“Aye. ’Tis said he aided the Bruce in seeing the city’s weakness and in finding a way inside.”
Jennet stared blindly at the rag she was rinsing out. Hacon had lied. Worse, he had lied just moments after she had decided that he was a deeply honest man, that he could not successfully tell a falsehood. He had looked her straight in the eye and told a very big lie indeed.
A sick mother, she inwardly scoffed. How could she have been so stupid? What knight walked away from an important battle for a sick mother? How could he have gotten word of her illness anyway? Now that Jennet knew it was a lie, she could see just how thin it was. Yet, fool that she was, she had accepted it without question.
Yet why would he even tell it? Unless he knew her father was dead because he himself had struck the fatal blow. She quickly pushed aside that horrifying thought. Hacon did not know her father. She had never even told him what her father looked like. Despite that logic, fury and painful disappointment knotted her insides. Then she realized Robert was still talking to her. She forced her attention back to the stout redhead.
“I am verra sorry. I didnae hear what ye just said.” She forced her mouth into a faint smile. “Talk of Perth can set my mind spinning with memory.”
Robert nodded his understanding as Mary helped him redon his shirt. “I was just saying that Sir Gillard willnae ken much about Perth after the taking of it. He didnae stay for the killing of all the poor souls who were declared traitors.”
“What do ye mean—he didnae stay?”
“Weel, when he was what was about to happen, he wanted no part of it. A brave mon, Sir Gillard. He and his small band withdrew. If it wasnae for his aid in the capturing of Perth, Sir Gillard could have been cried as a traitor too. ’Tis an easy brand to be marked with these days.”
Shaking his head, Robert sighed. “Would that I could have been so bold. I stayed. ’Tis true that I didnae get that blood on my hands and wouldnae aid in the killing, but I stayed. ’Tis as bad.”
“Not truly. I dinnae think it could have been stopped.” She frowned. “But ye saw it?”
“Aye. Stood there silent and shocked.”
Although fear of the truth she might hear chilled her, she asked, “Can ye recall any of the faces of those who were slain. ’Twas a long time ago.”
“Aye, but I can recall them clearly. Too clearly.”
Swallowing hard, she asked, “Did ye see a mon with hair the color of a deer’s hide? A verra lean mon, nearly too lean. Rather tall as weel, and with skin as soft as a bairn’s and as pale as mine?”
“He sounds an easy mon to recall but”—Robert frowned—“nay, I dinnae think I saw him there. Yet”—Robert ran a hand through his sweat-darkened hair—“Icanrecall seeing a mon like that.”
She leaned closer to him. “With eyes as green as mine?”
“Aye.” Robert’s dark eyes grew wider. “Aye, but not with the poor souls killed that black day.” He frowned. “He wasnae a Scot now that I think on it. He cannae be the one ye mean.”
“Mayhaps not, but tell me more and let me decide upon it.”
“Weel, he was in the tavern, serving ale to the soldiers. He was dressed poorly but spoke weel, as if he had once had coin. Said he had come here from France, a poor younger son with no chance to gain there. He hoped to make his fortune here but found himself in the midst of our war.” He grimaced. “I had a wee bit too much of the ale and talked too freely. Aye, and he was a mon ye felt yecouldtalk to. He fixed those eyes on a mon and words just tumbled out. His voice . . . weel, how can I describe it?”
“Made ye feel he was a confidant, one ye could trust.” Jennet knew it well, knew it was her father’s greatest weapon as well as his strongest shield.
“Aye, that is it. Mayhaps I told him more than I should have, but he was a Frenchmon, an ally. It couldnae hurt.”
“And his name? Was it, mayhaps, Artos de Nullepart or the like?”
Robert gaped at her. “’Twas that exactly. How could ye ken it?”
“Because the mon was my father.” She could barely contain her joy for—rascal and thief though he was—she dearly loved him. “He has used the name before or one similar to it. It but means ‘Artair of Nowhere.’ Suits him well.”
“Nay, ye are a Scot, and he was from France. Are ye sure?”
“As sure as I can be without having seen it with my own eyes.” She impulsively kissed his dirt-smudged cheek. “’Tis a good thing ye are a poor mon, Robert, or your meeting with my father could have left your purse a great deal lighter.”
“Here,” muttered Elizabeth, “you should not be calling your own father a thief. That is what you just did, is it not?”
“Aye, I did.” Despite the hint of smoke in the air that told her yet more cottages and fields were burning, Jennet smiled in the near certainty that her father had escaped death yet again. “’Tis what he is. He has said it himself. Weel, in truth, he says he but allows for a more even sharing of the wealth. Ye see, he ne’er takes from a poor mon.” She frowned. “Howbeit, since it appears he lived after Perth, why havenae I seen him?”
“Weel, you have been moving about, aye?” When Jennet nodded, Elizabeth continued. “’Twould take time for him to find you with all the fighting going on. He may have had to join in it here and there. With all the turmoil about, ’tis not so strange he has not found you.”
“Of course.” Jennet began to clean up. “While a part of me thrills with hope, another does not. What ye have told me, Robert, can only mean Papa lived through the slaughter at Perth. Howbeit, he has had to continue to elude death throughout the years since then, and that may have required more luck than he had. So, I willnae declare him alive and weel just yet. I but have a wee bit more hope, ’tis all.”
