The Renegade(214)
Sir John’s shrug was restrained. “The source? Aye, I can see why you might say that. But ye’d be wrong. The source o’ it’s the English themsel’s an’ the way they treat the folk around here, tramplin’ them like dirt and kickin’ them aside wi’ ne’er a blink o’ concern or care. An’ I’m no’ talkin’ about the odd insult. It’s happenin’ a’ the time, frae day to day, an’ gettin’ worse. Folk canna even trust they’ll hae’ their ain roof ower their heads frae one day to the next. It’s like we’re a conquered folk, an’ the Englishry despise us as though we wis cannibals.”
“Cannibals my arse,” one of the others interrupted. “Gin we wis cannibals they’d keep clear o’ us, for fear o’ bein’ ate. But they treat us nae better than sheep—to be kicked and herded and shorn for what they can get frae us. Rab Dinwiddie’s place was emptied the ither day. Some English fool’s buildin’ a watchtower at the crossroads and a squad o’ men just marched into Rab’s yaird and arrested his three sons an’ anither fower men wha wis working there. Just lined them up, threatened them wi’ a floggin’ gin they objected, an’ then marched them awa an’ set them to work buildin’ their whore o’ a tower. Rab wis too auld, so they left him alane, but he fell doon in a fit a wee while after and now he’s no’ expected to live. What kind o’ shite is that?”
A man at the far end of the room stirred, sat up straighter, and then leaned forward urgently. His face was flushed, his features twisting into a scowl. Bruce had never set eyes on him before this meeting, but the man, whoever he was, had been the last to arrive, interrupting the proceedings a good half-hour after they had begun. He had entered the hall silently, nodding in stern-faced apology to Sir John as senior there, but had offered no explanation of why he was late and no one had sought to question him. Since then he had sat fidgeting and listening, his frowning gaze switching from face to face as various people spoke.
“I’ll tell ye what kind o’ shite it is,” he growled. His voice, though low pitched, was filled with sufficient anger to draw every eye in the room. “It’s the kind o’ shite that starts up wars, and I’m ready to do somethin’ about it.” He turned his eyes unexpectedly to Bruce. “Lord Carrick,” he said, nodding curtly. “I kent ye wis comin’ here to meet wi’ us and I was set to be here early, but I had ill news reach me just afore I set out.” He straightened in his chair and looked around at his fellows, then stood up. “I’m Alexander Armstrong o’ Jedburgh. My father died last year—November—and I was raised to take his place. I’ve been listenin’ here and I’ve never spoken out like this afore now, but I canna stay quiet on this.”
He gestured with a thumb towards the previous speaker. “Ye’ve heard Alastair’s story about Rab Dinwiddie an’ how he’s like to die o’ a fit. But vexed though he was, auld Rab fell down on his own, wi’ naebody near him. I hae a different tale to tell ye.” He swept his eyes around the assembly, all of whom were watching him raptly.
“I had word this mornin’ that a wheen o’ our folk was found slaughtered yesterday. They was cut down like beasts. Men, women, and bairns—three families o’ ordinary, law-abidin’ folk who never harmed a soul … and no’ a sign, supposedly, o’ who could hae done such a thing.” He paused, waiting for the outburst of shock to die down, and Bruce, as the only magnate there, had to fight to keep his own face expressionless.
“They had set up a place, about seven years ago,” Armstrong continued. “Three houses for the families and some pens for pigs an’ the like, and for the first five years they worked to clear new fields. They planted their first crop last year and brought it in wi’out help frae us. Their wee place hasna got a name, it’s just a bit o’ hard-won land about two miles frae Jedburgh. The eldest—the headman, if ye like—was my cousin Broderick MacRae. Him and his wife had three grown sons who lived there wi’ them. Two o’ them was married and had houses o’ their own, and between them seven bairns, the eldest o’ them about eight … They’re a’ deid … Fourteen folk.”
The silence stretched for a long time until one man said in a stunned voice, “Christ Jesus, Alec, that’s awfu’. That doesna stand belief. Who would do such a thing?”
“Nae human worthy o’ the name,” someone else added.