It was not long before she knew he was asleep, but she did not soon join him in that blissful oblivion. Jennet needed to keep looking at him, to keep touching him, to reassure herself that he was really alive. She lay there for hours praying that nothing would steal him away from her again.
Trying not to wince, Jennet shifted in the saddle. Despite their best intentions, she and Hacon had made love several more times during the short night. She was tired and—she inwardly grimaced—in no condition to travel mile after mile on horseback. When Sir Niall rode up beside her, she silently cursed. She was in no humor to deal with him either.
“Enjoying your ride, Mistress Gillard?”
The way he grinned at her told her he knew exactly what discomfort she suffered, and its cause. She supposed it did not take any great wit to guess how she and Hacon, reunited after so long, would have spent the night. It was, however, very ill-mannered of Sir Niall to refer to it, and she glared at him.
“I meant to ask the same thing of you, Sir Niall. After all,” she drawled, “’twasnae I who was knocked onto my backside by some puling Englishmon.” To her astonishment he laughed.
“Ah, m’lady, if ye didnae already belong to Sir Gillard, I would gift him with you. I could ne’er plague him with the skill ye do, my tart wench.” He saluted her and started to ride away.
“I shall plague you sorely if ye dinnae cease to call me wench,” she called after him, then cursed when he only laughed harder.
A moment later Hacon rode up beside her. “Trouble?” He frowned after Sir Niall, who disappeared into the group of knights gathered around James Randolph, the Earl of Moray.
“Nay, he was but passing a greeting with me, with his usual skill and tact.”
Hacon grinned briefly, then scowled. “Where is Ranald?”
“He had to answer nature’s call. Aye, see? He returns even now.” She smiled at Ranald as he rode up on her other side, “Are we nearing York?”
“Near enough,” Hacon said. “Mayhaps fifteen miles distant. We will stop to sup within the next mile or so.”
“Are we to attack the city then?” Ranald asked.
“I dinnae ken. ’Tis verra hard to gain any news, but”—he started toward their leaders—“I will try more earnestly. Stay with her, Ranald, for we draw too near a weel-fortified town.” Then Hacon rode off.
It was another hour before the army halted. Jennet shivered a little as she dismounted. The end of September drew near, and the chill of fall was occasionally in the air. In the distance she could see the Swale River. It hurt to think of how soon the landscape’s pristine beauty would be destroyed and that she rode with the men who would wreak that destruction.
Forcing herself to think only of her immediate needs, she turned her attention to feeding herself and Murdoc. She moved to find Dugald as Ranald saw to the care of their horses. Dugald, she mused with a half smile, would have already located the best, most comfortable place to camp.
Resting against the trunk of a tilted birch tree after washing clean Murdoc’s food-smeared face, Jennet smiled at Hacon as he joined her. He sat down beside her, draping his arm across her shoulders, and she readily leaned against him. After a short respite from sitting in a saddle and with her stomach comfortably full, she felt quite content. She stared out over the moor dotted with so many campfires and wondered idly how something so threatening could look so pretty, even in the late afternoon. Just as she was about to remark upon the scene to Hacon, Balreaves approached with two thick-necked swordsmen, one on either side. Nothing else could have better served to destroy her good humor.
“So, ye found the wench,” Balreaves drawled, giving Jennet a contemptuous glance.
“I found my wife—aye.” Hacon ached to draw his sword but knew Jennet was right to hold him back, silently urging him not to succumb to Balreaves’s goading.
“She appears to make a habit of living with our enemies.”
Hacon tensed, all too aware of how bad it looked for Jennet to keep turning up on the English side of the border. “The lass thought herself a widow. Understandably, she put herself under the protection of her father again.”
“Who brought her back into England. One can only wonder what reason a Scotsman would have to keep returning here.”
“I shouldnae wonder on it too loudly, Balreaves.”
Balreaves shrugged. “So now ye will desert the Douglas.”
“Nay, I stay with him until the end.” That hint of insult to his sense of loyalty, even his courage, made it almost impossible for Hacon to remain calm.
“Ah, there ye are, Sir Balreaves,” called Sir Niall as he ambled over to them. “The Douglas looks for you.” He half smiled as, after one sweeping glare at them all, Balreaves and his companions stalked away. “There.” Niall looked at Jennet. “We are even now.”
“What do ye mean—even?” she demanded, fighting to push aside the fear with which Balreaves always left her.
“Did I not just save your husband’s life?”
“I didnae see any swords drawn.”
“Balreaves wishes Hacon dead.”
