“But she drew blood, laddie, and we all ken how she hates that.” Dugald smiled faintly. “She makes no secret of that. She had a hand in the fighting she scorns. That cannae set weel with the lass.”
Hacon rubbed his chin and nodded. “Aye, I think ye have guessed it aright, my friend.”
“But shehadto fight,” Ranald muttered. “The mon meant to kill her, Elizabeth, and the bairn.”
“The lass will see the truth about that,” agreed Hacon, “but it may take her a wee while. It may do her some good to have had a wee taste of it. She can be a bit harsh in her judgments on us all. Aye”—he held up his hand to halt Dugald’s response—“I ken she has tasted the bitter cost of war, that her judgments are born of those losses. Howbeit, I think she has ne’er faced the cold choice of kill or be killed. Mayhaps, now that she has, she will soften a wee bit.”
“Mayhaps.” Dugald shrugged. “I wouldnae look for too great a softening.”
“Nay, I willnae.” Hacon smiled faintly as he rose to his feet. “And if she continues to mope about, I will speak some sense to her.”
“Oh, aye,” mocked Dugald. “That should settle it all.”
Chuckling softly, Hacon strode over to the rough bed he had laid out for Jennet earlier, briefly but fiercely regretting their lack of privacy. He had not been able to make love to her since that first night outside of Knaresborough, and suspected it would be several days more before any chance arose. Stripping down to his braies, he knew tonight the loss would be easier to bear, for she was bruised and weary. Even if they had privacy, he would not have expected any passion from her.
“Hacon?” she murmured as he crawled beneath the blanket and gently tugged her into his arms.
“Nay, ’tis the King Edward himself.”
“Hah.” She snuggled closer to his warmth. “Ye cannae fool me. Ye speak the language better than he.”
“Ah, so ’tis true he cannae even speak the tongue of the people he would rule—English or Scots.”
“Weel, I have heard he can curse in English.”
“Those ground beneath his heel probably expect naught else.” He nuzzled her hair, then rested his cheek on top of her head. “How do ye feel, lass?”
“I ache, but I ken that will pass. ’Tis but a few bruises.”
“Aye, ye were knocked about some, but Ranald says ye fought bravely.”
“Am I to take pride in that?” She did not wish to remember the incident or how close she had come to taking another’s life.
“And why not? Would ye rather have stood lamblike and been cut down along with Elizabeth and wee Murdoc?”
“Nay.” She grimaced. “Why, Hacon? Why should he have wished to kill us?”
“War breeds hatred. Aye, and it brings out all those who lust for blood and enjoy the killing.” He kissed her cheek. “Ye did what ye had to, dearling. There is no shame in that.”
“The Lord says, ‘Thou shalt not kill.’”
“He meant murder without provocation, loving. I am sure of it. Come, would ye not have fought to save your mother, had ye been bigger and held a weapon?”
Sighing, she nodded. “I would have cut their throats. I have often thought of it, but I was too young, too weak. I could do no more than cower in hiding and watch her die.”
He stared at her in horror. “Ye saw what was done to your mother?”
“Nay, not all. She set me in a niche, out of sight, when the battle began. ‘Ye stay right here, child,’ she commanded. ‘No matter what ye see or hear, dinnae move. Dinnae make a sound.’ So I did. When the men came I closed my eyes. I did peek once, mayhaps twice, but I didnae move. I didnae make a sound. Even after the men left. I stayed where I had been put until one of the few men who had survived came and found me.”
Muttering a curse, Hacon held her close. “Did ye see the men who did it, lass? Do ye ken which of Douglas’s men it was?”
“Nay. ’Twas but a quick glance. All I ken is that there were three of them.”
Jennet found it difficult to lie to him, but she knew she had to. She could not tell him that Balreaves was one of those three men, the one who had delivered the death strike. There was already enough trouble between Balreaves and Hacon. She would not add to it. Her mother was dead, and although revenge would be sweet, it would never bring her mother back. Jennet told herself to leave Balreaves’s punishment to God and be satisfied with that.
Unless, she mused, Balreaves remembered her. Inwardly she shook away that thought. It had all happened years ago. The man would never recall one brief, locked glance with a small, terrified child. So long as she kept quiet about the man’s part in her mother’s murder, Hacon would never know.
“Ye have gone verra quiet. Have ye recalled something?” he asked in a near whisper.
