“Actually, Jennet,” Ranald drawled, and patting the shoulder of the woman at his side, “her name is Fenella.”
She gaped at her young friend and glared at her father. “Now he even has your impertinence.”
“Aye.” Moving to ruffle Ranald’s thick hair, Artair laughed. “The lad’s a fast learner. Lots of promise in the boy.”
Turning her back on them, Jennet fought against laughing. She had to be stern. While she did not really see the harm in frolicking about with willing maids, it could lead to trouble. Katherine had taken to wailing about Ranald’s slipping into “the depths of depravity,” and she pinned the blame squarely on Artair Graeme. Jennet preferred such tirades to reminders of how long Hacon had been gone, but she knew she could not simply ignore Katherine’s anger. Feeling in control again, Jennet turned to frown at the group.
“Weel, his mother doesnae like the lessons ye teach.” She ignored Ranald’s muttered complaints.
“The woman coddles the boy,” Artair protested. “Boy? He is more a mon than a boy.”
Although she agreed, Jennet was about to point out that it was not her father’s place to interfere when someone called her name. Frowning in puzzlement, she turned just as a young man appeared in the doorway. It took her a moment to recognize Donald, Robert’s brother. Her delight over how completely he had recovered from his wounds was brief, fading when she saw the concern in his expression.
“What is it, Donald?” she had to ask, for his attention was momentarily diverted by the four lovers.
“Oh”—he colored faintly—“there is a messenger.”
“Weel, surely ye took him to his lordship’s parents.” Jennet told herself that her growing fear was absurd, that the messenger could have been sent by anyone, but still her anxiety grew.
“Aye, but he willnae give his message until ye are there to hear it as weel.”
That sounded ominous to Jennet. Her heart pounding with increasing trepidation, she hurried out of the stables over the thawing ground and into the small manse. It took all her courage to step into the large hall, where the family was gathered and the messenger waited. She heartily wished she could be back within the stables scolding her father. The look on Serilda Gillard’s face as the woman hurried over to greet her only added to Jennet’s dread. It took all her strength to repress the childish and futile urge to cover her ears with her hands. She was glad to have Serilda’s hand clasping hers as the woman spoke to the messenger.
“Ye may tell us your news now, Sir Bearnard.”
The man sighed, twisted his fine liripipe hat in his hands and completely ruining the shape of the hood with its long conical tail. “I regret ’tisnae good news I must relate.”
Lady Serilda smiled faintly, but her expression held only deep sadness. “I ken it. Go on.”
“Sir Hacon Gillard, lord of Dubheilrig, fell in battle at Dundalk in Ireland. Our liege’s brother fell in the same battle. Your son”—he looked at Jennet—“and your lord fought bravely and with honor.”
Jennet felt cold, so very cold. She was only faintly aware of Lucais hastening to his wife’s side and embracing her as she softly wept. Sir Bearnard’s devastating words pounded into Jennet’s mind, nearly deafening her to all around her. She felt a hand grip her arm, turning to the person who held her, and after a moment, realized it was her father at her side.
“M’lady?” Sir Bearnard called to her. “Lady Gillard?”
“Answer the man, lass,” urged Artair, giving her a slight shake even as he watched her closely and with concern.
“Aye? What is it, sir?”
“I have brought something for you.” When she held out her hand, he slowly placed her rosary beads in it. “His mon, a Sir Niall, believed ye would wish to have these returned.”
Clenching her hand over the beads so tightly that they dug into her skin, Jennet heard herself ask, “Sir Niall? He isnae Hacon’s mon. Dugald is. Where is Dugald?”
“I dinnae ken this mon—Dugald? There were two men killed with your lord. Mayhaps one was this Dugald.”
“There is no mayhaps about it,” said Lucais, his voice thick and hoarse with emotion. “Dugald would ne’er leave my son’s side. If any mon died with Hacon, ’twould be our Dugald. What of the other men from Dubheilrig?”
“I cannae say how many will return, but some will. They rest now at Stirling. The king wishes me to extend to you his heartfelt sorrow. Your son was one of his best soldiers. And if there is a kinsman ye wish named to the title and lands, or if ye will now take the honor yourself, ye need but speak it and ’tis done.”
“My grandson, Ranald, will carry the weight of that honor now,” said Lucais.
Unable to bear it any longer, desperately needing to get away, Jennet turned to leave. Even as she stepped toward the door she remembered she was not alone in her grief. Serilda and Lucais had lost their son. She struggled to think of something to say, wondering fleetingly why they were looking at her with such concern.
“I am so verra sorry,” she whispered. “There are no words, are there?”
“Nay.” Serilda lightly touched her arm. “Child, mayhaps ye should lie down.”
“Aye, I was headed to my chambers.”
