“It’s your responsibility,” Lira said. Her patience, already worn thin by lack of sleep and long waiting, cracked at this callous indifference to the loss of a life.
“Very well.” The squire brushed a bit of dust from his sleeve, glanced at the dead man, and returned to the fresher air outside before asking, “Who was he?”
“The shepherd Arthur,” Lira answered, and several villagers nodded confirmation. The squire’s attendant tried to disperse the watchers, but they weren’t going.
“When was he last seen alive?” Randolfus asked the question of anyone who would answer.
People looked from one to another and shrugged. Then they parted to make way for Owain, accompanied by the carter Dai. The shepherd’s face looked drained of blood, at the shock of the news or from some other fear, or maybe th
