Jennet could see how weak the youth was and, driven by compassion, finally spoke. “If ye wish him to hear all ye say, ye had best let him sit down.” She forced herself not to flinch under the glare Hacon sent her before he helped Ranald to a bench at the table, where four other men sat.
“What was so important,” Hacon asked his nephew, “that ye put your own life at risk?”
“A bairn.”
Although she tried not to, Jennet gaped, as did the men, as Ranald unwrapped the bundle he held. Within its folds lay a baby, a child she guessed to be about a year old. Briefly she feared for the child’s life, then pushed that fear aside. Ranald would not have saved the infant if he thought his own kinsmen would kill it.
Hacon crouched beside his nephew, yet again cursing his sister for not chaining the boy safely at home. “A bairn, laddie? What can ye do with a bairn?”
“I dinnae ken. I just couldnae let them kill the wee thing. They meant to stick it on a pike. The mother . . .” Ranald stared down at the wide-eyed child and smoothed an unsteady hand over the babe’s red-brown curls. “I couldnae save the poor woman. Will I always hear her cries for mercy?” he whispered.
“Mayhaps,” Hacon replied with an equally soft voice, then sighed. “Ranald, we stop here but to loot Berwick, then move on to fight more battles. What can ye do with the bairn?”
“Ye willnae tow the loot into every battle. I could set the bairn down with it.”
“Most of the plunder will be sent back, deeper into Scotland, with men to guard it, men who willnae want the care of a wee babe.”
“I could leave it here with someone when we leave.”
“Aye, mayhaps, if we find someone. Most are now dead or hiding. And we may have to leave on the run. Berwick is the last stronghold the English have in Scotland. I cannae believe they will give it up so easily.”
Jennet tugged free of Donald’s hold. “Weel, ye can discuss all of that later.”
“I can, can I?” Hacon drawled.
The touch of scorn in her beautiful eyes stung him. He wondered fleetingly if it was born of her anger of the moment or from a fury for all men that had been set deeply. Recalling what she had said of her parents’ fate, he knew it could be directed at all who fought for the Bruce.
Then she looked at young Ranald. Her expression softened, and Hacon felt the distinct pinch of jealousy. She was lovely in her anger, but with her heart-shaped face transformed by a gentler emotion she was breathtaking. A glance at his nephew told him Ranald was equally aware of her beauty.
“Aye,” she said as she walked toward Ranald, “for the boy needs these injuries tended to or ye will soon be talking to the air. Get me a bowl of water and a clean cloth.”
Hacon started to obey her before he realized what he was doing. When he glared at her, she met his look calmly. Muttering a curse, he fetched what she had asked for. Ranald did need his wounds seen to. Now was not the time to draw the line as to who was the captor and who was the plunder. After pushing some of the stolen goods aside, he set what she had requested on the table. He watched her closely, not truly afraid she would harm Ranald but not ready to trust her completely either.
Jennet gently took the baby from Ranald and placed the child in the arms of the man seated next to him. The man stared at the babe with such horror that she almost grinned. He held it correctly, however, so she turned her attention back to the battered boy.
At close inspection she realized that Ranald’s resemblance to Hacon was stronger than she had thought. But there was a look of gentleness, a hint of innocence, in Ranald’s face that could not be found in his uncle’s. The blue of Ranald’s eyes was not as rich, but he held the promise of being a fine-looking man.
“Strip him to the waist,” she ordered Hacon. “The way he moves tells me this jupon hides more bruises and injuries.
Even as he did so, Hacon recalled how she had nearly escaped. He would have to make her see what a mistake that would be. All the while he lent his assistance to her skillful nursing of Ranald, he puzzled over the problem. Her presence would serve him well but would also keep her alive. He had to make her see that, although he was her captor, he was also her best source of protection.
Seeing the way Ranald kept glancing toward the child, Jennet murmured, “The babe is fine. If the child has survived dire famine gripping the land, ’tis strong and will endure.”
“Aye. I but wish I could have saved its mother. I heard her cries but . . .”
She stopped his tortured speech by dabbing at his cut mouth with the wet cloth. “If ye mean to tear your soul apart over the death of innocents, best ye leave swiftly for the nearest monastery.” She almost smiled at his startled reaction to her harsh words.
“I w-wish to be a knight,” he stuttered, flicking a nervous glance toward his watchful uncle, who stood at Jennet’s side.
“Then ye will have to stop up your ears and harden your heart. If ye mean to live by the sword, ye will ever be seeing the havoc it can wreak. When men are seized by the bloodlust of a battle, they cut down all that falls in their path. The best ye can do is learn to stop that madness from seizing you or whatever men ye might lead.”
“’Tisane right. She carried no sword.”
“Neither did the ones the English king’s men cut down when Edward took this place, nor the ones Robert the Bruce slaughtered at Perth seven years ago.” She stood up, finished with the binding and washing of his injuries. “Aye, when armed men run over the land, the innocent and unarmed best hide or they will fall alongside the warrior.”
“Since ye ken that,” said Hacon, “what were ye about when the Black Douglas arrived at our door?”
“Trying to get away,” she answered, thinking it a particularly stupid question.
