“Aye. We would not wish our gallant knight to bleed to death,” Balreaves said as he idly wiped his sword clean on the jupon of one of the dead Englishmen.
Hacon found the strength to send Balreaves a parting glare. “Have no fear of that, Balreaves. We will fight again.” He could see that Balreaves understood what he meant, and ignoring the curious glances of the two men helping him, Hacon turned all of his attention to the difficult task of remaining conscious until he reached the camp.
“Hacon!” Dugald called in a shocked voice.
A chill went through Jennet as Dugald scrambled to his feet, leaving her to finish bandaging a man’s arm. She doubted a small and easily mended wound would put that fear in Dugald’s voice. As she completed her work, she caught sight of a pale Ranald loping in the direction Dugald had gone, and she grew even colder. She did not want to see what was wrong, but she knew she had to.
Feeling stiff with fear, she stood up, took a deep breath to steady herself, and turned to get her first good look at Hacon. It sent her reeling. For a moment she feared she would do something completely useless, like swoon, but she fought for a thread of composure, firmly telling herself not to be such a weakling.
Hacon’s jupon was soaked with blood. Logic told her that not all of it was his own blood, but she found logic a little hard to hold on to. As she forced herself to collect the supplies she would need to help him, Ranald and Dugald took him from the men who had brought him back to camp. That Hacon had been nearly carried off the field did nothing to lessen her fear. He was pale, too pale, and appeared frighteningly weak as Ranald and Dugald sought a place that was neither too crowded nor too muddy, then helped him to lie down. She reached Hacon’s side just as the two men finished stripping him to his braies.
“’Tisnae as bad as it looks, lass,” Hacon whispered in a strained voice as she knelt by his side.
“Oh? Do ye also mean to tell me ’tis but a scratch? I swear, if I hear that said but one more time, I shall scream.” When Ranald helped Hacon get comfortable on his side, she realized that the more serious wound was on his back, a deep gash that ran diagonally from his right shoulder nearly to his left hip.
Dugald cursed. “If ye hadnae been wearing such fine protection, ye would have been cut in twain.”
She thought the same but forced the sickening image from her mind. “Had ye no one guarding your back?”
“Aye—Balreaves.”
“Balreaves?” Jennet’s fear for Hacon flared to anger over what she saw as reckless stupidity. “What ails you? Did ye think there were not enough swords pointed at you? Did ye feel the need of one more?”
“The Douglas set him there.”
“So? Ye do have a voice. Ye could say naught?”
“Dearling, ye dinnae argue with the Douglas. And what should I have said? ‘Dinnae put Balreaves there for the mon means to murder me?’ ’Tisnae an accusation ye toss out lightly. Ye need proof, and I have naught.”
“So ye just stood there and let him choose his time to strike.”
“He didnae strike. He had no need to bloody his own sword, did he? He but stood back and waited for an Englishmon to do the killing for him.”
“He stood verra far back,” she confirmed. “I saw him, not so long ago, standing on the hillside swilling wine.”
“Ah, weel, when this happened he was on the field, close enough to aid me, but he did nothing. The two men who brought me here came to my aid. Balreaves quickly took up the fight then, didnae he, so none could say for certain that he allowed me to be cut down by our enemy.”
Although she knew he spoke the truth, her anger lingered. She used that fury to force herself to stitch Hacon’s wounds. It helped only a little. Her ministrations were as great an agony for her as she knew they were for him. Her stomach churned and her eyes continually stung as she fought back tears. Only the knowledge that neither would aid Hacon helped her fight her hatred of the grisly chore. There would be two new scars on his fine body since the slash across his upper thigh needed a few stitches as well.
By the time she finished, all she wanted was to get away from the man. Seeing Hacon so badly hurt had made her face what she had fought so hard to keep locked away in her heart, denied and suppressed. Now that it was free, she knew she could no longer hide from herself that she loved him. She feared she might do something foolish—like declare her love and swear to do anything he wished if he would just stay off the battlefield. But it was a poor time to make such a declaration. She did not want Hacon to know it. And in her present state she did not feel confident of her ability to hide it.
He doesnae want my heart anyway, just the flesh which holds it, she mused as she helped make Hacon comfortable, placing a rolled blanket behind him to keep from inadvertently rolling onto his back. Weel, I ken I will soon let him have that, butIwill pick the time and the place. And I willnae let him ken that he has won more than my passion. Aye, he will see victory, but I refuse to let him guess how complete it is. After Ranald and Dugald left, she moved to kneel in front of Hacon and carefully tucked another blanket over him.
“’Tis summer, lass. I dinnae think I need to be kept so warm,” he murmured.
“It grows damp and chill in the night, which draws verra near, if ye hadnae noticed.”
“Aye, true enough.” He watched her as she knelt by him, frowning. “Ye shouldnae be so cross with a mon when he is suffering so,” he said.
“I was but thinking on how, if the sword that cut your leg had finished its upward swing, ye would no longer be mon enough to play your games with me.”
“Here now, do ye not think these wounds are enough to trouble my sleep and keep me from you?”
She was almost able to smile. “’Twas but a thought. I best see to Murdoc. Do ye need anything ere I leave?”
“I wouldnae refuse a wee drink of water.”
After raising the waterskin to his lips, she idly adjusted the folded jupon beneath his head. “That all? Naught else?”
