“Do ye think she is sick, uncle?” Ranald asked, briefly casting a worried glance toward the upper floor. “She didnae stay to table verra long and ate little.”
“Troubled more like, though I cannae understand why.”
Serilda nodded, smiling faintly. “I understand, but not kenning the lass, I dare not judge. Mayhaps, son, ’tis but fear and shyness. Ye have dragged the lass into a place filled with strangers.”
“True, yet I wouldnae have thought Jennet prey to shyness.” He told his mother how Jennet had come to be with him and briefly touched on the time between then and now. “Does that sound like a quiet, shy lass to you?” He frowned, suddenly realizing that both his father and his mother were staring at him in shock. “Why do ye look at me like that?”
“Ye dragged the lass from a nunnery?” Serilda’s voice trembled with anger and disgust.
“Nay,” he cried, then grimaced. “Weel, aye, but she wasnae a nun, nor planning to be one. I went to the nunnery hoping to stop Douglas’s men from defiling it. That was not to be. Then I found Jennet.” He shrugged and gave his mother a sheepish look. “I had to have her. And,” he hastily added in his own defense, “to have left her there would have meant leaving her to Douglas’s men.”
“Aye, loving,” Lucais murmured to his wife. “And that would have been a sad fate for the girl.”
“I ken it.” Serilda eyed her son closely as she sipped her wine. “And ye dragged her along on a raid into England to save her from Douglas’s men as weel, did ye?”
“In part, aye,” Hacon agreed.
“And Douglas’s men were a threat in her village too, were they? ’Tis why ye dragged her here, is it?”
Giving his mother a cross look, Hacon answered. “Nay, she is mine,”
“Ah, so ye are wed then.”
“Nay.”
“Not wed?” Hacon’s sister Katherine regarded him with angry disgust. “Do ye mean ye have dragged your . . . your . . .”
“I should choose my words carefully, sister,” Hacon said, his low voice heavy with unspoken warning.
“Weel, ’tisnae a proper way to act before those younger than you.” She nodded toward Ranald. “He sees enough sin without his own uncle wallowing in it before his verra eyes.”
“Oh, do be quiet, Katherine,” Serilda ordered, then looked at Hacon. “So, ye havenae wed the girl. There is something wrong with her, or mayhaps she is highly unsuitable?”
“Neither. Poor but wellborn.” He looked at his father. “I dinnae suppose ye can get her to leave it be?”
“Nay.” Lucais smiled faintly. “I dinnae feel inclined to try either.”
“Have your way then, Mother, but might we do it more privately?”
“Of course.” She stood up. “Since we are all done with eating, we may retire to the solar with some wine.” She started across the hall, pausing before a door at the far end to look over her shoulder. “Hacon? Lucais?” Without waiting for a reply, she went through the door.
Muttering to himself and ignoring his family’s knowing grins, Hacon stood up. As his father grabbed a large jug of wine, Hacon gathered up three goblets. Together they followed Serilda into the solar.
The heavy shutters of the solar’s three large windows were closed, but the warmth of the day still lingered, and there were plenty of candles to light the room. Hacon smiled faintly when he espied his mother’s tapestry frame in its usual place by the center window. He helped his father carry one of the chairs and a small table over to make a close seating arrangement. Serilda took her place on the padded window seat and signaled Lucais to sit next to her, leaving the chair facing them for Hacon.
Once the men were settled and the wine was served, Serilda asked Hacon, “Weel? Why havenae ye wed the girl?”
He leaned forward in his seat. “It may help if I tell you a few things about Jennet.” As succinctly as possible he explained what he knew about her life and her opinion of knights. “She loathes what I am. How can I wed her?” He relaxed in the heavy, elaborately carved chair, certain that that would settle the matter.
“By saying the vows,” his mother said, startling him. “I think, mayhaps, ye misjudge the girl.”
“Ye havenae heard her.”
“True, but what I see tells me a great deal. Hacon, the girl was a virgin of good birth. She became your leman. Would such a lass do so for a mon she loathed? She had the chance to stay with her own kinsmen, yet she left them to come here. Was that the way of a lass who hates you?”
Hacon frowned, rubbing his chin. “Nay, yet all she says . . .”
“Ye take too much to heart,” Serilda finished. “I too spoke out against such things, yet I wed your father. No woman with any feeling can truly like her mon taking up his sword. What ye must do is heed her actions, not her words. Her words might condemn and scold, but all she has done has said she wants you. And ye want her. I saw it in the way ye looked at her as ye helped her down from the pony. Armor yourself against her words. They will soften in time.” She smiled at Lucais. “Mine did, did they not, husband?”
