“Weel, I cannae be sure. Ye ken my uncle. I mean, ye have been with him for over a week now.”
“Curse my wretched luck—aye. Why do ye mention it?”
He smiled briefly, then grew serious again. “Do ye think he meant all he said about his reasons for setting me here, to keep me back from the battle going on out there?”
“Someone must stay behind when there is such as that lying about the place.” She nodded toward the booty, now neatly stacked in a corner.
“Aye, and ye and the bairn.”
“Mayhaps. Did ye think he was just mouthing some pretty words?”
Ranald shrugged. “I cannae help wondering on it. My first time fighting with him and I set myself against the Douglas men instead of saving all my strength for the enemy. I cannae but wonder if this is a punishment for doing such a foolish thing.”
“’Tisnae foolish to stop men trying to kill a wee, helpless bairn. Ranald, it but showed your uncle where your strength lies—in protecting, not attacking. ’Tis the way of it for some. Mayhaps ye just need more to fight for than some mon who declares himself king and calls enemies all who dinnae cry aye loud and clear. Ye are the one set to guard home, family, and fortune. ’Tis hardly a dishonor to be given such a job. After all, it doesnae do a knight much good to come home victorious, only to find all he has stolen and all he cares for slaughtered.”
“Nay, it certainly doesnae.” Ranald laughed softly, then tensed. “The battle edges this way.”
“Aye,” she murmured, and held out her hand. “Give me my dagger. Ye ken where it is.” She sighed when he eyed her warily. “I dinnae mean to use it on you.”
“Weel, ye did try to cut my uncle’s throat.”
“I thought he meant to kill me.” She softly cursed his expression of disbelief. “I was content in my wee room at the convent, mending clothes. Then the war I sought to hide from was within the nunnery itself. Even the holy sanctuary wasnae safe. My door burst open and there stood your uncle, grinning like a fool. I thought I was for dying and that was why he grinned.” She shrugged. “I decided that if I was to be murdered, I would at least take that cursed grin from his face first. I swear on Murdoc’s life, I will return the dagger to you when this is all over.”
Ranald hesitated another moment, then moved to get her dagger from where it had been stored with the other booty. He handed it to her and returned to his post. Jennet was just about to slip it into the hidden pocket of her gown when a man burst into the house. She rushed to pick up Murdoc. The man was huge and his dress marked him as English, one of the enemy. His surcoat and sword were dabbed with blood. Jennet swallowed hard, tasting the bitter tang of fear. Ranald was but sixteen and, by his own admission, still new to battle. This was a formidable opponent for a novice.
“By all the saints,” growled the Englishman, “you bring your whores and bastards with you.” The look he sent Jennet was filled with scorn and loathing.
Standing to face the man, Ranald said, “By what I can glimpse behind you, through the open door, ye are on the wrong side of the battle line. Flee while ye can, Englishmon.”
“Flee? From a beardless boy with mother’s milk still drying on his mouth?” He spat on the floor.
Despite her fear, Jennet cursed men and their ways. The Englishman stood there goading Ranald instead of grasping the chance to run and save his own life. As was intended, Ranald bristled, infuriated by this slur upon his manhood.
“Thisboywill make ye regret that insult,” cried Ranald. “Ye will die here, Englishmon.”
“Nay,laddie—you will. And then, after I take my fill of your whore, I will cut her white throat. Aye, and then the babe’s too. ’Tis always best to clean out a nest of vermin.”
“Jennet, take the bairn and set yourself on the stairs to the loft,” ordered Ranald, never taking his gaze from his opponent. “I wouldnae want ye soiled by the pus that will ooze from this maggot when I cut him down.”
With a roar of fury the Englishman attacked. Jennet bolted for the steep steps. Halfway up she stopped and sat down to watch the fight with horrified fascination. Holding the baby firmly with one arm, she clutched her dagger in the other hand. The Englishman had more height, more bulk, and more protective armor than Ranald. Even as she prayed for Ranald’s survival she could not feel certain he would win.
Ranald neatly parried the man’s first blow, then retaliated. Jennet realized that if Ranald could get in a telling blow quickly he could win. The Englishman had more size and strength than skill. But, if the battle lasted any length of time, Ranald’s skill would be less of an advantage and his lithe build would become a deadly weakness. The Englishman would be able to endure longer. She began to pray, even harder, a little horrified that she was asking God for a victory which would bring about a man’s death, yet wanting that victory to be Ranald’s.
Both men were drenched in sweat before any change occurred in their steady thrust and parry. Ranald was forced into the dangerous position of stepping backward each time the Englishman pressed him. Stumbling over a short stool, Ranald fell, his sword tumbling from his hands. The Englishman faltered as well, turning awkwardly to avoid the rolling stool and the loose weapon. This gave Ranald the chance to recover from his fall and avoid the man’s down-swinging sword.
As he rolled, Ranald grabbed for his great sword, reaching behind to pull it from its sheath upon his back. He then rose to a crouching position, his weapon held out in front of him. Jennet had considered theclaidheamh mrtoo much sword for the slim youth. It required strong arms and two hands to wield it. Now, however, the large claymore proved its worth.
Enraged, the Englishman swung toward Ranald. His next lunge at the youth proved to be his last. Ranald’s great sword pierced the man’s chest. The Englishman dropped his sword, bellowing as the claymore cut through his mail and padded undercoat straight into his heart. Jennet wanted to look away yet could not. She felt an uncomfortable mix of revulsion and relief as the man’s blood flowed.
When the lifeless body crumbled to the ground, it took Ranald with it. She began to fear Ranald had not escaped the fight unscathed when he stumbled to his feet, one hand still gripping the sword. He stood, swaying slightly, staring down at the man still impaled upon his sword. Jennet realized Ranald was more upset than she was.
She slipped her dagger into her pocket and slowly edged down the stairs. She spoke in a calm, firm voice. “Ranald, ’tis time to take your sword out.”
“Aye, aye.” Ranald yanked it free, then with unsteady hands, wiped it clean on the Englishman’s surcoat.
“Now, close the mon’s eyes.” He nodded and did so. “Good. Now, come sit back here, where ye were ere he thundered in here.”
When Ranald stiffly obeyed, she hurried to pour him a tankard of strong ale. She handed it to him, watching closely as he drank. By the time he was done, setting the tankard aside, she thought he looked much better, some color having returned to his cheeks. She leaned against the table, Murdoc set on her hip, and wondered what she should do next.
