of success, but I will swear to do what I can. On one condition."

Strange. McPhee was looking directly into Niko's eyes, not Sir John's. Perhaps that was because both Sir John and Fotheringay were looking at Niko, too, as though he had been the knight in charge of all of this, and Sir John had merely been speaking on his behalf.

"And that would be?" Niko asked.

"That you convey to His Majesty the king the greetings of Miles McPhee, and of the McPhees of Colonsay, his loyal subjects."

Niko nodded. It seemed little enough to ask, after all, and, of course—

"Done," Sir John said. "We meet tonight. At sundown. And where shall shall we meet?"

McPhee shrugged. "Matters little; it's a small island, and while I'll do the best I can, there's no guarantees, not when it comes to the Old Ones. Here would do."

"Then here it shall be." Sir John tossed a coin to the top of the table. "We'd best be on our way; we've much to do before then."

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Framed

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Contents

Chapter 14
Return to Colonsay

 
I think it was the day the York Rebellion broke out that I learned not to make quick judgments about people, a lesson that I should not have had occasion to learn again since.

I was but a year in service, and on leave, guesting with my uncle Charles on the fifteenth of York.

He was the second eldest son of my maternal grandfather, and had come into his inheritance during his active time in the Order. When he took retirement to the Inactive List, he became a rather successful importer of wine from the Continent, and had married what the family thought of as a preposterously young and flighty girl, who proceeded to pop out an equally preposterous number of babies. He spent short days supervising the warehouses, long afternoons at his club, and evenings with his family.

It was hard to think of him as the knight that they had called Red Charles; he had a round, beaming face, framed only by wisps of white hair, and an easy laugh.

On my previous visits, it had taken some persuasion for him to understand that I really did not wish to interfere with his home life, but rather to join it to the extent that I was welcome, but he understood that well by this time, and when the front doorbell rang, the two of us were down on our knees on the rug in the sitting room with the children, playing with a new kitten, while his young wife stood over the lot of us, shaking her head half in amusement, half in disapproval.

 
The bell rang, and the butler brought him an envelope, which he opened. He read it quickly, then looked up at me.

"All hell's broken loose; we're called, Martin," he said, then turned to the butler. "No time for the coach—get four horses saddled, and be quick about it."

He paid no attention to the way that his wife fled from the room, taking the children with her, silencing their protests; he just walked to where his swords hung above the hearth, and took them down.

Well, you couldn't expect much better from women and children, I thought—until, moments later, she met us at the door, struggling under the weight of his his bags. It was only later that it occurred to me that either she had packed them in advance, or knew where he had left them, packed and ready to go.

I had seen him be affectionate with the children, but I had never seen him so much as lay his hand upon hers before. He reached out, took her hand, and pressed it briefly to his lips.

"I'm called—" he started to say, silenced when she laid a finger on his lips.

"Don't you worry about us," she said, her expression calm but somehow fierce, holding his hand for just a moment before she dropped it. "Not for a moment. I'll take care of things here."

He nodded, stooped to pick up his bags, and walked out the door, not looking behind. I followed.

She watched us from the door.

The next time I saw her, it was several months later, when I returned his swords to her, her dressed in widow's black. She accepted them with a grave nod, a word of quiet thanks, and without a whimper of complaint, and asked me but one question: "May I tell the children that he died honorably?"

Made me glad I'd never voiced my own misgivings about her; I'm not sure how I could have apologized for that.

—Becket

A sliver of moon hung low in the sky as the hull of the boat scraped noisily along the gravel just off the Strand. The mud flats stretched out in front of them, with Colonsay proper rising to the north, and Oronsay to the south. A boy who had been raised as a fisherman didn't have to look for a highwater mark to know that this was low tide, and that the mudflats would soon be underwater, separating Oronsay from Colonsay.

Niko stared intently at the strange shoreline, although he couldn't have said what it was that he was looking for. There was no trace of human habitation, which was understandable; the mile-wide mud-flats spent most of the day underwater, bridging the two islands only at low tide. It was theoretically possible to go between the two by boat at other times, but the natives never did. Not a seafaring folk, it was said, even though none lived far from it.

"Easy, there," Sir John whispered to the sailors. "We'll take it from here."

The bosun's mate grunted an aye-aye, and gestured to two of the sailors, who immediately shipped their oars and scrambled over the side to steady the boat, just after Niko.

There was no reason for him to wait. Getting in and out of a boat without tipping it over, after all, was something that he was more than passingly familiar with, and he gestured for Sir John to hand him his rucksack, which the big knight did.

The water was cold, and almost knee-deep.

"Back in the boat," Fotheringay said to the sailors. "We'll push you off." It was the work of a moment, and with the boat lightened of the weight of the knights and all of their gear, the boat easily and quietly backed, and came about, the sailors quickly rowing toward where the darkened mass of the Redoubt loomed, off in the night.

Niko led the way to the shore, vaguely irritated at the way that the other two splashed about too much. The idea was to make land on Colonsay stealthily; drawing attention could wait until the ship, with Sir Martin, the wizard, and the Marines aboard, anchored off of Scalasaig in the morning.

They emerged from the ocean, wet as rats. Niko shivered in the cold breeze, and clamped his jaw tightly together to keep his teeth from chattering.

"Easy, young sir," Fotheringay whispered. "I'll have you in dry clothes before long—and myself too, at that."

"And, with the wind blowing hard from the west, if we can find enough cover, perhaps we can have a fire," Sir John said.

Niko nodded to himself. He would have thought it too risky, himself, but when it came to woodsmanship, he would trust Sir John's instincts above his own.

There was no way to see it off in the dark, but the highwater of the Strand was always littered with driftwood at low tide, and fires on Colonsay tended to be driftwood as often as the native peat. The smell of woodsmoke would excite no particular interest, although you could reliably expect that the natives would, in daylight, find smoke rising from some place unusual to be of more than passing interest.

Niko would have been tempted to protest, to argue that they should just get to it, but he had already had that discussion with Sir John, and been overruled.

Their timing had been just this side of perfect; the mudflats were dry enough to support the weight of their boots, and even Sir John, the biggest and heaviest of them all, barely sank to the ankles even in the dampest spots, as they made their way across the mud, toward where Hangman's Rock loomed ahead of them, in the dark.

They walked in silence. The sounds of their boots against the hard-packed mud and sand would not carry far, but you had to be careful about voices, Sir John had said. Be it castle, forest, or sea, voices would sometimes carry farther than you'd think that they would.

They made camp in the lee of Hangman's Rock, and after a few minutes of Sir John listening and watching, he gave a signal to Fotheringay, who quickly started the fire that he had already laid. The tinder crackled and popped, and before long it was a modest blaze that somehow gave off more warmth than light.

Sir John slipped off into the night, still in his rough clothes, while Niko dressed. The fire warmed Niko far more than perhaps it should have, as he stripped to the skin and dressed himself in his Order garments, from the boots up.

"Just as well," Sir John whispered from just behind him, "that we got some sleep before we came ashore." He was still in his rough clothes. "And all, alas, is quiet."

"Yes, it is." Fotheringay grinned. "Did you expect that the Amadan Dubh would be sitting on a rock outside of Garvard just waiting for us to come kill him, Sir John?"

The big knight grinned back. "Well, that would not have bothered me, if it had happened, I can honestly say. But, no; fortune is rarely so kind." He quickly stripped off his own rough clothes as he spoke, then hung them up himself on the side of the massive rock. He picked up one of his dirty boots, as though to bang it against the rock and rid it of the mud, then clearly thought better of it, and accepted a small stick from Fotheringay; he cleared the mud from it bit by bit.

Niko had already dressed, with Fotheringay's help, and the two of them waited patiently while the big knight bent to lace his own boots tightly.

"Well," he finally said, as he stood himself straight, "let's have at it." He gestured to the west. "There's a path that forks both to Garvard and Scalasaig, and if I've read the maps right, it passes by a croft on the way."

They caught the family asleep, just barely, while the wan gray light of premorning, the light that the Arabs call the wolf's tail, filtered weakly over the eastern horizon.

More accurately, Sir John was the one who did the catching asleep; the black house, larger than some but smaller than most, stood on a hilltop, with the sheep pen barely to the east of it, and Niko was sure that he and Fotheringay couldn't have approached so closely, not without giving an alarm. Niko was certain that even Sir John couldn't make his way past the pen without waking the sheep—nervous creatures they were—but, once again, he was wrong.

They only started bleating when Sir John's big voice boomed out, as the big knight stood but a few feet away from the rough-hewn doorway. "In the name of the king, come out of your holes, the lot of you."

That was Niko's and Fotheringay's cue, and they quickly ran around behind the house, repeating Sir John's words.

There was a long moment of silence.

"Again, I say—and for the last time—come out, the lot of you, or I swear we'll burn your thatch down about your ears," Sir John said.

That hadn't been part of the plan, and Niko wasn't sure what he should say—or even if he should say anything—as the occupants stumbled out, one by one, into the wan light.

Not a terribly threatening lot, by the looks of them. A thickset woman, holding an infant in one arm and a three-year-old on a hip; two boys, neither older than fourteen, and a girl, perhaps ten or twelve, shivering probably more from fear than the cold, despite the thinness of her patched shift.

"And where," Sir John asked, not gently, "is David Bella, the crofter?"

One of the boys started to say something, but silenced himself at a shake of the head of his mother.

"My husband," she said, her voice holding just as much fear as anger, "died at Kiloran."

"As you know," one of the boys put in.

"No." Sir John shook his head. "No, I did not. I've not taken inventory of the dead bodies of the traitors who tried to murder the baron and his family. That's, in part, what we're here for."

"Traitors?" She shook her head. "You'll find no treason here, or elsewhere on these islands. It was not our doing, but his."

"You were there?"

She didn't answer at first, but looked at Niko, as though expecting him to say something.

Niko didn't recognize her, not particularly; the McPhees of Colonsay looked much the same to him: dark, thickly built people. If he had spent much time among them, no doubt that he would have come to recognize them individually.

Was she part of the mass of madness that had gone insane on the beach?

Finally, she nodded. "Yes, I was, and I was taken by the pipes and drums as much as the others." She handed each of the small ones off to her sons. "I don't ask for or expect mercy for myself," she said, "but I do ask that you take me away before you take my life, or whatever else you want of me before you do that. I'll not beg for my life, but I will beg for that." She faced Sir John with apparent resignation. "Not in front of my children. Please."

"We shall see," Sir John said.

What? Was Sir John actually thinking of killing the woman? No.

"Wait," Niko said, moving between the big knight and the family. "I was there, Sir John. It wasn't rebellion, but madness, brought on by the Amadan Dubh, and—"

"And where is this Amadan Dubh?" Sir John asked, his voice dripping with scorn. He made an expansive gesture with his hand. "I see none such here; just a woman who has, with her own voice, in her own words, admitted to being part of the rebellion."

Niko turned to the woman. "Please—tell Sir John where he can be found."

She shook her head. "I can not. I would, if I could. I'll admit to feeding the gruagach, yes, but not consorting with that hellspawn. I'd heard rumors of it, heard distant piping, true, but that night was the first time that I'd seen him, and the first time that I've heard that he has been seen since before my grandmother was a baby."

"That won't do." Sir John shook his head.

"Then you'd best show us where you feed this gruagach, eh?" Niko more pleaded than asked. "If you speak truly, we'll show you mercy."

"Yes, sir," she said.

"No," the elder of the two boys said. "Not without your word on that. All of you. You'll leave my mother alone, if we help you."

"You think to bargain with us?" Sir John took a step toward the boy.

"Please, Sir John," Niko said, holding up his hand. "It's a fair enough bargain, at that." He turned back to the family. "Yes, you have our word on that. I am Sir Niko Christofolous, of the Order of Crown, Shield, and Dragon; you have my word that if you act faithfully, and loyally, all of your lives will be spared."

"I want his word," the boy said.

Fotheringay's hand came to his face, probably covering a grin. The old sergeant admired a certain amount of impertinence, and the boy clearly had enough of that.

Sir John nodded. "Yes; you have my word. Show us to this gruagach."

The boy looked to his mother, who nodded.

"I can't," the boy said. "I can show you to the stone in the meadow where we leave the milk, but that wouldn't do you any good."

"We'll decide what does good or not," Sir John said.

The mother started to say something, then stopped herself, but the boy just nodded.

"Then, perhaps, you'd better get some milk. Hurry, please," Niko said.

"Yessir."

The sun was well over the gruagach stone before Sir John emerged from the scrub and walked out into the meadow, shaking his head.

"You may as well come out," he called out. "From what I think I know about the gruagach, they'll show at night, if at all." He sighed as he produced a pipe from his pouch. "We're about done for the day . . . and me without a fire kit."

"I've got that handled, Sir John," Fotheringay said, emerging from where he had stretched out in the scrub. He gave his blanket a quick shake to dislodge the brush from atop it, then quickly folded it.

Niko got to his feet slowly, emulating Fotheringay.

Sir John had helped them chop brush. They had laid leather groundcloths for them to lie upon, and then Sir John had covered them first with blankets and then with brush, before stalking off into the gray mist to make himself disappear.

The three wide-faced cows watched for a moment as they rose and walked toward the low gruagach stone near the center of the meadow. Two immediately returned to their foraging, while one looked at Niko with what appeared to him to be irritation, and then turned away and joined the others. Their udders were bloated and heavy with milk, and it was probably past time for young Donald to be up with the yoke and buckets.

"Well, so much for that," Sir John said, crouching near where Fotheringay quickly made a small fire, and produced a lit stick. He puffed his pipe to life. "Maybe tonight, perhaps."

"Are you sure?"

Sir John shrugged. "Little to be sure about in this sort of hunting." He grinned from around the stem of his pipe. "But there's been one about, I'd think." He dipped a finger into to hollow of the stone. "Young Donald didn't clean it, you might have noticed, and if he'd left milk to rot in the sun, we'd have smelled that. Something's drinking it, and being thorough about it. Well, it's another place to hunt tonight—but, for now, I think a quick breakfast in Garvard would be the thing to do, and not just because I'd rather eat other than my own cooking, or Sir Nigel's. Doubt we'll have much difficulty finding a public house, eh?"

"How so?" Niko asked.

Sir John grinned. "Think about it."

"What he means to say, young sir," Fotheringay said, "is that with the Reedy dropping anchor off of Scalasaig just about now, and a company of Marines coming ashore under Sir Martin, there'll be runners passing word of that all over the island. News of that should beat us to Garvard, I'd think, and where does a townsman go to hear and tell the news?" He patted his ample belly. "And, even if not, well, I could easily tolerate surrounding some food, myself, and think it'd be the same for you. Got some jerky, cheese, bread, and a bottle of plonk in my sack, though; give you something to nibble on while we walk."

"We'll wait on the wine," Sir John said, leading the way.

Their kits had been hidden along the path down to the village; they quickly retrieved them, and made their way down the path.

"You seem quiet, even for yourself, Sir Niko," Sir John said, after they had walked for a while. "Deep thoughts, perhaps?"

Niko shook his head. "No."

"Well, out with it. You've got something to say, and it's best to just say it."

"As you wish, Sir John." Niko shrugged. "I didn't much like scaring that family, and—"

"Like? Liking has nothing to do with what you have to do, Sir Niko. And we're likely to have to do worse before it's all over," Sir John said. "It's, well, the nature of what we are, what we do." His voice was light and casual. "Just be happy that you've got me here, not Lady Ellen, say. Or Gray."

"Gray?"

Sir John gave him a long look. "Ask him about Vlaovic, sometime. Difficult call, and an ugly situation, and until I've had a city in revolt, I'll not criticize him for how he handled it. Worst I've ever had to do was in the Kush, and I'm told that they're writing ballads about that. '. . . and the Pashtus said that an Englishman's head will be paid for with heads five-score.' " He shook his head. His expression was grim, but inutterably calm. "After you do that sort of thing, boy, scaring a woman and a few children comes easy. Just as well the boy stopped himself. Thought for a moment that he was going to take a swing at me."

"And what would you have done?" Niko asked.

Sir John gave him a long look. "No choice, Sir Niko. We called them out in the name of the king. He's not to be disobeyed, and when we speak in his name, we're not to be, either."

Fotheringay cleared his throat, and the big knight turned to him in irritation.

"Well, what is it?"

"Begging your pardon, Sir John, and all, but I don't think Sir Niko would have let you kill the boy, and—"

"And you think he could have stopped me?"

Fotheringay stopped walking, and Sir John and Niko came to a halt, too.

"I don't know, Sir John," the old sergeant said. "I hope we never have to find out," he said, quietly. "But I'll tell you this—you turn to fight him, you'd best strike me down first. Failing that, watch to your back when you turn to him, because I'll be on it, and with steel seeking your heart or your throat—whichever's handier." His voice was calm and level. No trace of threat or braggadocio in his tone, despite his words. "I'll serve two masters. The king—and God save him, Sir John, God save him!—and Sir Niko. Not three. Not four. Not them and you."

"Nigel—" Niko started, but the big knight waved him to silence.

"No, Sir Niko. Let the man have his say. Go on, Sir Nigel," he said. "You were saying?"

"I was saying, with all respect, that I've got no objection to lighting your pipe, Sir John, or doing your laundry while I'm doing the young knight's. I'll treat you with the respect due your station, and not feel any the less for that. But the king himself told me to watch out for Sir Niko, and he didn't say, 'Nigel Fotheringay, you watch out for the young knight unless another knight raises a hand to him.' "

Sir John seemed to relax. "You know about me. You're a hard man, Nigel Fotheringay, but you're no Order Knight. Even without the Goatboy, you'd not have a chance against me, Fotheringay, not with sword, spear, or with bare hands."

Fotheringay stared intently at the big knight. "I'm not calculating my chances, Sir John. Just giving you fair warning. And if it needs to be handled here and now, well then, I'm at your service, sir."

"Do you really insist?" The big knight smiled. "So be it, then."

Niko stepped between the two. "Back away, Nigel. Now," he said. Fotheringay's right hand was down by his side, fingers curled. "Put the knife away."

"Sir Niko—"

"Now, Nigel," he said, his eyes locked on Fotheringay's. "And you keep your swords in their sheaths, please, Sir John."

"I've no desire for a fight. Not here and now, Sir Niko," Fotheringay said. "But I've no desire to back away from one, either. Not when it comes to you laying so much as an angry finger on the young knight. Two masters, Sir John. Not three."

"And you think to speak so to a knight of the Order? To this knight of the Order?"

Niko should have been scared, but there was a sense of calm at his core, as he turned to face the big knight.

"As you will, Sir John," Niko said. "I don't claim to know much about being a knight, much less a knight of the Order, but I think it has something to do with standing up for what I believe in, and I don't believe I'll let you kill Fotheringay."

"We don't need to have this out now—"

"I think that we do." Niko let his hand rest on Nadide's hilt. "Nigel—back away." He needed to sound authoritative, and tried to find the words. Oh: "That's not a suggestion." The king had used those words, and they felt right.

He more felt than saw Fotheringay step back.

Niko? What is it?

I don't know for sure, little one. I think, though, that we've got a fair chance of fighting Sir John and the Goatboy.

Oh.

His training was useless here. Watch the eyes, as Becket had taught him? Sir John had had the same training, and more years of practice. He wouldn't give away any intention with a quick narrowing of the eyes, nor with a sharp intake of breath, nor with a subtle tightening of the body that you could watch for, and react to.

It would be sudden, and Niko would have to try to react to it, rather than anticipate it. If it could be avoided, he would avoid it, even if that meant—

"Easy, Sir Niko," Sir John said. "You've my word I'm standing down." John of Redhook slowly, carefully, moved his hands away from his swords and crossed them over his chest. "Well, I'll say this for you, Sir Niko: you've got courage enough. Good sense, well, that remains to be seen." He drew himself up straight and bowed briefly toward Niko, and then to Fotheringay. "And if my choice here and now is to fight to the death with the two of you, or beg your pardon for my rudeness, then I've an easy choice. On one hand, we'd find two of His Majesty's knights dead, and useless to the king; on the other, we find old John Little having to top his sketchy breakfast with a swallow of pride. It's not a taste I much care for, but it won't be the first time I've dined so. So: I humbly beg your pardon, and apologize for offense given. I hope that's sufficient."

Niko didn't need to be told how to answer that. "Of course it is; I accept your apology."

"And will you take my hand, Sir Niko?"

"Of course."

Sir John's much larger hand had strength in it, and Niko had little doubt he could have brought it to bear, but Sir John's handshake was just firm.

"Nigel? I mean, 'Sir Nigel'? Will you accept my apology and take my hand, as well?"

Fotheringay had made his knife disappear. "No offense taken, Sir John," he said, as he accepted the handshake. "I'm not much for taking offense, truth to tell," he said with a toothless smile.

They were expected in Garvard, and Niko would have been able to work that out even if he hadn't recognized the crofter boy, which he did. The boy spotted them at the same time, turned, and walked quickly away; they followed him into the public house.

It was a low building, made of mudded stones. Above their heads, birds nesting in the thatch warbled, as though in warning.

He couldn't make out the Gaelic over the door of the public house, and cursed himself for his awkwardness with languages.

It was almost silent inside, no sound save for the crackling of the fire under cook pot in the hearth. If they had interrupted the conversation, they had done so before entering.

His eyes strained against the darkness of the common room. Light through the shutters striped the packed dirt floor and tables with the early morning sunlight.

So early in the morning it was not surprising that only half a dozen men sat at one of the tables. They crowded too closely together. Eyes settled on his for only a moment.

The publican rushed over. He was a thickset man, sharp nose projecting from under a pair of distinct but almost preposterously bushy eyebrows.

"Good morning to you," he said, his tone making the words a lie. "We've porridge and beer, and little else. Probably nothing nearly fine enough for such fine folks such as yourselves, but—"

"Porridge and beer will be fine," Sir John said. "And conversation." He nodded at Fotheringay, who moved a bench over until it was back up against the wall opposite the hearth, then picked up one of the rough-hewn tables, and set it down in front of the bench. Sir John set his swords down on the table and sat, his back to the wall, and gestured for Niko to sit next to him, which he did.

The publican rushed two bowls over, set them down on the table without a rattle, and rushed back through the open door to the kitchen, returning with another, and with a large clay mug. "I'll be back in just a wee moment with the rest," he said.

Sir John just nodded.

"Go ahead, Sir Nigel," he said. "See what you make of the local beer. I've heard that there's worse."

"There's always worse," Fotheringay said, then took a sip. "No matter how bad it is. But bad beer is, I've found, better than no beer at all—and, then again, there's much worse than this," he said, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand. "And I've no objection to being your taster, as well as the young knight's, Sir John."

The big knight chuckled. "You really think that we'll find Garvard a den of poisoners?"

If his voice was just a little too loud, nobody seemed to take notice.

"If I did," Fotheringay said, "despite being the tolerant man that I am, then I'd have an objection—a loud objection—and you can count on that, Sir John."

The publican returned with two more mugs, set them down, and scurried away, while the men at the table across from them seemed to be studying their own bowls and mugs with great intent.

At Sir John's gesture, Niko took a tentative sip. He was thirsty enough, but he had not acquired a taste for beer, which was perhaps just as well; a glass of wine was enough to make him sleepy.

"I'd heard that Garvard was known to be a talkative sort of town, and not quite so quiet," Fotheringay said, perhaps just a little too loudly.

Sir John shook his head. "Traitors, by and large, talk little when there's men loyal to the Crown about," he said, casually, if increasingly loudly. "And—"

"Sir." One of the men at the other table stood up, and shook off the hand of another, who had attempted to grab his sleeve, as he walked over.

The local was a big man, probably as tall as Sir John, although it was hard to tell while Sir John was sitting. His jaw was covered by a brush of uncombed black beard, but his cheek muscles were visibly tight.

"Sir," he repeated. "Private Miles McPhee, late of the Oban Guard, and no damned traitor, at your service. Sir."

"Sit you down, then, Private McPhee," Sir John said. "And have yourself one on the Crown."

McPhee seemed to hesitate for just a moment, but then he sat, and Sir John beckoned to the publican, who had suddenly appeared in the door to the back room.

"Glad to hear that there's at least one loyal man on Colonsay," Sir John said, then sipped at his beer, and as the publican dropped off another mug and scurried away, again, he gestured at McPhee to drink his.

"No disloyalty here, Sir . . ."

"John. John Little, of Redhook." Sir John smiled over his beer. "Not a relation, as far as I know, to the famous one."

"You're famous enough, Sir John," Miles McPhee said. "And, so it's said, famous for being a fair man, as well as a hard one." He hesitated for a moment. "Although I'd doubt that the Kali worshippers in the Kush would agree with the former."

Sir John shrugged. "What's left of them." The smile was gone from his face, and around his eyes. "Not something I'd much care to talk about. I'd rather talk about the—"

"Amadan Dubh." McPhee nodded. "That's all there's been talk about, since that night."

"Were you there?"

"No." He shook his head. "Not me. I don't plead any special innocence on that, mind. I would have been, though; I was abed, with the ague, and my wife watching over me. Never been all that thick with Calum Mary Machrins, either."

"No friend of yours?"

It was McPhee's turn to shrug. "He and I've never quite gotten along all that well," he said. "But it's a small island, and all; we're not enemies, if that's what you're asking, and I'd turn out for a barning at his croft, just as he did at mine, after mine burned down, and not think twice. Weddings? Well, that's another matter, I'd guess."

"And—"

"But I'd say this: he's a stingy man, and too quick with his sharp tongue and heavy hand, but he's no murderer, no rebel. None such on the whole island, I'd say—"

"And all of these loyal subjects of the earl and His Majesty were seduced by the pipes? By a piper that not one of them had ever seen before, who popped up at the shoreline, without any hint?"

"Now, I'm not saying that latter." McPhee raised a palm.

Niko started to say something, but silenced himself at a minuscule shake of the head from Sir John.

"And," Sir John went on, "you wouldn't want to say that the piper'd been seen before, and that it hadn't been mentioned to the baron." He had lowered his voice, and the softness of his words was somehow more menacing than the volume had been.

McPhee sipped at his beer. "I'm not sure why it should have been. If it'd happened, but . . ."

"But?"

"But. But . . . things happen here, and I don't know of a man or woman on Colonsay or Oronsay who would want to bother the laird about it. It's said that if you leave out an extra bowl of milk, sometimes, along with a skein of wool and a spinning wheel, you might find that you've slept better'n usual that night, and that it's all spun in the morning. So it's said."

"And why wouldn't you mention that?"

"Talk too much about such things, and they don't happen. So it's said. You hear music coming through the shutters of a night, you might want to listen to it, but that's about all. You don't want to top the missus, sure, as if you get her with child, the baby'll come too big and too early, and always, always have eyes of too deep a blue—so you just listen, maybe, and you let yourself drift off to sleep. Don't want to do much more; keep to yourself, is the way of it. You don't want to make no problems in this life, Sir John, not if you don't have to."

"Well, then we've a problem here. Rebellion—"

"Meaning no offense, Sir John, but there was no rebellion. You can blame the one whose name I'd rather not mention, if you'd like. I do. But—"

"But nothing," Sir John said. "Word's gotten out, Private McPhee. A rebellion on Colonsay? And none held to account for it—"

"Dozens of men, women, and children lie in their graves, and you say none?"

Sir John moved back from the table. "I'll speak as I see fit, and I'll ask you not to raise your voice to me, Miles McPhee."

McPhee took a long breath. "Then I'll give you my apologies, Sir John," he said, voicing the name and title as though it was half an insult. "But I'll say that it was not of their will that they tried to . . . to hurt the baron—"

"And his lady," Niko said. And Bear's mother.

"And my young master," Fotheringay put in. He was fiddling with his pipe. "Speaking just for myself, I don't take kindly to that, either."

"Aye, they tried to hurt the baron, and his lady, and Sir Niko; there's no dispute of that. But . . . but the baron—and his lady—have been nothing but kind and fair, as was his father before him. Yes, his father's father was called Laird Slataire, and it's said that my own grandfather was cuckolded by him.

"But Laird Giscard? There's no hatred there; if we're to be governed by outlanders, and we are, well, there's many worse and few better. But with the earl's soldiers tramping up and down the island, night and day, with swords in their hands and blood in their eyes, few'd want to admit to having heard anything, seen anything, known anything."

"Then somebody had best change his mind, Miles McPhee," Sir John said. "We've been sent by the king to deal with this Amadan Dubh. If he's gone, if he's fled, well then, we'd best pick up his trail. Because word of what's happened here has gone out, and if he's not brought down, there'll be those from New Londinium to Mumbai who will hear of what happened here and say to themselves that rebellions against the Crown will be tolerated, that those responsible for it will not be brought to justice, that the Crown forgives rebellion.

"The Crown, Miles McPhee, cannot forgive or forget or tolerate rebellion. Should every county, every barony, every grand duchy or satrapy be able to attempt rebellion, blaming it on some vanished local diety who others may not even believe in?

"I don't think so. I think that this must be settled soon, or His Majesty will have to take more serious action, and I'm afraid that the next knight of the Order sent will not be the likes of Sir Niko accompanied by myself, but perhaps more along the lines of Sir Joshua Gray. You've heard of Vlaovic?"

"Yes." McPhee nodded. "I've heard," he said, slowly, carefully, like a barefoot man picking his way carefully across a rocky beach. "And of other places—like Linfield, and even of Dunladen, in older times. But none in Scotland, not in living memory."

"Because there's been no damnable rebellion in Scotland, not in living memory," Sir John said. "That appears to have changed."

"And in the name of appearances, you'd kill every man, woman and child on the island?" McPhee shook his head. "That's not the Crown I've served, and I'll warrant it's not the one you do."

"It's not a matter of appearances, McPhee, but of reality. And the reality is that the Crown can't tolerate the appearance of rebellion."

Fotheringay's lips tightened, just a trifle, and he gave the smallest of nods. "Somebody had better be done for it," he said, "and it damn well had better be persuasive. The Oban Guard was in Szerbernica, when the Triune rebellion broke out. You look to be about the right age for that, Miles McPhee. Were you there?"

"No." McPhee shook his head. "I made my mark just after the Guard came home, sir. Heard the stories, though. Didn't much like them."

"Nobody much likes to hear them. Less to like being there—I'll tell you, after that, chasing down pirates in the Med was an easy cruise . . ." Fotheringay voice trailed off. "By comparison." He shook his head. "And instead of some governor who thought to work a better deal for himself with the Empire, imagine what happens if it's a French duke, or an Italian?"

"And centuries of loyalty counts for nothing?"

"Easy, man. It counts for much. It's us that are here, not Sir Joshua and the Khan, not the Corkies. You think that the king wouldn't sic the Irish on Scottish traitors?"

"Fotheringay—"

"I'll be still, Sir John, after I say this: it's right to have faith in the king's goodness, but we live in dangerous times, and only a fool would let treason go unpunished now, as much as ever. The king—and God save him—is no fool."

Miles McPhee raised a palm as Sir John started to speak. "I see your point," he said, still slowly and carefully. "I don't much like it, Sir Nigel, but I see it. If you'll meet me here this night, I'll see if I can help you find the one you seek. I make no warrantees of success, but I will swear to do what I can. On one condition."

Strange. McPhee was looking directly into Niko's eyes, not Sir John's. Perhaps that was because both Sir John and Fotheringay were looking at Niko, too, as though he had been the knight in charge of all of this, and Sir John had merely been speaking on his behalf.

"And that would be?" Niko asked.

"That you convey to His Majesty the king the greetings of Miles McPhee, and of the McPhees of Colonsay, his loyal subjects."

Niko nodded. It seemed little enough to ask, after all, and, of course—

"Done," Sir John said. "We meet tonight. At sundown. And where shall shall we meet?"

McPhee shrugged. "Matters little; it's a small island, and while I'll do the best I can, there's no guarantees, not when it comes to the Old Ones. Here would do."

"Then here it shall be." Sir John tossed a coin to the top of the table. "We'd best be on our way; we've much to do before then."

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