“To confront an army of twelve thousand or more?” Hacon shook his head. “Nay, though it angered me at first, the Douglas has a good plan. A diversionary raid into England. He means to sweep down the Swale Valley toward York. We will harry those lands as we did before, burning their fields and cottages and stealing all we can carry. Once news of our attack reaches Edward’s forces at Berwick, many of his men will race home to protect their lands, wives, and bairns.”
“But Jennet may still be in Berwick.”
“I think not. If we kenned Edward’s movements, the people in Berwick must have too. Many will have fled. One of those many will surely be Artair Graeme. That mon is a survivor. He was caught at Perth. He willnae be caught again.”
“Oh, weel, if ye are sure.”
A brief, sharp laugh escaped Hacon. “Nay, lad, I am sure of verra little. I have ne’er met Artair Graeme. My judgments are born of all I have been told by Jennet and those at Dubheilrig who met the mon. I feel none would question the mon’s bravery, but he is also one who kens weel how to protect his own. The cursed mon has been dancing freely twixt England and Scotland for near as long as Jennet has lived. Cunning allows him to do that, and I must believe that any mon with cunning would swiftly leave a city upon which thousands of the enemy are advancing.”
“Aye, he would,” agreed Dugald.
“Weel.” Ranald hesitated an instant before asking, “We are agreed he would flee, but where would he flee to?”
“I but wish I kenned,” Hacon answered, weariness in his voice. “Again I am left to make a decision with little knowledge. I believe the mon will go south into England. He will ken that the Bruce willnae let Berwick fall. Not wishing to be caught between two armies, he will move to the south. All I can do is pray that the Douglas takes us on the same route.”
“Which means Jennet could be caught in a town or village under attack—again. She will be seen to be on the wrong side—again.”
“Aye.” Hacon fought his own fears, not wishing to reveal them to Ranald. “But we will reach them first.”
“How can ye be sure of that?”
“Wewillreach her first.”
Hacon was relieved when Ranald said no more. He was sick with worry, and the youth’s constant questions only added to it. There was too much left to chance. Jennet could be caught in the midst of another battle, swept up in another raid. Despite his efforts not to, Hacon could not help thinking about all that could go wrong, all that she could so easily suffer. She had her father, but that man could fall in an attack, leaving her alone with young Murdoc to protect.
Over and over he reviewed his decision to join Douglas’s raiding force. What he ached to do was set out immediately to hunt Jennet down, but he knew that was folly. He would not be allowed to wander freely over England. Scotland and England were at war and he was the enemy. Nor did he have Artair Graeme’s skill in changing his identity to suit his whereabouts. Traveling with the army was his only choice. He just wished he could be content with that.
The moment Ranald nodded off to sleep, Dugald gave Hacon a comforting slap on the back. “Ye must cease worrying.”
“That isnae done easily, m’friend.”
“Mayhaps not, but it steals your strength and resolve if ye let your thoughts prey on what could go wrong.”
“All that could go wrong far outweighs what could go right. She willnae be standing upon the first hillock in England awaiting me with a smile.”
“Nay, nor must she be spitted on a pike in the first village we chance upon. Ye would be a fool to think ’twill be easy, but ’tis just as foolish to think the journey doomed ere we begin it.”
“Aye.” Hacon sighed. “Why did she not stay safely at Dubheilrig?” he grumbled.
“Because she thought you were dead. She went with that rogue she calls a father. Aye, and I am thinking the lass is no weak, puling thing to fall so easily. Dinnae forget all she has survived thus far.”
Hacon began to do just that, and his spirits lifted slightly. “Aye, she is a strong lass and a clever one.”
“And no stranger to many of these men. Dinnae keep this search to yourself. Tell others. There is a host of men who would help you search her out. Aye, and if others ken we may meet her on this raid, they may be less swift to cut down all in their path. They may at least look first.”
“Aye, they might at that. On the morrow I will spread the word. It cannae hurt.” Suddenly thinking of Balreaves, Hacon qualified that. “I will also give a good description of her father. Not only might she be found with him, even in the turmoil of battle, but I cannae risk him being killed by my compatriots.”
Grunting in agreement, Dugald scowled out at the rain. “Weel, another night of sleeping squatting like a toad.”
Chuckling softly, Hacon closed his eyes. Sleeping under such conditions was never easy. Adding his deep concern about Jennet’s well-being made it nearly impossible. Nevertheless, he would struggle to get at least some sleep, for he would need rest in order to face the days ahead. On the morrow the raid into England would begin in earnest.
Wiping the sweat from his face with the sleeve of his tunic, Hacon watched the Douglas and James Randolph, the Earl of Moray, confer. The two leaders of the raid sat on their mounts accepting the reports of their forward scouts, all the while plotting their next move. He suspected they were discussing whether or not to attack York, which lay about thirty miles to the south. Their armor glinted in the summer sun from beneath their fine linen surcoats.
Hacon wondered how they could endure it in the heat. September was now into its second week, but it had not brought the cooler weather he had prayed for. He had discarded his helmet and his chain mail, keeping only his lencroich, but even that padded, quilted garment was nearly too hot to bear. A number of men had stripped to their shirts. Since some did not wear braies, Hacon suspected many of the English seeing them attack would be confirmed in their opinion that the Scots were barbarians. While the urge to go naked, or nearly so, was tempting, Hacon was not eager to offer his unprotected nether regions to English swords and arrows.
“Ah, Dugald.” He greeted his cousin as that man set down a bucket of cool water. “As always, ye find just what is needed.” Taking one of the rags out of the bucket, Hacon held it over his face.
“’Tis as hot as Satan’s armpit,” grumbled Dugald as he too took a rag from the bucket and slowly rubbed it over his face and neck. “No mon should have to fight in this.”
