“I will ne’er be a knight,” Ranald said finally, his voice hoarse and uneven.
“Now, why do ye think that?”
“My first true fight, the first mon I have slain, and I shake like one with the fever. In a battle I must be ready to turn and fight again, with no hesitation. Nay, I shall ne’er be a knight. I shall ne’er live past my first true test in battle.”
“First! Didnae ye come into Berwick with Hacon and the rest?”
He nodded. “But we surprised them, so the real fight was a short one. Then I met up with Douglas’s men.”
Jennet wanted to tell him that he should put aside his sword. The world did not need another knight. However, he was so despondent over what he saw as his failure, she felt a rush of sympathy for him. She knew that most of what she was about to say contradicted all her beliefs, but she wanted to cheer the youth.
“Ranald, ye cannae think this is the end to all your hopes. I am certain that, if another mon came after ye, ye would have met that attack as weel as ye did this one. To be a knight takes a hardening of body and heart. Ye just need more . . . weel, hardening.”
“Do ye really think so?”
“I cannae believe every mon is born with the skill to fight and the stomach to do it. Do ye think your uncle or Dugald or any of the others are cold-blooded murderers?”
“Nay, they are good men.”
Although not sure she could agree, she knew it was not the time to argue the point. “Then, at some time, back at the start of their fighting days, they too had to deal with your feeling of uneasiness. Mayhaps ye should ask them how they harden themselves.”
Sitting up a little straighter, Ranald stared at the door. “Aye, I may just do that. And soon I will have the chance.”
As he spoke she heard an achingly familiar laugh. Hacon appeared in the doorway, grinning at something Dugald said, and she had to grip the edge of the table to keep from running to him and flinging herself into his arms out of pure relief to see him alive. Her feelings for the man were growing treacherously strong.
Those emotions faded abruptly as she took a closer look at him. His sword was sheathed, but it had clearly been put to use. The blood tainting his armor attested to that. He wore his helmet and mail hood, his face nearly obscured except for that grin. Suddenly, he seemed a threat to her again, a man who could smile while others died. She felt light-headed with confusion.
The grin on Hacon’s face was abruptly erased when he espied the dead man on the floor. In a few quick strides he was at Jennet’s side, studying her intently. Once assured she was unhurt, he turned his attention to Ranald, at the same time draping his arm about Jennet’s shoulders and holding her close. He ignored her muttered protest over the familiar handling, tightening his grip to still her when she tried to pull away.
“Any trouble besides that, lad?” Hacon nodded toward the dead man, whom his own men were efficiently stripping of armor.
“Nay, he was all of it.”
“And ye are unhurt?”
Ranald nodded.
“Ye have no pain from your old wounds either?”
“Nay, no pains.” Ranald looked at Jennet and held out his hand for her dagger. “’Tis over. Remember?”
She sighed and handed it to him. “Aye, I remember. I was just hoping ye wouldnae.”
Looking at the dagger with raised eyebrows, Hacon then fixed his gaze upon Ranald. “Ye gave the lass a weapon?”
“Only while your throat was out of reach, uncle.” Ranald smiled a little weakly, then moved to put Jennet’s dagger back amongst their supplies.
Frowning after his nephew, as he discarded his helmet and mail hood, Hacon asked Jennet, “Are ye certain the lad suffered no hurt? ’Tis a braw Englishmon he had to face.”
Staring at him, she wondered which man was the true Hacon—the one who revealed honest concern for his young nephew or the one who smiled while the blood of others dried on his clothes. She concentrated on the matter of Ranald, hating her confusion and glad to put it aside.
“Aye, but he did so with skill and without flinching. What ails him is . . . weel, ’twas his first killing.”
“Nay, he fought in the battle to take this town,” Hacon said, and Dugald, back at his side, nodded.
“Aye, but he didnae really get a chance to fight ere he met up with the Douglas’s men. Ranald took the killing hard, though he never faltered in doing what was necessary.” She briefly described the confrontation as Hacon’s men quietly removed the corpse. “I fear I havenae talked him out of what troubled him. Because of how he felt once the deed was done, he thinks he will ne’er be a knight.”
“I will have a talk with the lad. I thought he had passed that mark and taken it weel. But now”—he grinned down at Jennet—“where is the warm kiss of welcome for the victor in this battle?”
