realize it, caring for Isobel was a tremendous strain for such a small boy. A ride in the country with his mother meant freedom, and he reveled in it.
Jeanne smiled at her son. He looked unusually content, his small body swallowed up by the too-large saddle. The sun touched his hair, picking out strands of fire in the night-dark cap hugging his forehead and cheeks. He grinned down at her, caught up in the warm wind brushing his face, the smell of pine and marshland, the cry of the lone curlew circling overhead, and the trickle of a burn over the next hillock.
Following the pony path, they reached the shaded banks in less than an hour. Jeanne lifted her son to the ground and wound the reins of her horse around the sturdy limb of a black oak tree. Testing the ground for dampness, she curled up in a sunny spot at the base of a weathered rock.
Andrew picked up a stone and threw it into the water, close to his feet. The splash drenched his trousers. He laughed, a cheerful infectious sound that warmed Jeanne’s heart. She laughed with him. “Be careful, love. We’ve no other clothing for you until we go back to the croft.”
Andrew ignored her. He lifted another stone and again threw it into the sparkling burn. Wiser this time, he stepped back, escaping the leaping stream of water. Again and again he threw the stones, fascinated with the response of the crystalline drops, until his supply was exhausted. Chewing his lip, he looked at the opposite bank and then at his mother. Jeanne shook her head.
Disappointed, Andrew busied himself with throwing sticks into the current and watching them float. Finally, he grew bored. Climbing up the bank, he curled up against his mother’s legs and fell asleep. Within moments, Jeanne’s eyelids drooped and she too drifted into a contented slumber.
The smell of charred wood woke her. Cocking her head to one side, she inhaled tentatively. The scent was too acrid for a peat fire. No, it was definitely the smell of burning wood, and it came from the direction of Grania’s croft. Shaking Andrew awake, she scooped him into her arms and walked swiftly to her horse. Settling the child in the saddle, she climbed up behind him and set out at a full gallop.
By the time she reached the rise, the cottage roof looked like an angry ball of flames against the darkening sky. Her blood froze at the sight below her. Men on horses, wearing the king’s livery and carrying torches, circled the dwelling. Where was Grania? Dear God, where was Isobel?
Knowing she was already too late, Jeanne raced her mare down the hill, her arms locked like a vise around her son’s middle. Less than fifty paces from the inferno, she drew up her horse. A guard carried a struggling Grania from the flames. Before Jeanne’s horrified gaze, he held the old woman’s arms behind her while another leaned from his horse and with the tip of his sword, sliced her open from throat to belly. Bile rose in Jeanne’s throat and her stomach churned.
“Mama.” Andrew’s anxious voice pulled her from her state of frozen immobility.
“Hush, darling.” Jeanne looked around frantically. The rain-damp soil had muffled the sound of their approach. The guards hadn’t yet spotted them. Jeanne knew she couldn’t hope to outrun the men. Turning the mare around, she rode for the cluster of trees at the bottom of the rise. Her heart pounded, and a cold sweat drenched her skin. Taking deep breaths, she forced herself to remain calm. Logic told her that Isobel was dead and she must not risk her son’s life. But she pushed the thought away. No power under heaven could make her ride away without knowing the fate of her daughter.
When they reached the safety of the trees, she lifted his chin. “Andrew,” she said, her voice very calm. He looked back at her with round, solemn eyes. “You must allow Gwenhara to take you home. She knows the way.” Desperately, Jeanne fought back tears. “Do you understand, my love? Mama will not be with you, but you must go home. Tell Da-Da we need him at Grania’s croft. Can you do that, Andrew?”
He nodded.
“Very well then.” She slipped to the ground and coiled the reins loosely around a bridle strap. “Gwenhara is a gentle horse,” she reminded the child. “Speak to her quietly and she’ll not harm you.”
The mare’s ears twitched. She turned