“The Scots? Douglas’s men?” She tugged on her undertunic and began to lace it up.
“If I dared a guess, I would say aye. The English are besieging Berwick. ’Twould be like the Douglas to push a raid into this beleaguered land, hoping to divert the English from Berwick.” He began to buckle on his sword.
“Or, at least weaken the siege by drawing some men from it, those who would race to protect their lands here.”
“Aye. It has worked before. Howbeit, I cannae say ’tis one or the other. The English could be riding this way, having lifted the siege or even taken Berwick. I dinnae want to see them either. Their arrival need not be a friendly one.”
“What are we going to do?” She slipped on her overtunic and quickly did it up.
“Wearenae doing anything. Not yet.” He moved to stand in front of her, gently grasping her shoulders. “I am going to see exactly what is marching our way.”
“Nay,” she cried, suddenly afraid for him. “’Tis madness to walk toward an army.”
“Lass, I ken weel what I am doing. I also ken that to run without being certain what we run from is foolishness. In truth, there may be no reason to flee. ’Twould please me if that proved true.”
“Surely we can learn all we need to know by waiting here a wee bit longer.”
“Once that army is in sight, ’twill be too late to act. None of the cowards or woodenheads living here understand that. So, I must do it myself. Now, ye are to stay here. Dinnae go anywhere, and, if anyone comes here, shoo them away.”
When he strode toward the low, narrow doorway, she hurried after him. “This is too dangerous. Let us just leave here.”
“Lass”—he kissed her cheek—“gather up your things and accept that your father does ken a thing or two, that he may go take a wee peek and return hale.”
“I ken weel that ye have a fine skill, but I dinnae like this. I have an ill feeling about it all. Let us stay together, face whatever approaches together, or flee together.”
Cupping her face in his hands, he quickly kissed her nose. “Set your fears and forebodings aside, sweeting. Now, obey your father.”
“But—”
“Heed me, lass. ’Tis important. Get the wee laddie dressed and toss what ye most value in a sack. Then set right here. I will return. Howbeit, if I dinnae and something happens . . .”
“I will wait for you.”
“Nay, ye willnae. Ye will grab the bairn and hide.”
“And be parted from you for another eight years?”
“That willnae happen. Think of that wee laddie, child. He is the most important one. Take him and get away. If this is an attack, ye must not hesitate to save your own life and Murdoc’s. I can take care of myself.” He kissed her cheek again, and started out the door.
Jennet stood in the doorway and watched him leave, feeling terrified and alone. The sense of impending disaster she had tried to suppress grew stronger, choking her. She feared she was about to lose her father again.
A tug on her skirts drew her attention. She looked down to find Murdoc at her side, his sleepy-eyed gaze going from her departing father to her and back again. Sighing, she picked him up and gently hugged him as she watched her father disappear into the distance. She prayed that whatever army waited out there found him just as hard to see. The fact that they had killed the shepherd who had chanced upon them did not suggest they were friendly.
Turning back into the small cottage, she hurried to do exactly as her father had told her to. She knew he was right in all he had said. Murdoc was the one to think of now, not herself or her father. She had seen enough of war to know that even the babes were not safe. Using all her willpower, she kept her mind fixed upon the child.
It did not take long to gather up the belongings she considered important. The farther they had traveled from Dubheilrig, the poorer they had lived. There was little coin to be made in the war-ravaged land. Even her father, with all his guile and wit, had barely kept them housed and fed.
Finally, prepared to flee at any moment, she sat in the open doorway. Murdoc played happily in the dirt at her foot. She kept a close eye on him, but most of her attention was fixed upon the village. At any moment the quiet cluster of cottages could be beset by men eager to lay waste to it. The thatched roofs would begin to burn, women would scream, and the sound of deadly battle would rend the air. She dreaded it. Foolishly, she had allowed herself to believe that, in leaving Berwick before the English army appeared, they had eluded the never-ending war.
Her dark thoughts were disrupted when a wagon appeared on the road before her tiny cottage. “Master Butcher, where do ye hie to?” she called out, frowning when she saw that his household goods and family filled the wagon. “Has trouble come?”
“Nay, but I do not mean to set still and wait for it.” The barrel-chested man slowed his wagon. “We travel to my brother’s farm, south of York. I will return when I am sure ’tis safe here.”
“But why do ye believe it isnae safe now?”
“Child, that poor shepherd was not cut down out of mercy. I lost one family to war. I do not mean to lose another. Ye would be wise to flee as well,” he added as he snapped the reins, urging his cart horse to a faster pace.
Jennet looked back toward the village. She tried to find comfort in the fact that no one else seemed to agree with Master Butcher. There was no sign of any other cart.
