“There is a dark thought.” When Murdoc dropped a bit of meat on the dirt floor, she quickly tossed it into the fire before he could eat it. “Weel, what are the English about to do that makes ye wish to leave?”
“Word has come that that puppet, Edward the Second, is coming north intending to retake Berwick from our fine Walter the Steward.”
“Regrettable, but it cannae be much of a surprise. I should think ’twas but a question of when it would happen.”
“True. Weel, the when is now. An English army of thousands is assembling at Newcastle. They will march north any day now. ’Twill be a long summer for those caught within these walls.”
“August has already begun. Aye, ’tis a week gone. Half the summer has already passed.”
“The half that remains will seem verra long indeed, and I dinnae intend for us to spend it in Berwick.”
Finished with her stew, Jennet set her empty bowl and spoon in a small pan of water on the narrow stone hearth. She took a drink from the wineskin, then handed it to her father. Her strongest emotion concerning this threat was one of resignation, which troubled her. The last thing she wished was to grow complacent about war. That hinted at a lack of feeling, a numbness of the heart that worried her.
“I should prefer not to be caught up in yet another battle. Howbeit, where can we flee?”
“I thought Boroughbridge.”
“Boroughbridge? Why there?”
“I have friends there. Weel, Artos de Nullepart does.” He smiled, winked, then took a long swig of wine.
“How verra nice, but why go south into England, deeper into the enemy’s land? Why not go north into Scotland? We have friendsandkinsmen there.”
Artair nodded and was briefly diverted into laughing when Murdoc toddled over to play with the long tail of his liripipe cap. “We do, and I would travel that way except for one wee trouble. Do ye think the Scots will just set back and let the English regain Berwick?”
She grimaced and inwardly cursed. “Nay, they will rush to aid Berwick or, if it’s too late to do so, will fight to take it back from the English.”
“Aye, they will, though I cannae guess exactly what they will do. They could ride straight here or engage in another of those diversionary raids the Douglas so favors. Either way would put us between two armies. I dinnae wish that.”
“Nor I. We bear the colors of neither side, nor are we wealthy enough to be held for ransom. ’Twould be but a race to see which side would cut us down first.”
“Which is just what I mean to avoid. So, on the morrow we ride for Boroughbridge.”
Jennet sighed and nodded. Although she disliked the idea of moving yet again, she was not heartbroken to leave Berwick. Since arriving, she had been surprised to find that the town too held memories for her. She had not expected that, for although she had met Hacon here, it had not been the happiest of times. Her pain was clearly too fresh, any memory able to stir it whether good or bad. What truly hurt was that now, when it was too late, she fully realized the difference between Hacon and too many another knight. While she would never have liked his going into battle, she knew now that she could have been less condemning. She could only pray that she had not wounded him in any way with her words.
“Away with that sad face, dearling,” scolded her father, though his own face held only sympathy.
She had to smile. He and Murdoc were engaged in a tug of war with the liripipe cap. Her father’s thick hair was now mussed by Murdoc’s snatching of his cap. They were what kept her from sinking into black despair, what gave her a reason to live. Murdoc needed her, and although her father did not, he would be sorely grieved to lose her. Although she sometimes felt as if she had no purpose in life without Hacon, she knew it was not true. Life might no longer be so sweet, but it was far from over.
As she rescued her father’s cap from a giggling Murdoc, she asked her father, “And if ye are Artos, who am I?”
“Ah, my daughter, of course.”
“But I am not as skilled as you. I dinnae think I can sound French.”
“No need to. I have always mentioned you if asked, claiming I took a wife during a brief stay in Scotland. Now I will say that ye, and your bairn, had need of me. Such things are easily explained.”
“Mayhaps, but are not the French often the enemy of the English?”
“Not all of them. I always claim kinship to those in favor at the moment.”
She shook her head and laughed softly. “One day ye shall trip o’er all these lies and half-truths.” She picked Murdoc up in her arms. “Weel, we are to bed. I would assume ye mean to leave early and travel swiftly.”
“Aye, I do. I wish to be weel away ere those armies clash.”
Hacon scowled at the many small campfires that dotted the moor. He had been with the army for just a week, and already he was weary of it. A thin summer rain soaked him and the rest of Douglas’s men. Only a few tents had been raised. Douglas’s force traveled light, leaving such comforts behind. Huddled beneath his plaid, which Dugald had stretched over sticks to make a roof of sorts, Hacon wished they went as encumbered with such luxuries as the English. Instead he squatted next to Ranald and Dugald before a sputtering, smoky fire, feeling increasingly damp and gloomy. Only thoughts of Jennet kept him from racing back to Dubheilrig. He had to find her. He just wished he could he more confident of doing so while riding with Douglas.
“Why dinnae we travel to Berwick?” Ranald asked, breaking the heavy silence.
