“Ah, weel, it willnae take long to put some meat on him. Elizabeth, why will ye stay?”
“Why, to be with Robert.”
“He wants ye, does he?”
“He will. I mean to see to that.” She smiled when Jennet laughed.
“Ye have no home or family to return to?”
“None worth the trouble. My cottage was burned. I did have a husband for near to a year. A mean brute of a man. He was hanged for killing three men whilst in one of his rages. Near killed me a time or two as well. You look so shocked.”
“Weel, ’tis a tale worthy of such a feeling.”
“Ah, Jennet, for all you have been though, you are still so innocent. ’Tis good fate that set you in Sir Gillard’s hands. Well, I mean to put myself in Robert’s hands. He is the first good man I have ever met in my life. Not perfect, but good. If that man gets back to Scotland alive, I mean to be at his side.”
She glanced over her shoulder. “Here come those wounded you spoke of. We best hurry and see to the fools.” Elizabeth tucked the blanket around Donald and stood up. “You were right, you know.”
“Right about what?” Jennet asked as she and Elizabeth started toward the wounded men.
“About nursing the men. Mary and I have found with each day that passes we are treated more fairly. In truth, I find I rather like the work.”
“And I wish there wasnae such need of it.”
“There will always be a need.”
Jennet moved to kneel by a man whose leg was soaked with blood as Elizabeth went toward another. Mary was struggling with one whose arm appeared to have been broken. As Jennet set to work, she feared Elizabeth was right about fate being kind to have put her in Hacon’s hands. But she found the thought very distressing.
Needing water, she called to Ranald and Dugald. She needed to call Dugald twice before he turned from the constant sword practice he indulged in to regain the strength in his healing arm. Once the two men began carting the supply of water she would need, she turned her full attention to the wounded.
Hacon cursed as he was slowly encircled by four armed Englishmen. Douglas had ordered Balreaves to watch his back, but just as Hacon had feared, the man was doing nothing to help him. Instead of rushing to Hacon’s aid, Balreaves loitered just out of harm’s way. There was no need for Balreaves to fear that his failure to do as Douglas had commanded would be discovered. Hacon doubted he would survive this confrontation with the enemy.
His battle sword in one hand, his shield on his arm, and his dagger in his other hand, Hacon cautiously pivoted as he vainly tried to keep each of his foes in view. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Balreaves. The man sat on a rock at a safe distance, a faint smile on his face. Calmly he waited for the English to commit murder for him.
The Englishmen tightened their circle around Hacon. He bellowed his fury over Balreaves’s desertion and lunged at the Englishman directly in front of him. As he had hoped, the sudden charge caught his enemy off guard. Their brief confusion allowed him the chance to engage his chosen opponent unhindered. Hacon quickly cut the man down, then whirled to face the other three as they began to close in on him again.
“Are ye so eager to lie dead beside your friend?” Hacon taunted them.
“You are the one who will die,” answered the Englishman in the middle.
“Mayhaps, but taking down this Scotsman will cost ye dearly.”
All three bellowed their scorn at his boast and came after him. Hacon could fend off only two at a time. He eluded the third twice before his luck failed and the man got behind him. The man’s sword cut cleanly across his back. Hacon staggered as the sword point slashed through his protective clothing and cut through his flesh. Before he could recover his footing, he took a second wound in his upper thigh. The pain was followed by a sudden weakness that brought him to his knees. Hacon waited for the death blow . . . but it did not come.
As he collapsed onto his side, Hacon saw the reason. Two of his countrymen had arrived to help him. Suddenly, Balreaves was also there to wield his sword against the enemy. The three Englishmen were quickly dispatched, having been caught by surprise just as they had thought themselves victorious. Balreaves moved to stand at Hacon’s feet as the other two Scots knelt by his side to inspect the wounds.
“That battle was nearly your last, Gillard,” Balreaves said.
“I was caught with my back unprotected.” Hacon glared at the man and wished he was not wounded for he ached to fight Balreaves.
“Do ye accuse me of neglecting my duty? I shall forgive ye that slur, for ye are in pain and not thinking clearly. These two men saw me come to your aid.”
“Aye, he did help some,” murmured the man on Hacon’s right.
It was not only the pain he felt as the two men helped him to his feet that made Hacon grind his teeth. Frustration and anger knotted his stomach. He could not accuse Balreaves of leaving him to die. There were witnesses who would have to say that Balreaves had lent a hand in saving him. Neither man could have seen how Balreaves had stood aside until he was forced to either fight or risk revealing that he’d disobeyed Douglas’s orders.
“Ye had best take Sir Gillard back to camp,” Balreaves ordered the two men supporting Hacon.
“Aye, get me back to camp.” Hacon tried not to lean too heavily on his companions, but the loss of blood was rapidly weakening him.
