Stopping at the edge of the center hearth, Jennet folded her arms beneath her bosom and stared into the flames. “I cannae say I condemn him for it, but I cannae like it. I have lived my whole life amidst war and bloodshed.”
Turning on the bench so that she faced Jennet, Sorcha shook her head. “So have we all. Is he cruel? Does he beat you? Mayhaps he turns mad in battle like some Norsemon, slaying all in his path. Is that it?”
“Nay, none of those. He battles soldiers, armed men only. While he cannae stop the murder of innocents or the wanton destruction, he makes no secret of his disapproval and ne’er takes a part in it. Neither do his men.” She frowned, realizing that her aunt was cleverly prompting her to speak of all that was good about Hacon. “He lied to me,” she said. “I asked him if he had been at Perth the day Bruce took it from the English and he said nay. ’Twas a lie.”
“Ah, weel, if he took a part in the blackhearted murders done there—”
“Nay, he didnae. I have no call to think the mon who told me all this was lying either. He told me Hacon refused to take part in the executions the Bruce called for. Hacon and his men left to camp outside the city.”
“And would ye have let the mon explain himself? Once he said he was at Perth, the place ye thought your father was murdered, would ye have let him tell you any more than that?” Sorcha asked softly. “Aye, or believed it if he did tell you?” When Jennet flushed slightly, Sorcha nodded. “Ye might weel have condemned him then and there. That is why he lied. He dared not chance it. Has he told you other lies?”
“Nay, I think not,” Jennet mumbled. “I cannae seem to make anyone understand how I feel.”
Sorcha walked over to her and hugged her. “I understand, but I fear ye arenae being too sensible, lass. I doubt ye could ever find a mon who would ne’er fight. Even the men of God peopling the abbeys and churches ken weel how to wield a sword. ’Tis the way of the world, and one wee pretty lass cannae change it.”
Stepping back a little, Sorcha held Jennet by the shoulders and regarded her sternly. “Ye have set your heart against something and have become a wee bit blind. Try to look at the good in the mon, not only what ye dinnae like. He was born to be either a knight or a priest. A mon of his blood has little choice. As a priest,” she drawled, “he wouldnae be making ye feel good, would he?”
Blushing, Jennet shook her head. “I suppose he is a good mon.”
“Ye ken weel that he is.” Sorcha gave her a little shake. “Look to that, lass. I have but just met the mon, but I ken the good outweighs all else. Ye will ne’er find a mon who is perfect. Here is one who is good, strong, and able to protect you and yours. Ye would be the greatest fool alive if ye didnae try to keep him.”
“But to live kenning that each time he picks up his sword he could die? To ken that his life is bought by the blood of others? I am not sure I could bear such a life even if he offered it to me.”
“Ye can. We all do. Your uncle is no knight, yet I am oft left here to worry about him. And as for ‘the blood of others’—wheesht, lassie, do ye think the ones he faces dinnae mean to hold their lives or gain by his death? ’Tis all equal,” she added in a soft voice when Jennet just stared at her, wide-eyed. “As ye say, he faces only those who are armed and ready to fight him. They are there for the same reason he is. Many are there, no doubt, for far less noble reasons.”
“I ne’er thought on it that way,” Jennet whispered.
“Weel, think on it now. Come along. We must find a place for ye and your braw knight to bed down.”
“Aunt,” she cried, a little shocked. “Hacon and I arenae wed.”
“Aye, and I will probably do a penance for letting you share a bed, but ’tis foolish to part you now. And”—she winked at Jennet—“together beneath a blanket is the best place to get the mon to start talking of marriage. Besides, I greatly doubt that mon would let me put ye in separate beds,” she added, laughing softly.
“ ’ Tis glad I am your aunt didnae set herself against me about this,” Hacon murmured as he slipped into bed that night and tugged Jennet into his arms. “In truth, I feared how your kinsmen would respond to your place beside me.”
“My kinsmen arenae as proper as mayhaps they should be.” She reached across him to make sure the blanket obscuring their small sleeping alcove was fully closed. “Did Murdoc settle in the loft without a fuss?”
“Weel enough. Having other children about has made him a wee bit excited, but your two girl cousins said he would be all right. He will be happy at Dubhielrig, for there are many children there.” He pressed a kiss to her forehead. “So will you.”
“I will, will I?” She was unable to see him clearly in the dark but knew he was studying her. “Ye might have told me sooner that I would be going with you.”
“Ah, I see.” He inwardly breathed a sigh of relief, realizing her reaction earlier had been one of surprise, undoubtedly tempered by some annoyance. “I thought ye already kenned it.”
“Mayhaps, in future, ye will make certain I ken your plans for me ere ye set them in motion.”
“Fair enough.” He nuzzled his face against her neck. “Do ye ken my plans for you now?”
She hooked her leg over his, pressed close to him, and moved against him in open invitation. “I believe they may be similar to mine for you.”
A soft laugh escaped her when he groaned. Slipping her arms about his neck, she kissed him. Her aunt was right, she decided with sudden conviction. She would be the greatest fool alive if she did not try to keep him.
Chapter 12
“Hacon! Hacon!”
The welcoming cry was repeated again and again as they rode through the gates of the small walled village and down the wide cottage-lined street that led to the largest, finest house in the village. Jennet could see that Sir Hacon Gillard was well loved by those who gathered beneath his family’s banner. Her aunt was proven right again. The good in Hacon far outweighed the bad. A man who ruled through brutality, cruelty, or dishonor would not receive such a warm, heartfelt greeting from his people. Sorcha had been wise to say that this was what Jennet had to look at if she was really to know Hacon.
It was too bad, Jennet mused as the women hurried to meet the men, that not everyone would find joy in the men’s homecoming. Several women began to weep openly upon learning that the men they sought would never return. Glancing to where Elizabeth rode with Robert and his brother Donald, Jennet hoped her friend would not be made to suffer simply because she was English. Grief could too easily turn to hatred, a hatred that might be unfairly aimed at Elizabeth. Jennet promised herself she would keep a watch out for her friend.
