She took her rosary beads from her pocket. As she smoothed her fingers over them, she remembered Hacon and felt the sting of tears. The war had already stolen so much from her. How could it take more?
As if in answer, an alarm was suddenly sounded. The clanging bell startled her from her thoughts. Horrified, Jennet gaped toward the fields just beyond the village. Sweeping down on Boroughbridge was the Black Douglas. She recognized the banners at the fore of the rapidly moving army. The front line consisted of Douglas and his knights upon their fine horses, their armor glinting in the sun as they rode straight for the village. Behind that line came the mass of the raiding party. Hundreds of Scots on their sturdy ponies, the horde interspersed with an occasional knight on a larger mount, thundered down upon Boroughbridge.
The speed of their advance gave the villagers little time to prepare to defend themselves, little chance even to flee.
For just an instant she hesitated, thinking of all the men she had come to know while riding with the Douglas’s raiding force. Then good sense returned to her. Even if she was lucky enough to meet up with one, he might not recognize her until it was too late. She grabbed Murdoc and ran for her life.
Chapter 16
“She isnae here.” Hacon stomped out of the ransacked inn and paused in the market street of Boroughbridge, Dugald and Ranald flanking him.
“Ye cannae be certain of that yet,” Dugald protested. “We have searched but half the village.”
“The other half burns. She wouldnae linger there.”
“Uncle,” Ranald began a little timidly, “I cannae feel she would linger in the village at all.”
“Nay?” Hacon tugged off his helmet and ran a hand through his sweat-dampened hair.
“Nay. Though we fell upon this village as swiftly as we fall upon others, there was still some time when she could have seen us. Aye, there was even time for an alarum to be sounded. I believe she would have fled here as swiftly as she could.”
“Aye,” Dugald agreed, “the lad is right. Even if shewashere, she willnae be here now. Now, I dinnae think we need to search the countryside all about us . . .”
“I am pleased to hear it,” drawled Hacon.
“Howbeit,” Dugald continued, ignoring the interruption, “it would be wise to speak to whatever hostages were taken, to those who survived. Once we find out if she and her father ever lived here, we will ken what to do next.”
“’Tis exactly what I was thinking,” agreed Hacon, then turned to Ranald. “Ye return to our horses. If Jennet is close by, she may try to find one amongst Douglas’s men whom she kens would aid her.” As soon as Ranald left, Hacon said to Dugald, “Weel, let us see if any of the villagers have survived.”
“Or if any will speak to us,” muttered Dugald as he followed Hacon in search of captives.
As Hacon strode through the smoldering village, he prayed Ranald was right. If Jennet had been in Boroughbridge and had not run at the first sign of attack, she could easily be one of the dead or dying now. He winced when he heard a woman’s screams. Ah, lass, if ye had the wit to hide, he prayed, then stay there. Please, God, give her the wit to stay hidden until this bloodlust calms.
Jennet grimaced as one of the branches of the hedgerow stabbed her in the back. From her hiding place within the hedge’s sharp tangles, she could see the village. Poor accursed Boroughbridge, she thought as she watched smoke curl up from the burning roofs. She recalled a similar scene from the raid she had been forced to join over a year ago, after Hacon had taken her from Berwick. It amazed her that the people had the strength to rebuild each time. Boroughbridge was a lovely place, yet it now seemed doomed.
Placing her fingers on Murdoc’s lips, she silenced the boy’s whimpers. She had spent long hours teaching him how to be still and quiet. At times she had wondered why she should try so hard, but the value of the lessons was now clear. Douglas’s men trampled over the countryside looking for villagers to take captive and stock to steal. One thing she would not have to worry about was that Murdoc might reveal their hiding place.
But she also knew that did not mean they were safe, and she tensed as a horse snorted close by. It was tempting to edge forward, to peek out of her uncomfortable thicket refuge. That, she knew, would be folly. Shemightbe able to accomplish it unseen, but the risk was far too great
A strange noise drew her attention. Several yards away and drawing closer, the sound was difficult to recognize. Then she nearly gasped aloud, pressing her palm over her mouth to halt any noise’s escape. Whoever was wandering outside the hedgerow was walking along slowly and prodding it with his sword. She had seen that done before. It never failed to flush out whatever or whoever tried to hide there. And, she thought with dismay as she looked at Murdoc, it would flush her out.
Holding the lad close, she carefully inched into a position which would allow her to bolt when the time was right. She kept her gaze fixed toward the sword, although it was several moments before it came into view, edging ever closer. She prayed the man would not think to mount the horse she could hear tethered nearby and simply run her down. When the sword plunged into the thicket but inches from her, she bolted.
The branches of the hedge tore at her clothing as she emerged. She immediately darted to the right, just in time to elude the grasp of the knight who waited there. She headed west, thinking to put so much distance between herself and the knight hot on her heels that he would stop pursuing her, would turn back to his companions, not wishing to plunge too deep into what could be enemy territory, alone and unaided.
But soon she realized that her pursuer was not one to give up quickly. So too, she was tiring fast, hindered by Murdoc’s weight, her long skirts, and the heat. While she was still able she decided to make a stand. Quickly setting Murdoc down, she pulled out her dagger, turned, and gaped. The man who halted but a few feet from her, panting and sweat-soaked, was Sir Niall Chisholm. She started to relax, then tensed again as he aimed his sword at her. Whether he recognized her or not, he meant to kill her.
“Sir Niall!” she cried, desperate enough to plead, if only for Murdoc’s sake. “Do ye not recognize me?”
“Aye. Sir Gillard’s wee whore. Ye are with the enemy again.”
He lunged and she nimbly eluded the deadly point of his sword. The ensuing battle was grossly unequal. She quickly realized that he was but toying with her. Her dagger was no defense against his sword. Within moments he tripped her, causing her to lose her dagger. He pinned her to the ground, sitting on her and holding his sword edge against her throat. Jennet could not understand why he should wish to kill her, which only added to her feeling of utter helplessness.
“Why?” she asked, her voice hoarse from her exertions and a fear that consumed her.
“Ye are with the English again. Need I have another reason?”
“Nay.” She felt completely defeated, almost resigned to her fate. “Spare the bairn?” she asked as a softly sniffing Murdoc toddled over to sit by her head. “Ye could give him to any of the men from Dubheilrig and they would care for him.”
