Chapter 23
Hacon had remained scowling after Sir Niall’s departure. He could not think who his advocate could be. None of the men from Dubheilrig would be allowed to speak on his behalf, and from what little he had learned from Dugald, no one else had garnered the courage to stand for him. Glancing toward Balreaves, who sat at the white-linen-draped table with Robert the Bruce, Hacon saw that the man looked as surprised as he felt. He wondered idly how Balreaves could have been so sure that no one would come to his aid. Hacon also noticed that the man sat at the end of the table, nearest the doors. If the need arose, Balreaves could swiftly retreat from the great hall.
Balreaves was dressed in the finest green wool. He wore a surcoat ornately decorated with his coat of arms. It was clear that he felt himself a man of great importance and hoped the exposure of a traitor would add to that prestige. Dubheilrig would be forfeit if Hacon was found guilty, and he felt certain Balreaves would request the lands as a reward for his diligence in uncovering this betrayal. Hacon ached to wrap his hands around his enemy’s throat, but the shackles at his wrists and ankles, both attached by short chains to an iron ring set in the wall, made that wish impossible to fulfill.
When the guards opened the door again, and Hacon saw who accompanied Sir Niall, he could not believe his eyes. Stunned, he took a step forward, only to be roughly yanked back against the wall by his two thick-necked guards even before he reached the end of his short chains. It was not until Jennet looked directly at him that he began to believe she was really there. His emotions wavered among dismay, fear, and anger. She could not understand the danger in which she had placed herself. He also hated having her see him now, chained and filthy as he was.
Jennet wanted to race to Hacon’s side. Sir Niall’s firm grasp upon her arm was all that stopped her. It was terrifying to see her husband manacled at wrist and ankle, with two large guards standing close watch over him. His stay in the pit of Dunfermline had left him filthy, his fair hair and new beard darkened by dirt. His clothes were stained and torn.
She briefly turned her gaze to Balreaves, glaring at the man with all her hate and fury. His eyes widened, and he went pale. And in that moment Jennet knew that he had finally recognized her as the small child with whom he had briefly locked gazes while standing over her mother’s still-warm body. For the first time his recognition of her did not frighten her. She wanted him to know exactly who was going to destroy him. That old crime could do him little harm now, but this new one could end all his hopes of wealth and power, perhaps even end his life.
Sir Niall, stopping before the king and bowing, brought her to her senses. She pushed aside her anger and turned to Robert the Bruce. His reddish hair was shaggily cut and hung to his shoulders. His white surcoat was brilliantly decorated with the royal lion and the Bruce’s own heraldic arms. A gold circlet crown rested upon his head. He was not as tall or as broad as she had thought he would be. Once, she suspected, he had been handsome enough, but now he looked very tired and older than the nearly fifty years he carried. Grief and constant war had taken a heavy toll.
Besides the Bruce and Balreaves, Jennet found herself facing the Douglas. That man’s cool stare so unsettled her that she forced herself not to look his way. The Lord High Constable and the Abbot of Dunfermline sat to the left of the king. Of the twelve men on the dais, they were the only ones she recognized, though she knew the others must be powerful as well. She fought to conquer her sudden uncertainty.
Slowly, she lowered herself to her knees, startling Sir Niall into releasing his hold on her. She noticed that the Bruce looked surprised and curious. It was a good start, she decided. She clasped her hands together in a gesture of prayer.
“Will ye stand up?” hissed Sir Niall. “What game is this?”
“My liege,” she began, twisting her voice with sorrow, something easily conjured up when she reminded herself of Hacon’s fate if she should fail. “I am Lady Jennet Gillard, and I come to plead for my husband.”
“Ye need not do that upon your knees,” the Bruce said. “Rise. It cannot be good for you to kneel upon these cold, damp floors.”
“Get up,” snapped Sir Niall, but he kept his voice low so that the men on the dais could not hear him.
Jennet felt his grip on her arm and allowed him to pull her to her feet. Careful not to lose her balance, she nevertheless made the ascent awkwardly, doing all she could to stress the fact that she was heavy with child.
“Are ye fully aware of the crime with which your husband has been charged?” the king asked.
The sharp reply “Of course I am” rushed into her mouth, but she bit back the words. She decided that playing sweet and just a little dim-witted would be her best tactic. And to keep tugging hard on any reasonably good man’s instinct to protect a pregnant woman, she made her face wince and, resting one hand on her large belly, rubbed the small of her back.
“Is something wrong?”
“Nay, my liege,” she said. “I am but weary. As ye can see”—she gestured at her skirts—“I have but just arrived here from Dubheilrig. Since all the horses and ponies we own were taken with my husband, I was forced to walk for two days ere a kind mon gave me a ride in his poor cart.”
“Sir Niall, ye may fetch the woman a stool so she may sit down,” the king ordered.
“Thank you, my liege,” she murmured as Sir Niall brought her a stool and set it behind her.
“I am sorry ye were so sorely pressed,” the king said, “but you must realize that all goods of a traitor are forfeit.”
Jennet sat down hard, placing a hand over her heart. “Then my husband has already been found guilty? I am too late? I had thought he had been but accused, that the accusations had yet to be proven. Am I still able to speak?” The look that fleetingly passed over the men’s faces told her she had made her point.
“Aye, he has not been declared guilty or sentenced.”
“Then let me begin by saying that one of the charges should ne’er have been directed at my husband but at me. This matter of words said, complaints made—”
“Nay, Jennet,” yelled Hacon, but when he moved toward her, his guards hurled him back against the wall and drew their swords.
Jennet made no attempt to hide her terror this time. She feared she would see Hacon murdered before her eyes! Although they did not use their swords, the guards hit Hacon with their gauntleted fists. She cried out as they rapidly delivered several blows to his midsection.
“Hold!” the king yelled, hitting the table with his fist. The guards stopped immediately. “Would ye murder the man before his wife’s very eyes?”
“Nay, but . . .” began one of the guards.
“Sheath your swords and cease this brutality.” He looked at Jennet. “Are you all right, Lady Jennet?”
“Aye,” she whispered. “I will be fine.”
