“I already ken how foolish I was. I dinnae need bawdy jests to remind me.” She looked toward Murdoc and suddenly realized there was something else she had given little thought to. “Hacon, what of Murdoc?” she asked, feeling uncertain, for she could not even begin to guess what he would say.
“He will stay with us, lass. The lad calls you Mother. I wouldnae part you. Did ye think I would?”
“I had no idea what ye might do. ’Tis a verra odd situation. The boy is born of neither of us.”
“Aye, but he is the child of all of us. He will be my foster son.”
Jennet hugged him. “Thank ye, Hacon. I think he will grow to do ye verra proud.
“I have little doubt of it. Mayhaps some day we can discover something of his kinsmen. When he is grown he may wonder on his true bloodline. ’Twould be useful if we know something to tell him.”
She nodded, then grimaced. “And we shall have to be verra careful in telling him how he came to be an orphan.”
Hacon gave an exaggerated shudder. “I dinnae even want to think on it now. In truth, what I want to think on is seeking out my bed. Where have ye spread it out, Dugald?” he asked as he stood up, tugging Jennet to her feet.
“Just behind you a few paces. Behind that tree and the tangle of shrub at its base.”
Before she could bid Dugald good night, Hacon dragged her away. Within no time at all they were huddled beneath the blankets, Hacon wearing only his braies and she only her chemise. The bed was surprisingly comfortable, Hacon’s plaid spread out over a padding of pine boughs and moss. She smiled, a little surprised when Hacon pulled her up against him, for he was clearly considering a little lovemaking before getting his rest.
“At last I have you alone,” he murmured, nuzzling her neck.
Giggling softly, Jennet glanced around. “Alone? With all of Bruce’s army snoring about us?”
“Snoring, are they? Good. The noise will muffle your cries of passion.”
He kissed her before she could protest his impudence, and soon she cared as little about the presence of Bruce’s soldiers as he did.
Chapter 19
Three weeks later, just as the sun crept over the horizon, Jennet, Hacon, and the rest of their group left the village of Liddesdale behind and headed toward Dubheilrig. Jennet had enjoyed a fortnight’s visit with her aunt and uncle, resting and hoping her father would return, but finally she had had to leave a message for him instead.
Hacon set an easy pace that day, and the weather remained clear and warm. Late that afternoon Jennet and Hacon were sharing a teasing conversation when, just as Jennet leaned forward to murmur in his ear, a voice called, “’ Ware your backs!”
She barely caught a glimpse of the armed men bursting out of the surrounding thickets before Ranald was hurrying her to the far side of the small clearing, out of the way of the erupting battle. Their peaceful ride through the forest had been ruined in the blink of an eye. Suddenly Jennet wished they had not parted from the Bruce’s army three weeks ago. That large, battle-hardened force would have deterred this attack. Instead, Hacon’s band was barely twenty men strong. With Ranald on one side and a youth named Thomas on the other, she waited and prayed that Hacon and his men could beat back the unexpected ambush. She also prayed that none of the thirty or more attackers were Armstrongs. They were but a day’s ride from her kinsmen’s lands, and it was possible that these were some of the thieves who controlled the area.
“Balreaves,” Thomas hissed and spat on the ground.
“Are ye certain these are his men?” she demanded.
“Aye, I recognize some as his hirelings. Yet again he tries to kill Sir Hacon.”
“Did ye think it was someone else?” asked Ranald.
Jennet managed a weak smile and shrugged. “I feared they might be my kinsmen. Some of them, leastwise. They run freely through this wood and set upon many an unwary traveler. The word that we have been promised safe passage might not have reached every mon living in wait through this thick forest.”
“Weel, Thomas is right,” Ranald assured her. “These are Balreaves’s murderers. A few dinnae even try to hide the fact that they wear his colors.”
Watching the fierce battle taking place, she cursed Balreaves. The man had to be mad. Bitterness and jealousy must have turned his mind. All she could do was hope he would fail and that this time Hacon would gain all the proof needed to come out boldly against the man. If they could just capture one man wearing Balreaves’s colors, who was willing to admit that Balreaves had ordered Hacon’s murder, they could finally put an end to this deadly game.
Hacon cursed as he turned aside yet another sword and kicked his foe square in the face, sending the man to the ground to die beneath the hooves of Dugald’s mount. He had been alert for just such an attack but had hoped it would not come. It infuriated him that because of one man’s jealousy and ambition several of his men might die within reach of Dubheilrig and their loved ones. He vowed he would make Balreaves pay dearly for that.
“I want one of these dogs collared alive,” he bellowed, leaping from his mount to take up the battle on foot.
He saw that most of his men did the same. In the small clearing there was no room to maneuver on horseback. Nervous, riderless horses blundered through the fighting men, causing a brief moment of wild confusion. But the men of Dubheilrig recovered faster than their foes and used the short-lived advantage to ruthlessly cull the numbers of the opposition.
It took Hacon a while to work his way around until he and Dugald stood back to back. Each one of their ambushers was eager to be the one to cut him down. Even as he settled into the familiar battle stance, a new development made him curse. From within the surrounding forest came another battle cry, swiftly followed by more armed men bursting into the clearing with their swords and battle-axes at the ready. Hacon and his men would have turned back the first onslaught with little cost, but this added strength could prove to be too much for them.
“God curse Balreaves and his mother,” swore Dugald. “They waited until we tired some.”
