He sounded so disappointed, so bitter, Jennet felt compelled to say, “Not every mon took part.”
He slipped his arm about her shoulders and tugged her close. “True. There may be hope to be found there. Howbeit, I dinnae wish to linger here.”
“Nay. I want to return to Dubheilrig.”
“As do I.” He kissed her cheek, stood up, and brushed himself off. “I shall take my men home ere they are infected by this bloodlust. Aye, ereIam,” he muttered as he strode away.
Jennet sighed, She was glad they would be leaving, yet sorry at how heartsick Hacon had become. For the first time in her life she found herself looking for good things to say about the soldiers, even the war. Hacon had given too many years of his life to the Bruce, to the cause. She ached to convince him that they had not been wasted.
She was still puzzling over that thought when Dugald and Ranald arrived. Both men were somber and unusually quiet. Ranald, sickly pale with disillusionment, drew her greatest sympathy. It was, she mused, a hard lesson for a youth to learn.
“Where is Hacon?” Dugald asked as he sat down in front of her and offered her his wineskin.
After taking a sip and handing the skin to Ranald, who settled beside her, Jennet replied, “I believe he went to speak to one of the men who leads us. He wants to leave the army, to return to Dubheilrig.”
“I would like nothing more, yet . . .” Dugald paused and frowned as he accepted the return of his wineskin.
When he fell silent, she pressed him to continue. “And yet what?”
“Weel, I cannae help but fear it may not be the wisest step to take.”
“Ye cannae wish to stay for more of this.”
“By all the saints—nay. I dinnae have the stomach for it. Howbeit, I think we drew enough attention to ourselves by claiming so many prisoners, especially when many of them are too poor to bring any ransom. Our failure to follow Moray into the slaughter may be questioned.”
“Surely such mercy can only be approved of.”
“That should be the way of it, but I think ye ken weel that it might not be. It could also be seen as an act of defiance or a criticism of Moray. Neither would be good. Some enemy could easily turn it against Hacon and use it to bring him down.”
There was a chilling truth to that, but she struggled to deny it. “Nay, Hacon has been loyal for too long.”
“True, and that should be enough to shield him from all accusations, but in these troubled days mistrust hangs heavy in the air. No mon dares to step wrong or speak too freely.”
“Weel” Hacon drawled as he walked up to them in time to hear Dugald’s final comments, “ye need not fear that I spoke too freely. I didnae speak at all.” He sat down next to Jennet and accepted Dugald’s silent offer of a drink of wine, “I didnae need to.”
“What do ye mean?” Jennet asked. “Are we returning to Dubheilrig or not?”
“Aye, we are, but”—he grimaced—“we will be marching with the army.”
“But, Hacon—” She began to protest, not wishing to further plague him when he was so deeply troubled, yet dreading the possibility that she might live to see a repetition of the day’s horror.
Hacon lightly kissed her, “If there is even the hint of such a black act being done again, we shall simply ride away. I swear it, lass. We saw today that ye cannae stop it nor can ye save many from such a mad bloodletting.”
“How can ye be sure we will be returning home?” Dugald asked, breaking the heavy silence which followed Hacon’s words.
“As I approached the Douglas and Moray, I realized they were discussing what steps to take next. I stood waiting for my turn to speak and heard them decide to march back to Scotland. So I left. They travel the way I wish them to. I ken weel the risks, m’friend,” he added, smiling faintly at Dugald, “so I swallowed my words. I may not wish to ride with the army, but ’tis safer if we do. And they are going to be marching toward home.”
He was right and Jennet knew it, but still she was discouraged. She wanted to distance herself from the army, wanted to pull Hacon and the others from Dubheilrig away before they were stained by the wanton killings. Instead she swallowed her disappointment and prayed they could get back to Scotland without more innocent blood being shed.
Jennet sighed with relief when Ranald took Murdoc from his sling. The child was growing too big for it, and too big for her to comfortably carry day in and day out. She stood rubbing the small of her back and watched Ranald lead their mounts away, Murdoc sitting easily on his hip. Looking at the scrub pine forest spread out before her, men wending through its depths to find a place to camp, she felt at ease. It had taken a month after the murders by the River Swale, but they were finally back in Scotland. Soon they would leave the Douglas and Moray behind. Soon they would leave the war behind, too, at least for a little while.
“’Tis Sir Gillard’s wandering wife,” murmured a voice from behind her that Jennet immediately recognized as Balreaves.
She turned to face the man, and was dismayed to see that Balreaves’s companion was Sir James Douglas himself. She fought to calm her uneasiness. She smiled in greeting and briefly curtsied. Sir Douglas was gaining a power it was wise to acknowledge. He was one of the few men the Bruce trusted.
“Ye were found in Boroughbridge?” Sir Douglas asked.
“Aye, sir. My father took me there when the English advanced upon Berwick.”
