“Hold!” cried the shorter of the two guards who blocked their way. “Ye cannae go in bearing arms. Take their swords, Gilbert,” he ordered his companion. “And search them weel for any hidden daggers,” he added as the young, pimply-faced Gilbert moved to take Robert and Ranald’s swords.
“The women too, Will?” asked Gilbert as he tossed Ranald’s and Robert’s arms on a pile behind the second guard.
“Ye willnae touch the lasses,” snapped Robert, clenching his fists and glaring at Will.
Will took a step backward, then cuffed Gilbert offside the head. “Ye dinnae lay hands on the women, fool.” He then scowled at Jennet and her small group. “What business do ye have within the castle?”
“We come to speak as advocates for Sir Hacon Gillard,” replied Jennet.
“The traitor?”
“He isnotraitor,” she snapped.
Will shrugged his bulky shoulders. “Doesnae matter much to me. Howbeit, ye had best hurry along. He is being brought before the king even as we speak.”
Ranald’s sudden tug on her arm was unnecessary. Jennet was right in step with him as he strode through the gates into the crowded inner bailey, Robert and Elizabeth hurrying after them. Jennet paid little heed to the soldiers and courtiers strolling about, or to the merchants delivering and selling their goods. At the heavy, iron-studded doors leading into the palace, two more guards blocked their way.
“Hold!” commanded the one on the right. “What business do ye have within the palace?”
“I come to speak for Sir Hacon Gillard,” Jennet replied. “Ye must let us pass.”
“Are ye from his lands?”
“Aye—from Dubheilrig.”
“No mon from Dubheilrig is allowed inside.”
When Ranald and Robert began to protest loudly, Jennet silenced them with one curt gesture of her hand. “That order doesnae hold for women, does it?”
The man frowned. “Nay, I dinnae believe so.”
“Good. Then let me and my maid pass.” She met the guard’s steady gaze without flinching, and he finally stepped aside. “Ranald, ye must find Dugald. Tell him that I am here and what I seek to do.” She grasped Elizabeth’s hand and started into the palace.
“I do not like this,” Elizabeth muttered.
“We have no choice.” Jennet gently squeezed her friend’s hand, but it did little to ease Elizabeth’s trembling. “Now, we must find where they are holding Hacon’s trial. ’Twould probably be in the great hall just ahead.” Seeing the guards standing before a pair of heavy, iron-banded doors, Jennet tried to prepare herself for yet another confrontation and delay.
Glaring at the soldier who barred her way, Jennet fought against letting her fear and impatience rule her tongue. Her condition did not seem to draw much sympathy from the man blocking her path. The guard was belligerently denying her entrance to the great hall, and nothing she said was proving strong enough to sway him. Nor did a terrified Elizabeth, standing wide-eyed just behind her, give her any aid. She was going to have to cross this barrier herself, and she was increasingly afraid that she was losing the chance to help Hacon.
“I have come to be an advocate for Sir Hacon Gillard,” she said for what she felt must be the hundredth time.
“Aye, and what can ye say for that traitor? That his pintle works?” Smirking, he ran his gaze suggestively over her full belly.
“Sir Gillard is no traitor,” she insisted. “And I mean to say so before the king and all his judges, earls, lords, and whoever else sits in judgment upon him in there.”
“And who needs or wants to listen to a poor wench like you?”
She grimaced as he eyed her muddied attire with open scorn. Her finest gown was still packed away. The gown she wore now was a dull brown linsey-woolsey, loosely cut and hardly fashionable. It was also mud-stained, dusty, and badly wrinkled. She doubted her attire would give her next claim much weight.
“They will at least extend the courtesy to listen to Lady Jennet Gillard.”
“Lady?” The guard gave a low, derisive laugh. “Ye must think I lack all wit.”
“I begin to!” She immediately regretted the sharp words when his look of scorn quickly changed to sudden anger. “IamLady Jennet, Sir Gillard’s wife.”
“Good God, wench, what are you doing here?”
Even if the voice had not been so familiar, the wordwenchwould have told Jennet who spoke. She turned to glare at Sir Niall and his companion. It took a moment for her to recognize the other man as Sir Bearnard, the one who had delivered the premature news of Hacon’s death. As she slowly recognized the possible use to which she could put Sir Niall, she struggled to calm her temper. With a cry of dismay she hurried over to grasp him by the arm.
