Without another word, Jennet left. Clutching her rosary beads to her chest, she made her way slowly, numbly, to the room she had shared so briefly with Hacon. She stepped inside, closed the heavy door behind her, and started toward the bed. But inches from it, all the emotion on which she had kept such a tight rein broke free, bringing her to her knees.
“I should go to her,” murmured Serilda, but Artair blocked her path. “I dinnae think she should be left alone, Artair. The news dealt her a heavy blow. She was a sickly color and much too quiet.”
“Aye, she was. I will give her a few moments, then I will go to her.”
“But why wait?”
“I need to ken how her grief will turn her.” Seeing the confusion in the Gillards’s faces, he explained. “I have seen my wee lass through many such losses, from that of her mother to that of a wee friend. There are two ways she can act. She might push her pain aside, fight it, deny it. Or she might be ruled by it. Aye, it will tear at her so badly she will be ill with it for three, mayhaps four, days. I have seen my poor bairn through it all before. I will do so again. Aye, we kept each other from going mad with grief when my Moira was lost to us. Now, I will bring her through this black time.”
“Ye will need help.”
“Aye, but ye have your own sorrow.” He briefly took her hand and kissed it. “That Sassanach lass, Elizabeth, will do. I best go to Jennet now. I grieve for your loss, mistress, sir.” He bowed to the Gillards and strode off to Jennet’s chambers.
Upon reaching the door to her rooms, he paused. He could hear her weeping, deep wrenching sobs that tore at his heart. Briefly he pressed his forehead against the door, closing his eyes. Here is yet another hurt ye cannae mend, he thought, wanting to weep with her, for her. Then, opening the door, he stepped inside. One look at her where she knelt on the floor rocking back and forth told him there would be long, painful days ahead.
Jennet slowly opened her eyes and winced. She felt battered and sore. Her eyes felt gritty and slightly swollen. For a moment she wondered if she had been ill. Then she remembered. Hacon was dead. She felt a spasm of pain and hastily placed her hand over her heart, surprised it could take such abuse yet continue to beat. When an elegant, long-fingered hand gently covered hers, she looked up to find her father at her bedside regarding her with concern
“Hacon is dead, Papa.” Her voice sounded weak and raspy.
“Aye, lass. I fear he is.” When she started to sit up, he quickly helped her, fluffing up the fine goose down pillows for her to lean against.
“And I have been a burden.”
“Nay, no burden. The wound was deep and ye needed to wash it clean. ’Tis best this way.”
“Aye, and your father was at your side the whole time.” Elizabeth stepped up to the bed and helped Jennet drink some mead from an elaborately carved wooden goblet “There, that should soothe your poor throat.”
“How long did I carry on? I cannae remember verra much.”
“Three days,” answered Artair.
“Oh, Papa, ye shouldnae have let me be so foolish, so . . . so selfish.”
“Ye were neither. This was needed. Aye, and ye didnae carry on too long.”
“Three days isnae too long?”
“Nay. I was planning to allow four, then I would shake or slap some sense into you.”
She gave him a weak smile, then gasped. “Hacon’s mother. His father. I should have been with them, tried to aid them in their grief. How could I be so thoughtless?”
“Be at ease, loving. No one considers you thoughtless. Aye, they too grieve, but they have each other to cling to.”
Relaxing a little, she nodded. “True, but I shall try to make amends for my neglect. And to Murdoc. He is all right?”
“Fine,” replied Elizabeth, “though he does fret some for you.”
Nodding, she sighed and stared at her hands. “It hurts, Papa, and what hurts most is kenning I sent him away with harsh words. I am not sure I can forgive myself for that.”
He took her hands in his, silently urging her to look at him. “As has many another woman sent her mon away. Lass, he didnae go to his death with your sharp words ringing in his ears, if that is what ye fear. His mother had already given him the wisest advice any mother could give her son about a woman. Heed her acts, not her words, she told him. Your acts put the lie to all your words. Ye gave him a kiss that is still recalled by all those who witnessed it, and ye gave him your fine rosary beads. Now, as a mon I can tell ye what he recalled—that kiss. Ye could have chosen no better way to ease any sting caused by your words.”
“Thank ye, although”—she frowned at him—“ye wouldnae lie just to soothe me, would you?”
“Aye, I would, but I havenae. Not this time. Your mon would remember that kiss, which I hear tell was quite shameless.”
“Aye, I think it was.” Then she remembered that she would never kiss Hacon again and felt the sting of tears. “’Tis a pity that my long wallow in grief hasnae left me without pain. Will it ever leave me?”
“I cannae say, dearling. ’Twill lessen, soften with time. I can still feel the bite of it when I recall your mother. What ye will learn is to live with it, survive despite it, and aye, even find some joy in life again. I have.”
