“’Twas a near thing. Are ye hurt, Jennet?” he asked.
“Winded and verra sore. Is he dead?”
“Aye. Ye were right. When the need arose I could turn swiftly from one battle to another. I dinnae feel exultant, but I dinnae feel too poorly either. ’Twas them or us, aye?”
“Aye.” She smiled weakly at Elizabeth when the woman began to wipe her face clean with a scrap of cloth.
“Are ye certain ye arenae injured? Ye can move, can ye not?”
“I can, but I dinnae seem to wish to.” She sighed. “Ranald, I dinnae really wish to view the body.”
“Ah, I see. Set there then.” He scrambled to his feet. “I will pull the mon to the other side of the bushes.”
“Are ye and Murdoc unhurt?” Jennet asked Elizabeth as Ranald set to work.
“Hale but shaken. You fight as weel as any man, lass.”
“That doesnae make me verra happy,” Jennet mumbled as, with a little help from Elizabeth, she sat up. “I aided in the death of a mon, Elizabeth. I can see no cause for pride in it.”
Setting a sleepy Murdoc at her side, Elizabeth took Jennet’s dagger and wiped it clean. “That man you feel pity for felt none for us. He meant to kill two women and a helpless child. If you had not fought him, had not kept him at bay until Ranald could come to our aid, we would be dead now. You fought for your life, our lives—the same as any soldier fights for his.”
“The same? Nay, I think not. They choose their bloody work.”
“Choose it?” Elizabeth laughed shortly and shook her head. “Some do—mayhaps. Most have near as little choice as you did just now. Not all men are their own masters. And in this sad war a man who chooses not to fight could easily be called a traitor.”
Before Jennet could respond, Hacon strode toward her, not once taking his gaze from her. Behind him followed Ranald and Dugald. She felt the last of her fear ease away. That annoyed her a little, for she did not like to think she was so dependent upon Hacon for her peace and security. When he knelt by her side to allow her a closer look at him, she frowned up at him.
Here was Hacon the knight, the man of battle. His helmet hid his expression, making him seem remote. Even though his armor and jupon were dulled by the dirt and blood of battle, he looked imposing, almost threatening.
“Did Ranald fetch you from the field?” she asked.
“Nay, I was already on my way back. The true fighting is o’er. Are ye certain ye are unhurt? There is blood upon your gown.”
She looked down, then quickly averted her gaze. “’Tisnae mine. I have but a wee scratch upon my arm and many a bruise. Ye have blood upon you. Are ye hurt?”
“Nay.” He briefly touched her hair and stood up. “I shall quickly rid myself of the stench of battle, then we shall find a quieter place to make camp. Elizabeth, would ye tend to her wound?”
Elizabeth nodded and watched Hacon and Dugald walk away before turning to Jennet. “Such a fine man,” she murmured as she started to attend to Jennet’s small cut. “You would be a great fool to let that one slip free,” she added after Ranald picked up Murdoc and moved away.
Gritting her teeth against the stinging pain as Elizabeth washed her injury, Jennet said, “Ye think I have more to say about my fate than I do. Hacon will stay or go as he pleases.”
“Then mayhaps you should work harder to try and gain what pleasesyou.”
“And ye think that binding myself to a knight, to a mon of war, would please me? I seek peace. I wish a mon of peace.”
“Bah. You want him. And where, might I ask, would you find a man of peace? Even the monks and bishops take to the battlefield from time to time. Men are not bred to be creatures of peace.”
“Then ’tis past time they saw the error of their ways,” Jennet snapped.
“Nay, child. ’Tis past time you opened your eyes and looked about you. Aye, ’twould be wondrous fine if men would cease their fighting, but that will not happen soon. ’Twould be wise to try and grasp the best while you can.”
Jennet stared down at her clenched hands and remained silent while Elizabeth finished binding up her arm. She did not like to think that she asked for too much. Neither did she want to consider Hacon leaving her. Her heart urged her to hold tightly to Hacon, but her mind clung to the dream of a peaceful life, a life without the clash of swords or the fear of battle. Hacon did not fit into that dream. At times the battle between her heart and her mind raged so fiercely that she felt torn apart. She did not think the two could ever be reconciled. It was painful to think that soon she would have to make a choice between the needs of her heart and her flesh and the sweet allure of her dream. Or, she mused as she looked up to see Hacon returning, he would make the choice for her.
“Something ails her,” muttered Hacon that night as he glanced toward where Jennet slept, then looked back at Ranald and Dugald, who lingered around the small fire with him. “Weel? Dinnae say I see what isnae there.”
“Nay.” Dugald frowned toward Jennet. “Mayhaps the battle she had to fight today troubles her.”
“She didnae kill the mon,” Ranald said. “I did that.”
