“I will kill the beast. I will cut his bleating hairy throat.”
Jennet struggled to contain her laughter. Poor Dugald looked murderous as he stumbled to his feet, rubbing his backside where one of the goats had butted him. That it had happened in front of his many compatriots gathering on the common grazing fields outside of Berwick’s walls added to his embarrassment. The men’s hoots of laughter heightened his sense of injury. Although she understood his anger, she could not let him kill one of the goats. She quickly placed herself between him and the animals.
“Step aside, lass,” Dugald muttered as he approached, dagger in hand.
“Now, ye cannae kill the beast. Murdoc needs the milk. Ye wouldnae steal the food from the bairn’s mouth, would you?”
Dugald stopped and scowled at her. “He doesnae need the milk of all three.”
“Aye—not now. Howbeit, we are headed into England, into battle. Some of these animals may die. At least, by starting with three, we will have a good chance of keeping one alive for Murdoc.”
Dugald muttered a curse and stalked across the common, not hesitating to cuff any chuckling man within reach. Jennet allowed herself a brief laugh before she turned to scold the goat. She was struggling to get the stubborn animals attached to one main lead rope when Hacon, leading a horse and a shaggy Highland pony, emerged from the milling crowd of soldiers. Jennet eyed the animals warily. She had done little riding in her life. Clearly, that reprieve was about to end.
“Ye wish me to add the wee one to the lead?” she asked with ill-concealed hope.
“Nay, the wee one is for your wee backside, and weel ye ken it. Hey, laddie.” Hacon reached around her to Murdoc, resting comfortably on her back in a rawhide sling that one of the men had made. “Ye look hale and cheery.” He ruffled the babe’s curls.
“Ye expect me to get on that beast and trot after ye?” Jennet asked.
“Aye. I put a blanket o’er the saddle so ye willnae find it so hard.”
“Such chivalry. I am rendered speechless.”
“Aye, I thought it was verra chivalrous myself.”
“Weel, think again. I have decided I willnae go.” She crossed her arms under her breasts and waited to see what he had to say to that.
Hacon rubbed his chin with one hand and studied her in silence. “Ye have decided to be difficult, have ye?”
She nodded. “I will be naught but trouble for you, so I have decided to relieve ye of that burden in advance.”
“How kind. Do ye mean to stay here then? Douglas’s men will be glad of some pretty lass’s company.”
“I could return to the convent.” But even as she spoke she knew that choice was lost to her.
“Lass, ye ken weel there is naught left at the convent.”
Silently cursing, she scowled at him. She did not like his reminders of her precarious circumstances. Of course she could not stay in Berwick. She doubted she would get two steps inside the gate before one of the men there seized her. Clearly, there was no refuge for her anywhere.
“Then I will go north to Liddesdale, to my mother’s people.”
“Through the land the Bruce’s army has just crossed?” he asked, and shrugged. “Weel, hie to it then. I am sure ye will get a warm welcome from the folk ye meet. Aye, they willnae have forgotten us so quickly and will be awaiting any Scot they dinnae ken.”
Unable to resist, she glanced toward the north. Even if she could elude harm from the people she chanced to meet, she would have to cross the bleak heights of Coldingham Moor alone. It galled her to admit it, but she was safer with Hacon and his men, even if they were about to embark upon a raid. She tensed when he stepped close to her, cupping her face in his big, strong hands. There was a look of sympathy in his startlingly blue eyes which she was not sure she appreciated.
“Now, ye are a clever lass, though I think ye may speak your mind more than is wise in such troubled times. I ken it must be hard to admit it, but staying with me is the wisest choice.”
The way he lightly stroked her face at the corners of her eyes had an odd effect on her. He moved his thumbs in a gentle circular motion. She had the strongest urge to close her eyes, could feel them growing heavy-lidded. The way his gaze caressed her face, lingering on her mouth, did not help her gain the strength to pull out of his hold. She was distressingly interested in his firm, well-shaped mouth. Jennet tried to push the wordsinto the forefront of her mind, but the word that lodged there instead waskiss.
“In Berwick, lass,” he continued in a low voice, “ye will find rape, mayhaps even death. Ye have seen that in the near fortnight we have lodged here. To travel anywhere else could weel mean the same. At least by staying with me, the swords ye see willnae be aimed your way.”
“But ye mean to drag me along on a raid.” She inwardly grimaced at how husky and soft her voice had grown.
“Aye, and I am sorry for that, but I will do it all the same. Ye will be set back with Ranald, at a safer distance from whatever fighting takes place.”
The assurance did little to make her feel better. She would be stuck on the back of that pony for every hour of the day. Her only respite from the swift, hard ride deep into England’s northern counties would come when they paused to plunder some poor village or fight the English. She would have the hard, often damp ground as her bed, little more than porridge to eat day in and day out, and no shelter from the weather. The Scots did not carry the luxuries the English did. There were no tents, no servants, no train of wagons laden with supplies. The Scots packed little more than their weapons, a sack of oats, a tin plate, and a blanket or two. The gentry had horses and the men-at-arms had their hardy Highland ponies, which gave them a speed and elusiveness that had once driven Edward the Second to tears.
She suspected she would be moved to tears a few times herself. A raid took weeks, even months, of hard riding interrupted by theft and bloodshed. It was exhausting, hazardous, and filthy. It was not something she wished to experience, but she was being given no choice. She was almost glad of the way Hacon was stirring her desire, for it kept her from thinking too much about the ordeal she was about to face.
