It took every ounce of willpower Jennet possessed to stop herself from hurling the tin plates she was washing out into the muddy streets. Hacon and his men had eaten a hearty meal and promptly left. It was clear that she was expected to clean up after them. Her annoyance with the assumption had led her to leave the plates unwashed. Now she was paying for that fit of pique, since the porridge they had eaten had dried and each plate needed a great deal of scrubbing before it came clean.
“’Tisnae rape I must fear but being worked to death,” she muttered as she finished the last plate and slammed it down upon the table.
“Did ye say something?” Ranald asked from where he sat sprawled in the open doorway.
“Me—speak? Would a poor, lowly slave dare to utter a sound? Nay, I think not.”
She grabbed the bucket of water she had been using and strode toward the door. It did not particularly please her that Ranald had the wit to scramble out of her way. Her foul mood might have been eased some if she could have doused him with the murky water.
She stood on the threshold and surveyed the town. Berwick did not look much better than it had last night. It appeared battered and bruised, many homes now roofless, doors flung open or shattered by the Scots’ battle-axes, and the streets were littered by the household goods that had been cast aside by the plunderers as unworthy of their attention. A large number of men roamed the streets, and it was not easy to tell the common man-at-arms from a knight or a laird. Scots did not have the coin to indulge in the finery which would denote their position in life, as many of the English did. She wondered if the Scots’ readiness to plunder their English neighbors was born partly from a wish to lessen that disparity in wealth.
“We will soon repair the town,” Ranald promised as he moved to stand beside her.
“How kind of you. It might have been kinder not to have destroyed it in the first place.”
Ranald shrugged. “’Tis war.”
Jennet fought a strong urge to spit. “Men are pigs. Put a sword in their hands and they give no thought to the poor folk who have no quarrel with them.”
“If the English want peace, then they should cease trying to puttheirking onourthrone.”
There was some truth to that, but she felt no inclination to say so. She was diverted by Hacon’s approach. He strode up the market street with Dugald at his side. His jupon and hose were of a slightly better quality than those of the more common soldiers, but it was mostly his stature, his bearing, which proclaimed him as more than some mere man-at-arms. Jennet was briefly annoyed at how much pleasure she derived from the sight of him, then decided she was being foolish. He was a fine figure of a man, and any woman with eyes in her head would appreciate him. She must simply make sure that he did not see thatshedid. She frowned when his gaze met hers.
Hacon ceased listening to Dugald when he caught sight of Jennet in the doorway. Despite the cross look on her face, he thrilled to the sight of her. She was a tiny, slender lass, but he hungered for every inch of her. He walked up to her and abruptly placed a swift, light kiss on her frowning mouth, then quickly caught her by the wrist to halt her attempt to swing the bucket at his head.
“Is that any way to greet your mon, lassie?” He smiled down at her, aroused anew by her rich green eyes, ivory skin, and raven black hair.
“Ye arenotmymon.” She wriggled free of his grasp and strode back into the house.
She tossed the bucket into a corner. That small act of violence did not ease her ill humor at all. Jennet scowled at Hacon as he crouched by the baby, who lay on a blanket near the cold fireplace. Hacon was playing with the child’s toes, causing the tiny boy to giggle happily. Jennet found the sight disturbing. She did not wish to see the man acting in a way that made him less of a threat to her.
“The laddie thrives,” Hacon said as he stood up and turned back toward her.
“Aye, the good supply of goat’s milk has kept him from suffering from the hunger gnawing at so many others.”
Dugald walked over to where Hacon had stored most of their supplies in a far corner of the room. He rummaged around in the saddle packs before returning to Hacon’s side. Jennet tried to see the papers that Dugald handed to Hacon, but it was impossible.
“Are those the warrants for your hanging?” she asked.
“Nay, my impertinent wench. They are maps.” He tucked the papers inside his jupon.
“Maps of what?”
“England, Mistress Curiosity. The Douglas has called for them.” He started back out the door, Dugald at his heels.
“He wishes to find new places to raze and plunder, does he?” she called.
Hacon paused in the doorway to smile at her, then pointed toward a large mound of clothing at the far end of the main room. “Now, lass, ye shouldnae be so concerned with a soldier’s business when there is so much woman’s work to attend to.”
“And what am I to do with all that?” she demanded.
“Wash them, what else?” He quickly slipped out the door.
Dugald hesitated. “And dinnae let that Satan-kissed goat near them. I caught the blighted beast gnawing on my shirt this morning.” He hurried out after Hacon, flashing a quick grin at a chuckling Ranald, who still stood guard at the door.
Jennet cautiously approached the pile of clothes. Using only two fingers she gingerly picked up one of the soiled shirts and grimaced, holding it out at arm’s length. The aroma wafting up from the heap told her that each piece there was probably in as sad a state as the one she held.
“Even that greedy goat wouldnae be able to stomach these,” she grumbled.
