Chapter 1
April 2, 1318—Berwick, Scotland
Quiet humming did little to stifle the grumbling of Jennet’s stomach. Her constant hunger was somewhat easier to bear in the convent, where each woman within the thick, gray walls suffered equally. Unlike the greedy Lady de Tournay and her swinish family, Jennet mused, then hurriedly began her morning ablutions, hoping the icy water would push such uncharitable thoughts from her mind. She had fled to the convent to find peace. That would remain elusive if she did not shake free of her bitterness, born of six years in servitude to the ill-tempered de Tournays.
Again her stomach loudly protested its emptiness. She cursed, then swiftly begged the Lord’s pardon. It was such lapses that kept her from succumbing to the abbess’s constant urgings to take vows and begin working toward becoming a nun. Jennet was not sure she had the character to be a nun. She had too much bitterness, was too cynical, too angry and unforgiving. A year in the seclusion of the convent had done little to ease those feelings.
“And,” she muttered as she donned her plain brown gown, “I dinnae rush to prayer each morn.”
She shook her head, then began to braid her long raven hair. The abbess must have seen how tossled she was, proof that she had rushed to prayers straight from bed early that morning. As she donned her headdress she frowned, listening carefully. It was difficult to be certain, but there did seem to be a dull but rising roar of many loud male voices.
“Mayhaps the Scots have finally given up their siege,” she murmured as she sat on her cot to begin the mending she had been given to do. “They have certainly been harrying the town for months. Or”—she froze, needle in hand, and felt a swift rush of terror—“they have scaled the protective walls and finally retaken the border fortress from the English.”
Jennet forced herself to remain calm, to ignore the muffled sounds. She was safe. Despite the tales the abbess told, Jennet could not believe the Scots would defile a convent. Even eighteen years of war under the Bruce could not have made her people so ungodly. A battle might well rage outside, but here she was free of that at last. This time she would not have to face the violence and destruction directly.
The wimple she mended was barely done when she realized the sounds she sought to ignore were much closer now. Even as she wondered if she should chance a look into the hall, the door to her tiny room burst open, splintering slightly as it slammed against the stone wall. The sight that filled the doorway caused her to drive her needle into her hand. Only partly aware of that self-inflicted wound, she extracted the needle, absently put her wounded palm to her mouth to ease the sting, and stared at the man who had invaded her refuge.
He leaned indolently against the door frame, his strong arms encased in greaves and crossed over his broad mail-covered chest. His helmet, with its noseguard, hid so much of his face that she could see little but his smile. That indolent grin turned her shock and fear to rage. She was facing certain death, and he was laughing at her. Hissing a curse, she pulled her dagger from a hidden pocket in her skirts. Her fury was reinforced by the terrified cries of the nuns that began to echo through the halls.
“And what do ye mean to do with that wee needle, lass?” he drawled in a soft, deep voice.
“Cut ye a new smile, ye godless heathen,” she cried, and lunged at him.
He caught her with ease, one large gauntleted hand curled tightly around her thin wrist, the mail cutting into her skin. “So fierce for a nun.” As they struggled, he turned slightly so that her back faced the hallway.
There was no way she could break his grip, but the amusement in his voice kept her struggling to push her dagger down until it might pierce his flesh. “I am no nun,” she cried, “but a seeker of refuge, and I mean to send ye straight into hell’s fires for defiling this holy place!”
“’Tis a petty threat to hurl at a mon who is already excommunicated.”
“So the abbess spoke true. The Bruce’s men are naught but the devil’s minions, cast off by the Pope.” She saw a look of cool amusement on what was visible of his hard face, then, without warning, a blinding pain filled the back of her head.
Hacon caught the too-slim girl as she collapsed, rendered unconscious by his comrade’s blow to her head. “I wondered if ye meant to act, Dugald, or stand by and watch me being slaughtered.”
Dugald grunted. He frowned down at the heavy silver chalice with which he had struck the girl, then dropped it back into the sack he held. “She had no chance. ’Twill be a woeful shame to kill her. The wee lass has spirit.”
“Kill her? Now, why should I kill her?”
“We were told to show as little mercy as the English king did when he took this place in Baliol’s Rebellion. Kill all we can and plunder the place.”
“And this”—Hacon neatly tossed the unconscious girl over his shoulder—“is plunder.”
“Aye? Looks like a wee lass to me. And what need have we of a nun, forsaken by the Pope as we are?”
“She isnae a nun. Are ye so eager to spill her blood?”
“Nay. I have no stomach for killing a lass, and weel ye ken it. I have no stomach for angering the Black Douglas either. The Bruce chose a fierce, hard mon as his lieutenant, and ’tis unwise to cross him. Douglas doesnae mean to halt here but to go on. What will ye do with your plunder then? Ye cannae hide her from him.”
“I willnae hide her. She is mine, and there is an end to it. Now, grab hold of her blanket and help me tie her onto my back.” He nodded toward her cot.
Even as he did as he was told, Dugald grumbled, “And how do ye expect to fight with such a burden?”
“This slight lass is no burden, and I doubt much fighting will be done. The townsfolk flee if they are able. We but need to fill our coffers with plunder.”
“If we dinnae get to the doing of it, the plunder will be all gone.”
Hacon winked at his scowling cousin. “Dinnae wear yourself thin worrying. I ken weel where to look. Have I not given us a good beginning?” He nodded at the sack Dugald carried.
Dugald nodded grimly as he strode down the hall of the nunnery toward the main entrance. Hacon adjusted the weight of his captive more comfortably against his back and followed. He winced and increased his pace as a woman’s high-pitched scream echoed through the dim hallways. He preferred the chaotic battle out in the streets between the victory-drunk Scots and the panicked, fleeing English to the rape and slaughter of the defenseless nuns going on in here.
