Hacon pulled his horse to a stop beside the common well directly in the center of the village, and she did the same. As the men approached, she studied them closely, searching their faces for familiar features. It was not until they stopped in front of her that she believed she recognized one.
“Malcolm?” she asked, causing the man on the priest’s right to look her way. “Lame John’s son?”
“Aye.” He stepped closer, frowning up at her, then his eyes widened. “Wee Jennet? ’Tis you, Moira’s bairn?”
“The verra same. Where is everyone?”
“Where they will stay until we are verra certain this braw knight is no foe.” Malcolm looked at Hacon.
“No foe,” Hacon murmured and held out his hand. “Sir Hacon Gillard of Dubheilrig.” He shook each man’s hand and dismounted. “We brought Jennet here to visit her kinsmen and mayhaps gain some word of her father’s fate.”
“That rogue Artair,” grumbled Malcolm. “He was here for the planting time but left ere we could force him to help.”
“He is alive?” Jennet felt weak with a mixture of relief and hope.
“Aye, lass. Didnae ye ken it?” When she shook her head, Malcolm smiled, revealing badly chipped teeth. “Oh, aye, the mon lives, though old Alaistair tried to end his wicked life ere he left. Old Alaistair has himself a fair young lass for a wife.” He chuckled when Jennet grimaced. “Caught your father rolling about with her in the heather. Chased your father into your aunt’s house. Your father was naked as the day he was born as he ran through the village at a fair pace, old Alaistair screaming vengeance right behind him all the way.” Malcolm laughed. “Your aunt cursed him all the while she kept old Alaistair from using the sword on the rogue.” He leaned toward Jennet and winked. “We dinnae mention it much now. Old Alaistair’s wee wife is with bairn and the old fool struts about fair proud of himself, certain the bairn is his.”
“Oh.” Jennet was torn between amusement and annoyance. “Oh dear.”
“Your father confessed his sinful ways, my child,” the priest said, his round face solemn. “He sought and gained absolution.”
Jennet opened her mouth to give her succinct opinion of her father’s piety, then caught the grins on the men’s faces. She decided it was an opinion that did not need saying. The priest was young. He would learn.
“Come,” the priest said, smiling at Hacon. “’Tis evident ye have come as friend, not foe. Marcus,” he said to the man on his left. “Go tell our people that all is weel.” He looked at Hacon. “And ye may tell your men they are welcome to take their ease.”
Malcolm helped Jennet down from her pony. “And that they will be treated as our own,” he said.
“Which means,” Jennet murmured as Hacon reached her side, “ye need not keep too close a watch on your goods.” She smiled when Malcolm laughed, then asked him, “How are my aunt and uncle?”
“Your aunt is setting firm in her cottage, sword in hand, waiting to cut down any mon fool enough to threaten her home or her trees. Go right down there. She will ken who ye are ere ye reach her gate. Your uncle took the children into hiding, but he should join you soon.”
Whatever nervousness Jennet felt faded the moment she reached her aunt’s gate. Sorcha Armstrong raced out of her stone cottage to heartily embrace Jennet even before she could call out a greeting. The next hour was a confusing round of introductions as Sorcha’s husband arrived with their large brood of children, and Hacon and his men were settled throughout the village. By the time a meal was set out, Jennet was exhausted. She let Hacon do most of the talking until she gained the strength to ask about her father again.
“My father is alive, so Malcolm tells me.” Jennet smiled faintly when Sorcha rolled her hazel eyes and grimaced.
“Aye, though how that mon escapes killing, I dinnae ken. A sweet-talking rascal who is e’er in trouble, he is.”
“Now, loving,” murmured Sorcha’s husband, Alain, “the lass seeks news.”
“Aye, and Malcolm gave her an earful, no doubt of it.”
“He did,” Jennet agreed. “Old Alaistair’s wife. I but asked if Father was alive. ’Tis clear he is as alive as he ever was.”
“Verra alive. I ken ye have heard naught since ye were sent from Perth. Artair has come here every year since then, hoping to find that ye have returned to us. And a fair harvest of red-haired bairns is our gain.”
“Sorcha!” Alain scolded, then placed his large, work-worn hand over Jennet’s. “He means no disrespect to your mother’s—my sister’s—memory, lass. I hope ye ken that.”
“I do, uncle. I also ken that the mon deserves a scolding. Aunt is right to cluck her tongue o’er his ways.” She grinned. “The mon is shameless.” She briefly shared a laugh with the others. “But—heisweel?”
“Verra weel,” answered Sorcha. “As all the village can attest to, having seen his wares weel displayed the day old Alaistair set after him. But, dinnae fear, he will return to look for you again. ’Twill warm his feckless heart to find you here.”
“She will be at Dubheilrig,” said Hacon, pushing aside his empty trencher and taking a long drink of wine from his wooden goblet. “We but stopped here so she might learn of her father.”
Jennet stared at him, not sure how she felt about that blunt announcement. “Ah, we did, did we?”
“Aye, we did. After a visit and a rest,we—ye and I—travel on to Dubheilrig.”
Before Jennet could say another word, Sorcha gave Alain a sharp look and he stood up. With a calm but firm invitation to join him in a walk, he neatly cleared the room of all but Sorcha and herself. Hacon even took Murdoc with him. Although Hacon spoke of seeing that his men were settled, Jennet recognized it as a retreat from the talk Sorcha so clearly intended to have. She turned to say as much to her aunt and frowned. Sorcha was staring at her with intense curiosity, idly twirling one thick strand of her golden brown hair on one finger. Jennet suddenly wished she had left with the others. She cast about for some subject of conversation with which to divert her aunt.
