“I willnae argue that, but ye certainly didnae save anyone’s life just now.”
“If your husband had drawn his sword, as Balreaves would have soon goaded him to do, he would now be dead.”
“Then mayhaps ye should have waited until that happened,” snapped Jennet, “before proclaiming yourself a hero.”
“I could have beaten Balreaves,” Hacon protested before the argument between his wife and Sir Niall could continue.
“With two daggers between your shoulders?” Niall drawled. “I dinnae think even ye are that fine a swordsmon, m’lord.” Niall glared at Jennet again. “Iwillsee this debt paid. I cannae bear being indebted to some wee, green-eyed wench.” He stomped away.
“And dinnae call me a wench,” she cried after him, then frowned when Hacon started to laugh. “And just what amuses you?”
“The two of you. Ye squabble like brother and sister.” He tucked her back up against him and kissed her cheek.
“Brother and sister? I recall that ye once thought he wanted me.”
“Oh, he still does, but it doesnae worry me any longer.”
“I wish ye could honestly tell me that Balreaves himself shouldnae worry us any longer,” she muttered, then tensed. “Hacon, Niall kens that Balreaves means to murder you. Others may see it too. Isnae that enough proof?” She could tell by the look on his face that it was not.
“Each and every mon here could ken it, but unless the mon is caught in the attempt, it serves us no good. Balreaves and his kinsmen are too powerful, too important. Andwantinga mon dead isnae truly a crime. Ye ken that as weel as I.” He briefly kissed her, then relaxed against the tree again. “Dinnae let Balreaves torment you. Come, ye were at ease ere he showed his ugly face. Be at ease again. ’Tis a fine cool evening and all is quiet. Nothing more will disturb our peace.”
She doubted the truth of that but forced herself to relax. The moments when peace reigned were all too few. If the men were not on the move, they were at battle or caught up in the confusion of camp life. Jennet decided she would not allow Balreaves to spoil the brief, precious moments of quiet she and Hacon had found. She heartily wished it was a mood that would last for what remained of the raid and all the way back to Dubheilrig.
Chapter 18
“Hacon!” cried Dugald as he and Ranald hurried up to the tree where Hacon and Jennet dozed.
Startled out of her comfortable half sleep, Jennet scowled at the pair. Murdoc, who had crawled onto her lap and fallen asleep just moments earlier, stirred slightly. She touched his tousled curls as the men’s tense expressions dashed her hope that it was an idle interruption.
“I fear there is trouble approaching,” Dugald reported, pointing one slightly stubby finger toward the southwest.
Hacon stood up, stretching a little. Jennet took the sleeping Murdoc and also rose to her feet. Growing worried, she stepped up beside the men and stared off in the same direction. Her heart sank. A force of some sort was approaching from the vicinity of York, marching toward the still-dining Scots. But it did not look to be a proper army. A mob of seven thousand or more followed behind men dressed in white robes. The standard of Saint Peter of York, patron saint of the city, was carried to the fore, which indicated that the archbishop of York himself was leading the group.
“Monks,” Hacon said. “Cistercian monks and farmers. ’Tis a poor army.”
“They might be a vanguard for a more reputable force,” said Dugald.
“Mayhaps.” Hacon turned to briefly kiss Jennet. “Stay here and—”
“I ken it.” She sighed. “And run and hide if the battle turns against us.”
“Aye. I would rather have to search for you again then bury you and the wee laddie. Howbeit, if this is all York can muster against us, I cannae believe there will be a battle. There would be no honor in it.”
Even as the three men hurried away, a furious outcry arose amongst the men nearest the advancing force. Jennet shuddered as men but yards away from her rose to form schiltrons, bellowing their defiance at the English as the spear rings took shape. She held Murdoc a little closer as she watched Hacon and his loyal companions disappear into the now rousing Scots army.
She knew she should move, knew that she stood out a little too plainly in the late afternoon sun. Silently promising the unseen Hacon that she would run at the first hint of a threat, she sought out a better spot from which to watch and soon joined several men atop a small rise. The presence of a chronicler told her it was a good place even before she looked out to see for herself. The whole of the valley, all the way to the Swale Rivet, was laid out before her.
The lances of the Scots’ schiltrons glinted in the fading sun. Their belligerent cries carried on the still air. The army from York immediately faltered, hesitation rippling through its motley ranks. It did not surprise her when the peasants immediately turned and fled. Few of them wore armor and their weapons consisted of crude farm implements for the most part. They were no soldiers. She began to relax, thinking that the threat was over, that the battle would involve only a few traded insults and shows of bravado. But then the men in the schiltrons began to move toward their hobbled horses. She watched in growing shock as, beneath the colors of the Earl of Moray, the Scotsmen began to ride out after the retreating English.
Her brief hope that the Scots meant only to further frighten the weak defenders of York quickly faded. A few of the English took a stand and were easily cut down, Still, Moray’s men did not halt there but continued to pursue the fleeing English. She watched in numb horror as clergy and peasant alike were dispatched by swords, battle-axes, and spears. The Scots left hundreds of dead in their wake.
Moray’s men chased the English to the banks of the Swale, then drove the terrified men back to where the River Swale met the Ure. Even from where she stood Jennet could see the slaughter taking place as men were ruthlessly butchered on the banks of the river or were driven into the water, where they drowned. She prayed no one she knew was taking part in the carnage.
“I would ne’er have thought such a sight to your taste.”
Slowly turning from the bloody scene, Jennet looked up to see Sir Niall. The fact that he stood by her side unmarked by blood gave her new confidence in her judgment. Beneath his sour, sneering outside was a good man.
“They were fleeing. The threat was gone,” she murmured.
