Epilogue
Everywhere Ghillie looked, Cragenlaw was a riot of colour and sound. Roast meats scented the air, but where Ghillie was taking his wee coterie of relations, the smells were more pungent.
They were in the stables, up in the loft, the place where his father and Rob had talked unobserved, shared secrets and dreams, become more brothers than friends. A guid quiet place for the cousins and their aunt to discuss if not treason then at least a form of patricide.
Ralf spoke up first, “We have to do something about La Mont. I’m nae saying we do it now—we need a plan first—but the ideal would be to kill him afore he dies of natural causes and some other bluidy Norman ends up with Wolfsdale.”
“Aye,” agreed, Henry. “The auld scoundrel might be my grandfather, but he tried to kill Ralf, and he needs to pay.”
Heimdall fluttered upon Ghillie’s shoulder as if urging him to have his say. “He’s my grandfather as well and he took the newborn bairn that was my mother Rowena out into the woods and left her for the wolves. If it hadnae been for the gypsies, neither she nor I would be alive right now. He needs to pay twice o’er frae me.”
“And he’s my father, and though he didnae kill my mother when he first struck her with his sword, he might as well have. It was only thanks to Kathryn that she survived long enough to give birth to me. He definitely has to pay for his cruel deeds.”
Harry took up the four young bloods’ desire for vengeance. “We’re all agreed then, when the time is right, we will journey south to Wolfsdale and administer justice.”
“Aye,” said Ralf, “but we must tell nae one.”
“Aye,” Heimdall accompanied Ghillie’s agreement with a screech.
“Aye,” said Merida. She stared at Ghillie. “But what of yer mother, Ghillie? Will she see what we’ve planned? Will she try to stop us?”
Ghillie turned to them, one after the other, looked each in the eyes, then said, “She may, but I dinnae see her doing aught to prevent us; it’s all part of the auld gods’ plans, the prophecy.”
Merida held her hand out and one by one they laid their hands atop it. “To the Prophecy,” they chorused. The lass was the only one who had aught else to say: “It’s very wicked.”
All Ghillie could bring to mind as they climbed back down the ladder was: but so was Henry La Mont. Wicked!
The Beginning of the End