“When and if ye do see the mon,” Robert said, “I hope he is fighting on the right side.”
“Oh, Papa will see it as the right one. No doubt ’twill be the side he has ever chosen—his own.” She smiled a little when Robert gave a tired laugh.
“If ye think ye can tear your eyes from that mud-splattered serf, ye might aid one who is bleeding like a gutted pig,” drawled a deep voice.
Jennet turned with the others to look at the man who spoke. He was vaguely familiar to her. She had seen him talking to Hacon a time or two. From the look she had seen on Hacon’s face during and after those brief meetings, this was not a friend. She was glad when Mary started to respond to the man’s terse demand.
“Not you,” he snapped. “Ye.” He pointed at Jennet. “Ye will see to my wounds.”
Biting back the suggestion that he could stand there and bleed to death, Jennet collected the medical supplies she needed and wended her way toward him, past the wounded and exhausted men who were scattered over the clearing. She was not sure if the man could cause trouble for Hacon but decided not to chance it. All personal feelings aside, Hacon was her shield, all that kept her from being beaten, raped, and possibly even driven mad.
“Sit down,” she ordered when she reached him and pointed to a large rock.
“Ye are the pert wench they all say ye are, eh?” He sat down. “Mayhaps ye need more mon than Hacon to tame you.”
“And ye ken who that would be, do ye?” She eased off his helmet to look more closely at the sword slash over his brow.
“Aye, myself—Sir Niall Chisholm.”
“Weel, I am surprised.” She began to wash his wound, a shallow cut that came down from his forehead and ran very close to his right eye. “I think I will stay with the mon I have, thank ye kindly. Better the devil ye ken and all that.”
“Hacon Gillard is too soft with you.”
“Ah, ye feel I ought to be treated as those poor souls have been.” She nodded toward the three bruised, slack-faced women still huddled together under the tree.
He frowned. Jennet could not be sure if it was a sign of distaste, which would indicate some better side to his character than he was revealing, or if he was frowning in anticipation of pain from her ministrations. At a young age she had learned to go slowly in judging people.
But as she leaned over him to secure a bandage about his head, he reached up and cupped his hand over her right breast. She met his steady, insolent gaze. There was no hint of lust in his gray eyes, just an intended insult. Although she felt some shock and distaste, she was mostly annoyed.
“Remove your hand, Sir Chisholm, or ye shall be verra sorry.”
“Going to call your mon to aid you?”
“I need no mon to fight my battles for me.” She tied off his bandage with more force than was necessary, but he only winced.
“’Tis no battle, lass. Just a wee fondle.”
“’Tis impertinence and disrespect. Move your hand—now.”
“Wheesht, how I tremble before such a fierce adversary.”
It would be wiser to simply move out of his grasp, she mused, even as she brought her right fist up to connect soundly with his jaw. The look of utter stupefaction on his face as he tumbled backward off his seat gave her a great deal of satisfaction. But his expression rapidly changed to one of fury. As he stumbled to his feet and drew his sword, she frantically sought the best defensive action to take. Just as she was about to bolt out of range of the sword he raised, another sword came into view, noisily clashing with Niall’s mid-swing. Jennet felt momentarily weak with relief when she saw Hacon. The look on his face, however, made her realize that relief was the last thing she should feel. There was more trouble to come.
“A good blow, lass,” murmured Dugald as he moved to stand beside her.
A glance at Dugald caused Jennet to be briefly diverted, for his sword arm was clearly wounded. “Ye have been hurt.”
“’Tisnae fatal.”
“Nay, but this may be,” she muttered, frowning at Hacon and Niall, who moved to face each other squarely while wounded men scrambled and clawed to get out of their way.
The first crash of their swords made her wince. Hacon was grimly determined to kill or maim Niall, and Niall was grimly determined to survive. They moved as if performing some macabre dance, constrained in a tight circle with Niall consistently stepping back as Hacon advanced. Niall could do no more than desperately block each swing and thrust of Hacon’s sword.
Jennet watched the battle, as silent as the combatants, then knew she had to find a way to stop it. It was not only her distaste for such things that prompted her decision. The fight was not a fair one. Niall was unsteady, still troubled by the wound on his head. He staggered beneath each blow of Hacon’s sword, barely fending off each deadly strike. Instinctively, she knew that Hacon’s distinct advantage would trouble him later. However, if she did not stop the fight soon, it would be too late to save Hacon from slaying a man who was in no condition to fight for his life.
She slipped her arm about Dugald’s waist and whispered in his ear, “Ye will swoon now.”
“I dinnae think so,” Dugald said with a strong hint of outrage. “’Tis but a wee wound I have. ’Twould take more than this mere scratch to make me swoon like some fair maid.”
