“Aye, but what good is it to let it gnaw at you? Ye cannae change it. ’Tis the way of it. If ye dinnae take the cattle, another would and think ye a great fool for leaving it behind. Aye, and every mon here would take from us given half the chance. ’Tis the way of it.”
“Being ‘the way of it’ doesnae make it right.”
“Nay, but ye cannae end it. Ye are but one mon, though some who have fought against ye may claim otherwise.” Dugald smiled faintly, then grew serious again. “Ye have ne’er set the torch to a cottage or a field nor do ye set about cutting down all and sundry, crazed with the scent of blood. Neither do the men riding with you. ’Tis enough. Unless ye can get every mon who ever lifted a sword against another to stop plundering, burning, or killing innocents, it will go on. I dinnae think e’en the Bruce has that power.”
Hacon sighed and nodded. “And so ’twill remain ‘the way of it.’ She hates what I am.” Even as he spoke the words he wondered why that should trouble him so deeply.
“She carries a lot of hard, bitter feelings for a wee lass. Still, that willnae stop ye from wanting to lie with her.”
“Nay, it willnae.” Hacon turned to look at Dugald and was comforted by the sympathy on his cousin’s dour face. “Yet it troubles me. It troubles me to think that, while her flesh may yet warm to my touch, and aye, her heart too, in her mind I am naught but a butcher. In her thoughts I am naught but a mon soaked in blood and stinking of death.”
“Then ye must change her mind, though I dinnae understand why it matters.”
“Neither do I,” murmured Hacon as he started on his way again. “Neither do I; but it does, curse her beautiful eyes.”
They walked on in silence for a little longer until Dugald pointed out the house where Ranald had found the child. The woman’s body still lay sprawled in front of it. A man’s body blocked the doorway. The babe Ranald had risked so much for was clearly an orphan now. Yet as Hacon tugged the man’s body out of his way, he thought that the last thing he needed was to add a babe to the ever growing clan of people he was responsible for.
Once inside, he and Dugald made a thorough search of the ransacked house. It was evident in what little remained that the couple had not been poor, but they did not find what they needed. Hacon dutifully gathered up some baby clothes to take back with them. He was resigning himself to having to appeal to the Black Douglas himself when a faint noise caught his and Dugald’s attention.
After listening intently for a moment they agreed the sound came from beneath the house. A search of the floor revealed a trapdoor. Hacon had to stand and wait as Dugald went down, for the opening was too small for him. Once the three goats hidden down there were pulled and prodded out of their underground shelter, Hacon stood and stared at them, Dugald at his side.
“The lass guessed right,” he finally murmured.
“Aye, she seems a clever wee thing. But then she has lived here for seven years.”
“Weel, with that English family at least. I think that, despite how her words can trouble a mon, I will still listen to what she says. It may be that she has a useful insight.”
Dugald nodded. “She does have wit.”
“Ye sound surprised.” Hacon grinned at his cousin as he espied three lengths of rope near the door. The ropes had obviously been used as tethers for leading the goats, and he moved to collect them. “I didnae ken ye had begun to doubt that a woman could possess some wit.” He handed two ropes to Dugald and began to tie one to the simple leather collar on one of the goats.
His smile a little sad, Dugald followed suit. “I havenae seen many women of late who werenae screaming or wailing with grief. This war has been so long and so constant, a mon doesnae get much time to dally with a lass.”
“Nay? And here I thought ye had an eye for the fair Margaret back in Dubheilrig.” He laughed softly when his cousin flushed slightly and scowled. “Come on, we had best get these back. I havenae had a muckle lot to do with bairns, but I do ken they can make a fair noise when they feel the bite of hunger.” He started out of the house, tugging one goat behind him, listening to Dugald softly curse the two he dragged along.
“A bairn, a wee lass, and now three accursed goats,” muttered Dugald. “Do ye really think we can tow these o’er hill and dale?”
“I ken it willnae be easy, but we cannae send them back to Dubheilrig or with whatever plunder is driven back.”
“So we drag the lot behind us as we raid? That is madness.”
Hacon grimaced, fully agreeing, then shrugged. “What else can I do?”
“Leave them here.”
“Dugald, ye heard what I told the girl. ’Twas the full truth. If we are driven from here by the English or their supporters, she will be seen as the enemy. After what we have done here, that will mean a sure death for her. Aye, and mayhaps not a verra merciful one. If we hold the town and gain the castle, Douglas will leave some of our men here. They will also consider her as plunder and will use her as such.”
“Ye could make your claim to her clear.”
“I could, but not every mon would honor it. The moment I am gone, my claim to her will weaken. ’Tis something that must be strengthened by my presence, by my sword. Nay, she stays with me. There are always some men left at camp who sit with the wounded and newly gathered plunder. She can stay with them.”
“Her and the bairn.”
“Aye, and the bairn.”
“And the goats.”
“Aye, and the goats,” Hacon snapped, glaring at his cousin. “Weel? Say it.”
