“Aye. There is no need for this bloodshed,” he whispered.
She wondered why he spoke so softly. Then he briefly looked past her. Following his nervous glance, she saw Balreaves standing near the chronicler. The way Balreaves’s head was tilted ever so slightly in their direction made her certain that the man was trying to hear them. As so many others did, Niall feared his criticisms would be overheard and then used against him. The gory state of Balreaves’s surcoat told her that, although he was not with Moray’s men now, he recently had been. She wondered if he was trying to get his name mentioned prominently in the chronicler’s accounts.
“Have ye seen Hacon?” she asked Niall as she turned her attention back to him, much preferring his face to the sight of the murder being enacted below.
“Do ye truly feel he would take a hand in that?” Niall gave a short, bitter laugh. “Ye dinnae ken your mon verra weel, do ye?”
“I didnae say he was down there,” she retorted. “I but asked if ye had seen him.” The sting of guilt stirred her temper because for one brief minute shehadwondered if Hacon ran with Moray’s wolves.
“Weel, I have seen him. He and his men claim all they can lay hands upon as plunder or as captives for ransom. Aye, he is down there, but the fine lord of Dubheilrig doesnae take part in that slaughter. Not for him the taint of bloodlust. Nay, fool that he is, he is even trying to save a few. When they beg to surrender or cry for mercy, he heeds them. His gallantry could cost him dearly,” Niall muttered, and shook his head.
Deciding she would gain nothing by asking him why he had spoken so sneeringly of Hacon’s deeds, Jennet concentrated on his final words. “What do ye mean—’twill cost him?”
“He interferes. ’Tis never wise. ’Tis best to join in or quietly stand back, especially if ye are a mon who must keep fetching his wife out of England.”
“Is my whereabouts mentioned often?”
“Sir Balreaves does his best to see that no one forgets it.” He grasped her arm and tugged her along as he started down the small rise. “Ye shouldnae be here watching such slaughter.”
“Why do they do it?” she demanded, her soft voice weighted with horror.
Niall shrugged. “Hate. Bloodlust. Who can say? It gains us little. In truth, we may come to rue this day.”
“They are murdering men of the Church.”
“Lass, with Scotland repeatedly placed under a papal edict of excommunication, do ye really believe those men are worrying about their souls? The Pope himself has damned us all. Why should we worry o’er a few monks and minor English priests? Not that they were so verra holy themselves,” he muttered. “They marched on us with swords in hand. I dinnae think they meant to bless us all, do ye? Weel, God allowed them to take up arms, but He neglected to give them backbone. They are paying for that cowardice now.”
“’Tis naught but murder to cut down hundreds of men as they flee.”
“More like thousands.” He stopped and released his hold on her. “And ye would be wise to keep such thoughts to yourself. The Earl of Moray himself leads this charge. Now, here is where your mon left you, and here is where ye had best be when he returns.”
Jennet glanced around her and realized she was back by the tree she and Hacon had dozed against earlier. Turning to say something to Niall, she saw that he was already yards away, disappearing into the group of milling soldiers. She was briefly alarmed to see Balreaves close behind him. That awful man had followed them. Jennet knew he had done his best to hear all she and Niall had said. There was nothing she could do about that, but she vowed to keep a closer watch on the man. With a heavy sigh she slumped against the tree trunk. Murdoc partly awoke, then settled himself more comfortably against her breasts.
The slaughter went on until nightfall, when darkness put a merciful end to it. Word came from the scouts and spies sent to watch York that Edward’s queen, his judges, and his exchequer had all fled the city for Nottingham. Jennet was relieved. She had thought the Scots were not so cruel as Edward’s father had been, that they would never hang a woman in a cage from a city’s walls. Now, however, she was not so sure. She was glad there would be no testing of their cruelty. She did wonder if the pathetic army from York had been sent out by Edward’s queen, if those thousands of ill-prepared men had been sacrificed to give her a chance to flee. If that was true, and the possibility was there, Jennet hoped the English queen was punished in some way for that sad, careless waste of her own people.
By the time Jennet saw Hacon walking toward her, she knew only one thing—she wanted to return to Dubheilrig. She could not remain with the army for another day. While she conceded that such brutality had never happened before, not while she had traveled with them, she did not wish to chance experiencing it again.
Hacon sat down beside her, weary and heartsick. The look on Jennet’s face told him she had seen more than he would have wished. He had been tempted to return to her still tainted by the blood from the field, to test her opinion of him and see if she would think him capable of taking part in the slaughter. But at the last moment he had lost the courage to do so and had paused to wash before seeking her out. If she had such thoughts about him, he did not have the stomach to know about them.
“Are you unhurt?” she finally asked when he simply sat there, slouched against the tree with his eyes closed.
“Aye. There was no fighting, was there.” He inwardly grimaced over the harsh bitterness in his voice.
“Why, Hacon? Why would they do such a bloody, heartless thing?”
He finally looked at her, seeing from her expression that she shared his confusion and disgust. “Only God can say.”
“I should like to believe God was napping, that He looked away for a wee while. Why else could He allow this? I cannae see the reason He would allow it. Can ye?”
“Lass, if I could answer that, I would be the Pope, not a mere knight.”
“The Pope will surely excommunicate us all again for this sin. Weel, if we arenae under his edict even now.”
“We may be. I dinnae ken. Since the Bruce stepped forward to claim the throne, we have been damned by the Pope, then not damned, then damned again so often I have lost count. I dinnae ken where we stand anymore.”
“Weel, we dinnae need the Pope to damn us for this.”
“Nay,” he whispered, and shook his head. “This was slaughter. Between here and the river lie three thousand, mayhaps four thousand dead. The river itself is choked with bodies, the shore stained red with the blood of another thousand men. ’Tis a wonder any mon paused to take prisoners for ransom. Mayhaps we have been at war for too long. We no longer fight—we just kill. Mayhaps hatred and the need to spill all English blood is now stronger than honor or mercy. If that is true, and this wasnae but some brief madness, then I want no part of it.”
