one of them leave. It was a little harder to quell that sting of jealousy when Sigimor took the child from her arms and Reynard immediately quieted.
“Nanty has a verra important job to do,” Sigimor told the boy as he settled him in front of him on his saddle. “When he completes that chore ye will see him again.”
“Nanty is my friend,” Reynard said.
“That he is,” agreed Sigimor as he nudged his horse into an easy but steady pace,“but he is also a mon with work to do. Sometimes a mon’s work means he must leave friends and family for a wee while.”
“Like Papa did.”
“Aye, just like your papa.”
“But Papa has not come back.”
“Nay, he must work for the angels now.”
“When will the angels let him come home?”
“Och, laddie, the angels cannae send him home.” Sigimor stroked the child’s thick black curls. “There is nay coming back from Heaven, I fear, but your father is watching o’er ye and listening. He will always be watching and listening to see how ye grow up into a fine, strong mon and take care of his people and his lands.”
“And kick Cousin Harold out on his arse ’cause he stoleded Drumwich and sent Papa to the angels.”
Sigimor almost grinned at the shocked look that briefly crossed Jolene’s face. “Aye, laddie, ’tis exactly what we shall do.”
Jolene stared blindly into the distance, away from Sigimor and Reynard, fighting back the tears that swamped her eyes and formed a hard knot in her throat. Reynard understood more than she had realized. He had obviously overheard a few less than genteel remarks as well. Even more moving was the gentle way Sigimor explained Peter’s loss to the small child. He was a big, strong man with no fine courtly manners who often said the most outrageous things, yet he was kind and gentle with the little boy, willing to help in the care of him, and astoundingly patient with him.
In fact, all the men riding with her were very good to Reynard. Although none of the men at Drumwich had actually been mean or abusive to Reynard, only Peter and the two men murdered with him had actually taken any time with the boy. She ruefully admitted that Peter and his friends had not revealed the great patience or understanding these men did. Why, they were almost motherly, she mused, and nearly grinned, knowing they would probably fall from their saddles in horror if she ever said such a thing.
It was how Sigimor acted with Reynard that caused her the most astonishment, however. This was a man who compared the ideal English lady to a hound, yet he spoke to a child of angels. What worried her was how that made her feel. It strengthened all the inconvenient feelings she had for him, softening her toward him when she wanted to harden her heart. The man stroked Reynard’s curls and spoke of angels, for sweet Mary’s sake. How could she harden herself against that?
“There is a village a few hours ride from here,” said Sigimor as he rode closer to her. “There is a clean inn there. We will stop there for the night.”
Shaking free of her meandering thoughts, Jolene frowned slightly. “Will stopping at an inn not mark our path too clearly?”
“Aye, if Harold follows us to that village, but I believe it doesnae matter much. Now that I realize he can and will discover where Dubheidland is, I see no reason why we cannae indulge ourselves with a wee bit of comfort when ’tis so close at hand.” He glanced up at the sky. “Aye, especially as there is a storm brewing.”
Jolene looked up at the cloudless sky, but decided not to question him about his prediction. “A clean bed and, mayhap, a hot bath?”
“Aye. Tempted?”
“Mightily. Howbeit, I would not wish my comfort to bring Harold to our door andput Reynard in danger.”
“As I said, lass, Harold will soon be at our door nay matter how clever we are. If he is determined to find us, he will. And, wheesht, where did ye come by the idea that I was thinking of your comfort?”
She
“Nanty has a verra important job to do,” Sigimor told the boy as he settled him in front of him on his saddle. “When he completes that chore ye will see him again.”
“Nanty is my friend,” Reynard said.
“That he is,” agreed Sigimor as he nudged his horse into an easy but steady pace,“but he is also a mon with work to do. Sometimes a mon’s work means he must leave friends and family for a wee while.”
“Like Papa did.”
“Aye, just like your papa.”
“But Papa has not come back.”
“Nay, he must work for the angels now.”
“When will the angels let him come home?”
“Och, laddie, the angels cannae send him home.” Sigimor stroked the child’s thick black curls. “There is nay coming back from Heaven, I fear, but your father is watching o’er ye and listening. He will always be watching and listening to see how ye grow up into a fine, strong mon and take care of his people and his lands.”
“And kick Cousin Harold out on his arse ’cause he stoleded Drumwich and sent Papa to the angels.”
Sigimor almost grinned at the shocked look that briefly crossed Jolene’s face. “Aye, laddie, ’tis exactly what we shall do.”
Jolene stared blindly into the distance, away from Sigimor and Reynard, fighting back the tears that swamped her eyes and formed a hard knot in her throat. Reynard understood more than she had realized. He had obviously overheard a few less than genteel remarks as well. Even more moving was the gentle way Sigimor explained Peter’s loss to the small child. He was a big, strong man with no fine courtly manners who often said the most outrageous things, yet he was kind and gentle with the little boy, willing to help in the care of him, and astoundingly patient with him.
In fact, all the men riding with her were very good to Reynard. Although none of the men at Drumwich had actually been mean or abusive to Reynard, only Peter and the two men murdered with him had actually taken any time with the boy. She ruefully admitted that Peter and his friends had not revealed the great patience or understanding these men did. Why, they were almost motherly, she mused, and nearly grinned, knowing they would probably fall from their saddles in horror if she ever said such a thing.
It was how Sigimor acted with Reynard that caused her the most astonishment, however. This was a man who compared the ideal English lady to a hound, yet he spoke to a child of angels. What worried her was how that made her feel. It strengthened all the inconvenient feelings she had for him, softening her toward him when she wanted to harden her heart. The man stroked Reynard’s curls and spoke of angels, for sweet Mary’s sake. How could she harden herself against that?
“There is a village a few hours ride from here,” said Sigimor as he rode closer to her. “There is a clean inn there. We will stop there for the night.”
Shaking free of her meandering thoughts, Jolene frowned slightly. “Will stopping at an inn not mark our path too clearly?”
“Aye, if Harold follows us to that village, but I believe it doesnae matter much. Now that I realize he can and will discover where Dubheidland is, I see no reason why we cannae indulge ourselves with a wee bit of comfort when ’tis so close at hand.” He glanced up at the sky. “Aye, especially as there is a storm brewing.”
Jolene looked up at the cloudless sky, but decided not to question him about his prediction. “A clean bed and, mayhap, a hot bath?”
“Aye. Tempted?”
“Mightily. Howbeit, I would not wish my comfort to bring Harold to our door andput Reynard in danger.”
“As I said, lass, Harold will soon be at our door nay matter how clever we are. If he is determined to find us, he will. And, wheesht, where did ye come by the idea that I was thinking of your comfort?”
She
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