Artair slipped away, disappearing with a swiftness that Ranald envied. As carefully as he could, keeping a close watch on Balreaves and his men to be sure he had not been seen, Ranald resisted the urge to spur his horse into a faster pace, only to find Artair waiting for him about a half mile down the road.
“Where have ye been?” Artair demanded as Ranald trotted up beside him.
“How did ye get here so quickly?”
“I didnae have to worry about keeping a horse hidden from the curs on the hill. How far away is Hacon?”
“By now? Five, mayhaps ten miles.”
“Let us hie to it then, son. Your people need aid as soon as possible,” Artair said even as he spurred his horse into a gallop, Ranald quickly doing the same.
“Would ye like a sip of wine?” Hacon asked Jennet as he rode up beside the cart.
“Aye. That would be nice.”
Keeping her face averted as she hefted herself into a sitting position, Jennet hoped to hide her discomfort from Hacon. She gave a soft cry of surprise when he neatly hopped from his mount into the cart. Flashing him an annoyed look as he sat down beside her, she accepted the wineskin he held out.
“We are but a few miles from home, loving,” he murmured, lightly brushing a few strands of hair from her sweat-dampened forehead. “It willnae be much longer. That thought should improve your humor.”
“I hadnae realized my humor was so in need of improvement.” She suspected her moodhadbeen increasingly sour but did not appreciate its being commented upon.
Hacon eyed Jennet a little warily. She was very close to being shrewish, something she had never been. He strongly suspected she did not feel well. There was a pinched look to her face as if she was, if not in pain, at least highly uncomfortable. She was also looking a little pale and sweating a bit more than was warranted by the warmth of the day. He dearly wished to ask her if she felt all right but suspected her reply would be neither the truth nor very welcome.
For a brief moment he contemplated halting the journey, then decided against it. They were so close to Dubheilrig, it had to be wiser to continue on. If she was ill or growing too weary, it would be better if she was taken to their warm, dry, and comfortable bed in the manse.
“I but meant that ye must be as weary of this journey as I am. Thus, kenning how soon it will be at an end will cheer you.” He brushed a kiss over her cheek.
“Aye, as will having a verra good wash and lying down on our soft bed.” She frowned as she caught sight of two horsemen rapidly approaching. “Hacon, isnae that Ranald? Why should he return? And, mercy on us, he has my father with him!” She suddenly remembered the secret she had recently told Hacon about their mutual enemy Balreaves. “Hacon,” she said in a soft, hurried voice, “I dinnae think we ought to tell my father about Balreaves’s part in my mother’s death.”
“Nay, dinnae worry. Satan’s toes!” he cursed as he realized what their approach could mean. “Stop the cart,” he ordered even as Dugald began to pull all the animals to a halt.
“Uncle!” cried Ranald as he and Artair reined in. “Dubheilrig is under attack.”
With one sharp slicing movement of his hand Hacon ended the sudden rush of questions from the men of Dubheilrig, who had been riding behind the cart to spare Jennet the dust raised by their mounts. Now they gathered around the cart, all of them staring at Ranald and Artair.
“Who attacks us?” Hacon demanded, but he was already sure of the answer.
“’Tis Balreaves, uncle. He and his men must have ridden here straight from Dunfermline.”
“So this battle is still newly begun,” Hacon murmured even as he leapt from the cart and Dugald began to help him don his armor.
“Aye,” replied Artair, “and your family holds out weel enough in your tower house. They have kept Balreaves out of the bailey yard thus far. Howbeit . . .”
“Howbeit,” finished Hacon, “they are undermanned. The bastard fights mostly women and children, boys and old men.”
“Those boys, old men, and the rest are making a fine stand. The village hasnae been fired either.”
“Why fight? Why did he not just ride in and hold it until I returned?”
Although the questions were not really directed at him, Artair replied, “As to why your people fight when they must ken they can only lose, many dying, ’tis because Balreaves bears a banner with a dragon.” Nodding at the horrified looks upon everyone’s faces, Artair continued. “When the mon riding against you so openly declares no mercy for mon, woman, or child, fighting becomes your only choice. At least ye can make your murder cost him dearly.”
“He has raised the dragon? Ye are sure?” Artair nodded.
Hacon cursed viciously and slammed his gauntleted fist against the side of the cart, splitting one of the rough boards. To carry a banner with the dragon upon it, and not simply as part of some coat of arms, was equal to crying havoc. Balreaves had given his men leave to kill everyone at Dubheilrig—to rape, slaughter, and pillage at will.
“Now he turns his hatred on my people.” He fought down his fury, knowing it would only hinder him. “Weel, now that he is declared an outlaw and his life is forfeit, he feels he may as weel do his worst.” When Jennet covered his hand, clenched on the side of the cart, he raised it to his lips.
“Uncle?” Ranald frowned. “How could Balreaves ken all that? He left the court ere his sentence was pronounced.”
