“I ken it. I but think it would be for the best if ye were seen by the king from time to time.”
“He saw me but a year and a half ago when we took Berwick. Aye, and he kens I answered his call to fight in Ireland.”
“Robert the Bruce was in Berwick when ye found me?” Jennet asked.
“Briefly. Disappointed ye didnae get a wee peek at the mon?” Hacon teased.
“Aye, a wee bit. He is, after all, the reason for this war.”
“I shouldnae worry on it, dearling. This king is not so special. Most kings are ne’er all one would believe them to be.”
“What? Ye mean he isnae seven feet tall with hair like flame and a face to shame the gods?” She grinned when both men laughed, and realized that the thought of returning home had lightened all their hearts.
“He does have reddish hair at least.” Hacon looked at Dugald. “Why are ye so eager for me to draw the king’s notice?”
Dugald shrugged. “We all ken there are those who seek to murder you. They have thus far failed to do so by sword or dagger. They might yet try by word—a hint of treason scattered here and there. I but thought it would help if ye were a mon the king easily recalled. ’Twould steal the threat of such lies.”
“I cannae spend all my days fearing whispers, cousin. Aye”—he held up a hand to halt Dugald’s response—“I ken their threat. At the same time one must trust in justice and that truth has the strength to conquer lies. For each mon who tries to blacken my name, there is one who can attest to my loyalty to our king. Aye—and to Scotland. I must trust in that.”
“As ye wish,” Dugald mumbled, poking at the small fire with a thin stick.
“Which means,” drawled Hacon, “that Dugald thinks me a great fool but has decided not to wear himself to the bone trying to convince me.”
Jennet smiled but did not find much to laugh at. Dugald was right. Unfortunately, so was Hacon. What most worried her was the thought that someone was clearly already very busy trying to blacken Hacon’s good name. And she knew exactly who that someone was—Balreaves. It both frightened and surprised her that the man could continue to get away with his treachery.
“Mayhaps,” Dugald said, “’twould be easiest to cut out the lying tongue.”
“Mayhaps, but we cannae lower ourselves to do as he does. Soon he will step wrong, grow too bold. We must wait.”
The look on Dugald’s face told Jennet he hated the thought of waiting as much as she did. She tried to find strength and hope in the knowledge that they would soon be back at Dubheilrig. Balreaves could not reach them there, nor, she prayed, could his lies.
“Enough of this dark talk,” said Hacon. “We ride toward home on the morrow. Our spirits should be light. And I do have some good tidings. I hesitated to speak about it because nothing is certain, but there is talk of a truce.”
“Ye mean an end to the war?” Jennet dared not believe it.
“Ah, weel, I dinnae think ’twill put a final end to all the troubles. There is still no sign that England’s king or the Pope will recognize the Bruce as the king of Scotland. Howbeit, a truce will give us some respite. We can only be thankful for it.”
“True, though a final peace would be much better. How long do ye think the truce would last?”
“Two years is what I have heard mentioned.”
“It doesnae seem verra much time to me.”
“Time enough for a harvest or two, to rebuild, to strengthen walls and tower houses. Aye, time for us to be wed by a priest and set our house in order.”
“Can we be wed by a priest if the Pope has excommunicated us?”
“His Holiness usually sends his edict only to the Bruce, his closest allies, and our bishops. Not that I can be sure of that, but it hasnae stopped our priests from doing all they ought. I shouldnae worry o’er it. Whatever happens between popes and kings matters little to us. We will be wed, finish the building of our fine tower house, and mayhaps”—he winked at her—“have ourselves a bairn or two.”
“A bairn?”
She stared at him—stunned. Mostly it was her own stupidity which so utterly astounded her. Not once, in all the time they had been together, had she given a thought to children—to Hacon’s children. With her father scattering his bastards over England and Scotland, the possibility of a child should have occurred to her from the very start.
“Dinnae ye wish to have children?” Hacon was unable to read her expression and fought the urge to immediately assume the worst—that the thought of bearing his children appalled her. “Or are ye afraid? Come, tell me what has ye looking as if ye have been knocked senseless.”
“’Tis neither of those things. I but just realized I ne’er even thought of the possibility.” She frowned, trying to look stern when both men began to grin. “If ye mean to make jest of me, I should think again.”
“Och, lass.” Dugald’s voice trembled with amusement. “And when ye have given us such a fine chance at it. ’Tis cruel of you to seal our lips.”
