I sprang back out of the way as the dirty water cascaded over the lip of the pot, steaming in the chilly air. Young Jamie, squatting beside me on his heels, splatted his hands joyfully in the warm mud, and black droplets flew all over my skirts.
His mother slid down from the wall, yanked him up by the collar and dealt him a smart clout on the backside.
"Have ye no sense, gille? Look at ye! There's your shirt'll have to go and be washed again! And look what ye've done to your auntie's skirt, ye wee heathen!"
"It doesn't matter," I protested, seeing the miscreant's lower lip quiver.
"Weel, it matters to me," said Jenny, giving her offspring the benefit of a gimlet eye. "Say 'sorry' to your auntie, laddie, then get ye into the house and have Mrs. Crook give ye a bit of a wash." She patted his bottom, gently this time, and gave him a push in the direction of the house.
We were turning back to the mass of sodden clothes, when the sound of hoofbeats came from the road.
"That'll be Jamie back, I expect," I said, listening. "He's early, though."
Jenny shook her head, peering intently toward the road. "Not his horse."
The horse, when it appeared at the crest of a hill, was not one she knew, to judge from her frown. The man aboard, though, was no stranger. She stiffened beside me, then began to run toward the gate, wrapping both arms around the baby to hold it steady.
"It's Ian!" she called to me.
He was tattered and dusty and bruised about the face, as he slid off his horse. One bruise on his forehead was swollen, with a nasty split that went through the eyebrow. Jenny caught him under the arm as he hit the ground, and it was only then I saw that his wooden leg was gone.
"Jamie," he gasped. "We met the Watch near the mill. Waiting for us. They knew we were coming."
My stomach lurched. "Is he alive?"
He nodded, panting for breath. "Aye. Not wounded, either. They took him to the west, toward Killin." Jenny's fingers were exploring his face.
"Are ye bad hurt, man?"
He shook his head. "No. They took my horse and my leg; they didna need to kill me to stop me following."
Jenny glanced at the horizon, where the sun lay just above the trees. Maybe four o'clock, I estimated. Ian followed her gaze and anticipated her question.
"We met them near midday. It took me over two hours to get to a place that had a horse."
She stood still, for a moment, calculating, then turned to me with decision.
"Claire. Help Ian to the house, will ye, and if he needs aught in the way of doctoring, do it as fast as ye can. I'll give the babe to Mrs. Crook and fetch the horses."
She was gone before either of us could protest.
"Does she mean… but she can't!" I exclaimed. "She can't mean to leave the baby!"
Ian was leaning heavily on my shoulder as we made our way slowly up the path to the house. He shook his head.
"Maybe not. But I dinna think she means to let the English hang her brother, either."
It was growing dark by the time we reached the spot where Jamie and Ian had been ambushed. Jenny slid off her horse and cast about through the bushes like a small terrier, pushing branches out of her way and muttering things under her breath that sounded suspiciously like some of her brother's better curses.
"East," she said, finally coming out of the trees, scratched and dirty. She beat dead leaves from her skirt, and took her horse's reins from my numbed hands. "We canna follow in the dark, but at least I know which way to go, come the dawn."
We made a simple camp, hobbling the horses and building a small fire. I admired the efficiency with which Jenny had done it, and she smiled.
"I used to make Jamie and Ian show me things, when they were young. How to build fires, and climb trees—even how to skin things. And how to track." She glanced again in the direction taken by the Watch.
"Dinna worry, Claire." She smiled at me and sat down by the fire. "Twenty horses canna go far through the brush, but two can. The Watch will be taking the road toward Eskadale, by the looks of it. We can cut over the hills and meet them near Midmains."
Her nimble fingers were tugging at the bodice of her gown. I stared in amazement as she spread the folds of cloth and pulled down the top of her underblouse to show her breasts. They were very large, and looked hard, swollen with milk. In my ignorance, I had not thought to wonder what a nursing mother does if deprived of her nursling.
"I canna leave the babe for long," she said in answer to my thoughts, grimacing as she cupped one breast from beneath. "I'll burst." In response to the touch, milk had begun to drip from the engorged nipple, thin and bluish. Pulling a large kerchief from her pocket, Jenny tucked it beneath her breast. There was a small pewter cup on the ground beside her, one she had taken from the saddlebag. Pressing the lip of the cup just below the nipple, she gently stroked the breast between two fingers, squeezing gently toward the nipple. The milk dripped faster in response, then suddenly the areole around the nipple contracted and the milk spurted out in a tiny jet of surprising force.