“Aye, great fools that they are. Well, there is no changing the beast.” Elizabeth suddenly winked at Jennet and faintly smiled. “And mayhaps you stay because of your fine, stalwart lover.”
Jennet opened her mouth to immediately deny that, then grimaced. “Weel, mayhaps—sin-filled creature that I am.”
“Sin-filled?” Elizabeth laughed. “Child, you have few if any marks upon your soul.”
“The Church teaches that lying with Hacon is a sin.”
“I was taught the same, but I cannot believe it a sin worthy of hell’s fires. If it is, then hell must be full to bursting by now.” She smiled faintly when Jennet gave a brief laugh. “’Tis a hard world God has set us in. Aye, He set down rules, ’tis true, but I cannot believe He would condemn such a kind-hearted girl as yourself for seeking some happiness amidst all this slaughter and destruction.”
“That is what I tell myself—again and again.” She tensed. “Hold, did ye hear that?”
Before Elizabeth could reply, their safe enclave was invaded by a large, disheveled man who charged out of the bushes. It was not only the bloodstained sword and heavily padded jupon that made him look threatening. There was a look of pure murderous hatred upon his face. Jennet knew that, at least at this moment, no mercy for women or a helpless babe would be found in his heart. She quickly drew her dagger, which Ranald habitually gave her now whenever the men left to fight.
“Protect Murdoc,” she ordered Elizabeth as she rose slowly to a fighting stance.
“Where is Ranald?” Elizabeth demanded fearfully as she picked up Murdoc, sheltering him in her arms.
“Do ye mean that beardless boy left to guard you?” The man laughed. “Sent to hell by my companion.”
Pain tore through Jennet, for she feared the man might speak the truth. She forced herself to push aside all emotion, to fix her mind upon her attacker. If she was fortunate to escape the confrontation alive, there would be time to grieve for young Ranald later.
Her survey of the situation told her she would require a great deal of luck. All she had was a dagger. The man held a sword. That, combined with his longer arms, meant he could probably take her head from her shoulders before she even had the chance to scratch him. Her only hope lay in making him act so rashly, so foolishly, that some of his many great advantages were lessened.
“That boy shall ne’er see hell,” she said, “but ye soon shall. He was stalwart and brave. Ye creep about like a craven dog, striking down the weak and defenseless.” She would not have thought it possible, but his expression became even more twisted with hatred.
“It can be no sin to cut down the vermin that trails after these murderous Scots.”
“Most men wait until therealbattle has ended first. Howbeit, since ye have no stomach for fighting men . . .”
He howled with fury and lunged at her. Jennet easily evaded his mindless attack. When he tried to turn in the midst of his blind charge, he stumbled to his knees. She took quick advantage of his clumsiness. Racing over to him before he could get to his feet, she plunged her dagger into his back.
The man howled again, a sound full of rage and pain. He swung back at her with his free hand and sent her sprawling. Jennet barely kept enough presence of mind to cling to her dagger, pulling it free as she fell back.
“Bitch! Whore!” the man bellowed as he stood and faced her.
She rose quickly to her feet. “And weel should ye ken such as those, born of the breed as ye were.”
She inwardly cursed the weakness of that taunt and was surprised when he foolishly lunged at her again. The man was either blind with hatred or very stupid. This time she managed to cut him in the side before he knocked her down and turned on her.
She scrambled to her feet and cried out in pain. In her fall she had turned her ankle. She did not think it was a serious injury, but it would hinder her movements. Her agility and speed were her best weapons, and now she might have lost both.
“So, whore,” he snarled. “You begin to tire.”
“I am not the one who stands panting like a dog.”
“I shall cut your insulting tongue out.”
“Oh, aye? I have nary a scratch so far, whilst ye bleed like a stuck pig.”
This time he did not rush her quite so blindly. She barely managed to elude the deadly swing of his sword. The arm of her gown was torn by the blade and her skin stung by the brush of its sharp edge. A stick hurled by a terrified Elizabeth tripped the man, but Jennet’s sore ankle made her too slow to take advantage of that aid. She cut the man but not too seriously. As she tried to flee, he grasped her leg.
Jennet hit the ground, face first and hard. The wind was knocked from her body and she was unable to do more than turn over, gasping for breath. Before she could even try to rise and flee, the man was standing over her.
He smiled as he raised his sword. Jennet knew she faced certain death. Fear was not the emotion which gripped her but a chilling resignation. It held her in place, kept her staring almost calmly at the sword as she waited for the killing blow.
Suddenly, the sword was no longer there, nor was most of the arm that held it. She saw his look of stunned horror, felt the warm blood on her face. Another sword came into view, piercing her attacker’s chest and pushing him back. She heard his strangled cry as he fell. Her next clear sight was of Ranald’s worried expression as he knelt by her side.
“He said you were dead,” she whispered, glancing only briefly at Elizabeth, who, clutching Murdoc in her plump arms, knelt on the other side.
