For ten years he had been with Robert the Bruce, ever since the beard on his face had been but the light fluff of a boy. When the Bruce returned from exile in Arran, Scotland had been demoralized, the devastation widespread. Bruce’s victory against the English at Loudon Hill had renewed the people’s hope, and Hacon had joined many others in racing to aid the claimant to the Scottish throne.
But now he ached to go home to Dubheilrig. Instead, he found himself on yet another raid into England, another bloody foray over land that had been deeply scarred by war.
“Ye cannae stop fighting for the Bruce now,” Dugald said as he started through the gates leading to the narrow, winding streets of Berwick.
“How do ye ken I was thinking about that?” Hacon asked as he strode beside his kinsman into the heart of the walled town.
“That black look upon your face. I have seen it before. Ye cannae walk away from it yet. Aye, ye got your knighthood at Bannockburn, but ye havenae won a square foot of land yet.”
“Did my father send ye to be my conscience?”
“Nay. He trusts ye to do as ye ought. Aye, as ye must. ’Tis just that I feel I must speak the truth. The Bruce holds our lands. Only he can return them to us. ’Twas our weakness which lost them to the de Umfravilles. Weel, after being honed in this war we willnae be weak. ’Tis some comfort, kenning the de Umfravilles lost those lands to the Bruce, but even that comfort will wane if the Bruce gifts our lands elsewhere.”
“That will ne’er happen,” Hacon muttered as he stepped ahead of his cousin. “Come along. If I cannae win back our lands through faithful service and the strength of my sword, then I mean to have enough plunder to buy them back.” He strode off into town, confident Dugald would watch his back, just as he had done for ten long, bloody years.
Hacon slouched in a rough, heavy chair before the fire, heartily approving of the new-style fireplace and chimney set in the wall. It was far better than the usual, a hearth in the center of the room with an inadequate venting hole in the roof. He wondered how Dugald always managed to find such fine quarters for them. This had to be one of the few houses in Berwick that still had an intact thatched roof, one untouched by the fires that even now scorched the town. After glancing at the plunder scattered on the table in the center of the room, he fixed his gaze upon the female plunder sprawled unconscious at his feet.
Twice the girl had come awake while strapped to his back. Twice she had wrapped her lovely slim hands about his throat. Twice Dugald had had to strike her unconscious again to save his cousin. Hacon grinned. She had spirit. Dugald could well be right—she was the devil’s child, even though she had been hidden away in a convent. He would be sure to keep all weapons out of her reach. She could prove to be a very troublesome bounty.
But a bonnie one, he mused, leaning forward. She looked very tempting sprawled on the sheepskin with her thick raven hair splayed out around her. Her headdress had been an early victim of the battle in the streets. While he suspected her too-thin build was a result of the famine that had ravaged the area over the last two years, he found no fault in it. There were curves enough to please him. Her skin was the soft white of ivory touched with all the warmth of good health. He easily recalled her magnificent eyes, their vivid green enhanced by sparks of fury and defiance as she had faced him in the convent.
“Do ye think I have harmed her?”
Glancing up at Dugald, who stood on the other side of the girl, Hacon shook his head. “She breathes easily and there is a growing flickering in her eyelids. She will wake soon.”
“Then ye had best guard your throat.”
The way Dugald eyed the girl, as if she were as great a threat as any well-armed Englishman, made Hacon laugh softly. “She has more spirit than many another in this place.”
“Aye, which will make her a muckle lot of trouble. Wouldnae it be wiser to leave her behind?”
“Much wiser, but I willnae do it.”
“Why? She is naught but a skinny wee lass.”
“Ah, now there is a puzzle.” Hacon shrugged. “I just willnae.”
Jennet had grasped consciousness in time to hear the one man’s disparaging description of her and the other’s response. Her head ached and she knew it was their fault. She had made no move to reveal that she was now awake; her captor’s answer had interested her since it might reveal her fate.
Now, however, deciding their talk was of little help, Jennet released the groan she had held back. She propped herself up on one elbow and tentatively touched the back of her head. The man had clearly curbed the strength of his blows, for she could find no serious injury, but her head was pounding. Slowly she gazed up at her captor.
He still looked big, a tall, lean, battle-hardened man. Now that his helmet and mail hood were gone, she saw that he had thick blond hair reaching to his broad shoulders. She doubted it would lessen the breadth of his chest by much if he took off his padded jupon and the snug, bloodstained leather jerkin he wore. He had long muscular legs encased in a better quality hose and cuarans of excellent waxed rawhide tied closely about his calves. She remembered the flint of armor on his forearms earlier, but suspected that had long been discarded. His clothes gave her little hint as to his station. Even the armor she recalled could simply be pieces he had stolen from dead knights upon the battlefield.
As she carefully sat up, she lifted her gaze to his face. He had the finest pair of eyes she had ever seen on a man, a clear rich blue. His lean face, high cheekbones, and a long straight nose bespoke a better birth. In fact, his looks reminded her very strongly of a Dane or a Norseman, and she frowned.
“Ye are a Scot?” she demanded. “We havenae got the twice-cursed Danes rampaging about to add to our grief, have we?” The man smiled too much, she thought crossly as he grinned at her.
“Aye, I am a Scot. I have my mother’s looks, and she is a distant cousin to the king of Norway, so I should watch how I speak of those people.” He thrust his hand toward her. “I am Hacon Gillard of Dubheilrig.”
She took his hand and found herself firmly propelled to her feet. “Jennet.”
“Jennet? No other name, no kinsmen? Ye are no one’s daughter and from no place?”
“Of course I am someone’s daughter.” She sighed and rubbed her forehead with her left hand since Hacon was slow to release her right one. “I am Jennet, daughter of Artair, a Graeme, who wed Moira, an Armstrong. I can be from Liddesdale, for those are my mother’s lands. More often than not, I am from no place in particular, dragged hither and yon by my father.”
“Neither name is connected with much wealth.”
She glared at him. “Aye, so ye will gain no ransom for me. The Bruce’s fine soldiers have already slaughtered my mother. Aye and mayhaps my father as weel. I have naught left. Best to let me slip free. I can only be a trouble to you.”
