Part 27 (1/2)
The crowd murmured its approval.
”Aye,” said the ruddy-cheeked man.
”And from what I've heard, something will be done.”
”What have you heard, man?”
”Gareth MacKenzie is planning to lead an army against the man who would murder even children in his l.u.s.t for power.”
”The filthy, murdering coward,” someone in the crowd spat.
”Aye. Brice Campbell must be stopped before he manages to kill the entire MacAlpin clan.”
At that the shabby old man stopped in his tracks. Then, keeping his head bowed, he plodded slowly along with the others. When they reached the manor house he studied the faces of the crowd, nodding occasionally when his gaze met that of someone familiar, partially hidden beneath similarly shabby attire.
As they pa.s.sed the simple wooden casket, the old man paused to study the lad who was being mourned. Young William, grandson of Duncan and Mary MacAlpin, dead at the tender age of ten and five. On either side of the casket stood the parents and grandparents, as well as the three pretty granddaughters who were openly sobbing.
Beside them were two young la.s.ses who stood together, heads high, hands linked. The old man paused to study them carefully. Though their coloring was distinctly different, he knew them to be sisters.
The younger sisters of Meredith MacAlpin.
The older of the two, with coal-black hair and eyes more violet than blue, stared above the crowd, drawing into herself to keep from feeling the pain. The other, with hair the color of the sun, eagerly scanned the faces in the crowd as though expecting at any moment to see the one she sought.
Meredith, the old man thought, noting the intensity of the gaze. The younger one had not yet accepted what the older one knew to be fact: that Meredith was not free to return to them in their time of need.
The old man's eyes narrowed as he noted Gareth MacKenzie standing just behind the two la.s.ses. Around him were a dozen or more of his most trusted men, all of them bearing arms.
As always, Gareth set himself up in a position of importance and made certain that the crowd of mourners heard every lurid detail of the lad's murder.
””Twas Brice Campbell,” he said loudly.
”And at least two dozen of his cowardly men. I saw and heard everything. They asked the lad's name, then began beating him with their fists.”
”Dear G.o.d, stop.” Duncan dropped an arm about his wife's shoulders as she started to cry.
”When was this?” the shabbily dressed old man asked in a voice that quavered with age.
”On the day before last,” Gareth said.
”I leaped from my horse and tried to go to the lad's aid, but one of the cowards plunged his dirk into my arm while another held me down and took my knife.”
'”Twas Gareth's weapon they used on my William,”
Duncan said through trembling lips.
”It was found, caked with dried blood, beside his body.”
Gareth continued his story, eager to feed the crowd's appet.i.te for gossip.
”When the lad was no more than a b.l.o.o.d.y heap, they let me go.”