by Alisa Adams
“It was a disaster, Da. The English were everywhere,” said Bruce, coming to his brother’s aid.
“The English were everywhere.” Mungo slapped the back of Bruce’s head. “How can ye ken where the Sassenachs were and not ken where yer fellow clansman was? Are the two of ye aff yer heids? Ye are oathbound to protect yer laird’s son with yer lives. Have I taught ye nothing?”
“Da, we…”
“Mungo, let them explain themselves,” Alastair said in an authoritative tone.
“Aye, my Laird,” said Mungo, moving away from his stepsons. He placed his hands on his hips and glowered at his lads.
The laird was a tower of a man. Although not as hefty in shape as either Murtagh or Mungo, he had a herculean physique that would put any Greek sculpture of a god to shame – not the boyish ones, but the ones of Poseidon or maybe even Zeus. His red hair, streaked with slivers of gray, was like a fire in its luminance. His face was chiseled and strong, but it also radiated immeasurable kindness. It had taken on the toll of age, but the lines found there were of happiness, quashing any contours of worry and sadness that might have settled had he not been so in love with life and the woman sitting next to him.
He sported a thick red beard with streaks of gray, matching the unruly tuft of curly hair on his head that appeared to be as large as a lion’s. A plaid about seven or eight yards long, which covered from the neck to the knees, except for the right arm, mostly enclosed his body. Beneath the plaid, he wore a waistcoat and a shirt to the same length as the drape of the plaid.
His long stockings were made of the same stuff as the plaid, and his shoes were called ‘brocks’. Like the other men in the hall, a large claymore hung from his waist. The laird peered down at Alick and Bruce with his piercing blue eyes. His mouth was a grim line. In his entirety, the man was like a king.
“Well, laddies – are ye going to enlighten yer laird?” encouraged Mungo with a growl.
“We were surrounded by the enemy – the men on the front line started to retreat. Doogle saw that the King of France was in trouble, so he made to help him. Bruce and I tried to follow, but the tide of retreating soldiers blocked our path.”
“We did not have a chance, my Laird. Yer son vanished in the melee,” added Bruce.
Alastair did not respond immediately.
Instead, Mungo was the first to speak. “Ye mean to tell me that ye made no attempt to find him?”
“Da, after we got away, we tried to find Doogle, but the Earl of Douglas ordered us to return home and spread the news of a French defeat. We couldn’t disobey.”
“It’s alright, Mungo. They were only following their superior’s orders,” said Alastair, raising a hand. “So, my laddie is either dead or alive in France?”
Bruce and Alick gulped. After a few heartbeats, they nodded.
“Aye, my Laird,” they said in unison.
Alastair got to his feet and started pacing up and down.
Lady Mary cleared her throat. “May I suggest Alick and Bruce get cleaned up? They look exhausted, husband.”
Alastair stopped his pacing. “Aye, Mary, ye are right.” He turned to look at the two men. “I dinnae blame ye. I ken how determined my son can be when he’s put something in his mind. Go and rest. We will speak later.”
“Thank ye, my Laird,” said Alick. The relief on his face was palpable.
“Ye will not be getting away that easy. While ye are washing and eating, ye will tell me everything that happened.” Mungo growled.
“And I will join ye, brother,” said Murtagh, stepping off of the platform. The equally heavyset man with grayish, black hair marched up to Mungo and slapped him on the back. “If we find out that either of them is craven, ye will need my help to toss them into the loch.”
Mungo nodded solemnly. “Only after I’ve chopped their wellies off.” He turned to face Alastair. “We have yer permission to leave, my Laird?” Usually, he would call him by his Christian name, but in situations like these, he preferred his friend’s formal title.
Alastair dipped his head. “Don’t be too hard on them. I ken yer sons, and they are no cowards. I am certain they did all they could given the circumstances.”
“We will see about that, my Laird.”
With those words, Mungo and Murtagh marched down the Great Hall with Alick and Bruce following closely in their wake.
“Doogle is not dead,” said Mary.
Alastair turned to look at his wife. “I hope ye are right, my love.”
Mary stroked his hand. “A mother can always feel when her children are in trouble.” She pleated her brow. “I somehow have the feeling that Doogle is in good hands.”
6
6
* * *
Where am I?
* * *
Iteuil, Duchy of Aquitaine, October 1356
* * *
“This man is like nothing I have ever seen.”
“Why do you say that, Alianor?” asked Louise. She sat with the older woman at the table in the hovel that only had one room.
The healer looked up with a confused expression on her face. “You do remember the state he was in when you brought him here three weeks ago?”
The younger woman nodded. “Oui.”
Alianor rolled her eyes. “Well, what more is there to say?” Seeing the continued question mark on Louise’s face, the healer sighed. “Most other men would have died from such wounds. It appears God took his time in making this one. He’s as strong as an ox.”
“Does that mean he will live?” Louise looked down at the brawny man who lay on the makeshift cot they had made for him.
Despite his wounds, Alianor’s treatment, the fever and the weeks confined to bed, he still looked formidable. It was as if no manner of ailment could melt away the muscle and strength off of his body. The only telltale sign that he was still weak from his ordeal was the pallid complexion on his face.
Alianor nodded. “Oui, he will live.”
Louise exhaled. “Merci, Dieu.”
She had visited the Scotsman every day since bringing him to the witch. On many occasions, she had brought fresh meat with her. Her father had often asked what she was up to, but Louise always brushed off the questions with hasty explanations. It did not matter; her father trusted his daughter implicitly.
When the Scot had suffered from fever and Alianor had been worried that the wound had turned septic, Louise had stayed by his side throughout. She had dabbed his forehead with a cool, damp cloth while he slept. When he was restless in his dreams, she had held his hand. Her absence had been difficult to explain to her father and mother, but she could not leave the man. Something inside of her told her that he was there for a reason.
She had asked Alianor about why she felt so drawn to the Scotsman. To her surprise, she had received a strange response.
All the crone had said was, “God is right in all things; he knows when it is time for two people to meet.”
Louise had been confused after that. Could it be that she felt something more than mere compassion for this stranger? She did not know much about the happenings between man and woman, but seeing the way her parents interacted with one another told her that love was something of a mystery and beautiful at the same time. But she couldn’t be in love, or could she? What if he was the bad man Alianor had spoken of?
“When will he wake up? He’s been like this for weeks,” said Louise, pointing at the still sleeping man.
“Not much longer now. He has not suffered from fever for days now. His mind is no longer plagued by nightmares. There’s a good chance that he will wake up today or tomorrow,” replied Alianor.
“I hope so. I would very much like to know how he came to fight in the French army,” said Louise.
But it was more than that. Louise had a deep urge to know all there was to know about the stranger.
She cast another glimpse in his direction. He was at peace. The expression on his sleeping face was without the grimace of strife or pain. It drew he
r in like everything else about him.
Why? she asked herself. Louise had never felt so close to anyone who was not her family before.
The sound of women’s voices seemed to be miles away. The Highlander rolled to his side and slowly attempted to open his eyes. The light coming through the door blinded him. He decided to keep his eyes shut for a moment longer.
“Maîther, is that ye?” he asked with a croak. He barely made a sound.
He made another attempt at lifting his eyelids. He held his hand in front of his face to keep the invasiveness of the light at bay. After a few moments, he managed to open them completely. It took awhile for his vision to settle and adjust to the gloominess inside the hovel.
A fire crackled and hissed in the background. But the sound of the women talking was more potent.
What are they saying? What language is that?
The questions formed in his mind like mushrooms rising after a deluge. He was confused. Was that French he was listening too?
Staring at the straw-covered roof of the hut, he started to remember. “Alick… Bruce!” He tried to piece together the whereabouts of his friends that had joined him from Diabaig.
He could not remember. All he recollected was the sight of the King of France fighting alongside his son. The enemy had surrounded them.
“We lost the battle!” he yelled, lurching up. He looked to his left and right nervously.
Where the hell am I?
“Doucement! Tu te fais mal – Slowly! You are hurt.” The voice was sweet and young. It sounded like a bird singing in the spring. He suddenly felt a hand caressing his cheek. “Are you feeling better?”
He raised his hand until he stroked the back of hers. The woman’s skin was soft as opposed to the roughness of her fingertips on his face – here was somebody that worked the fields. He smelt the fragrance of onions radiating off of her hands. It did not repel him; on the contrary, he found the scent appealing and homely.
He looked up. Staring back at him were two magnificent green eyes. The contours of her face were flawlessly symmetrical. A small pixie’s nose jutted forth with subtle perfection. Her mouth was moist and full. And her hair was raven black like the night and glowed with satin luster.
“What is yer name?” he asked, still with a croak, completely mesmerized by this woman’s beauty. He remembered her, but the recollections were only vague at best.
Louise smiled back at him. “Je m’apelle Louise Duroc – My name is Louise.”
“That is a lovely name.” Listening to the melodiousness of her voice reminded him of something. “Are ye the angel that saved me by the bank of the river?”
She nodded. “Oui.” She chuckled. “But I don’t know if I am an angel.”
“Aye, that is precisely what ye are. I have never seen anything more beautiful than ye.” He loved the way she blushed. He asked himself how something so gorgeous could be so unaware of her exquisiteness.
“Et toi – And you... what is your name, Monsieur?”
“Doogle.”
“Doogle?”
He burst out laughing because of the way she pronounced his name in her French lilt. She sounded like cuteness incarnate.
“Aye, I am Doogle of the Clan Macleod. My father is Laird Alastair of that very clan. I am the second brother.” The smile on his face evaporated in a heartbeat. “What happened to Alick and Bruce? The Earl of Douglas? Where is the French army?”
“I do not know of the people you speak. I can only tell you that the French army was routed. The Prince of Wales defeated them close to the town of Poitiers.”
“Crivens! They can’t all be dead.” Doogle tried to get to his feet, but he did not yet have the strength.
“Stop! You are still too weak.” Louise helped Doogle place his back against the wall so that he could sit in an upright position.
“How long have I been here?” he asked.
“A little over three weeks,” said Alianor, joining in the conversation.
“This is the woman that saved your life,” said Louise.
The crone cackled. She started muttering in French. “All I did was give him some potions and let him rest. His formidable body and your careful ministrations did the rest.”
Doogle frowned. All of it was a bit much for him. The mere thought that Alick and Bruce could be dead was enough to make him sick. And what of the other Scotsmen that had followed them to France? There had been many from the Clan Macleod. Were they too all dead?
“He must eat,” said Alianor in an authoritative tone.
Louise nodded. “You must eat,” she repeated.
“I am not hungry.” Any appetite that might have birthed had withered away when he pondered over Alick and Bruce’s fate.
“Non! You will eat now,” chided Louise.
She got to her feet and walked over to Alianor who had already ladled the thick pork stew into a wooden bowl. Before Doogle knew it, Louise was kneeling in front of him again. She handed him a thick chunk of bread and proceeded to fill the spoon with broth. She blew on it to cool it down.
Despite feeling uneasy because of his friends, Doogle could not help but stare at the French woman. Without protest, he opened his mouth when she held out the spoon.
“I haven’t done this since I was but a wee laddie and my maîther spoon-fed me,” he said.
The sight was comical. To see a brawny Highlander being fed by a petite French woman was a rarity indeed.
“You are from Scotland, n’est pas?” asked Louise.
Chewing, Doogle nodded. He was far hungrier than he thought. “Yes,” he replied with his mouth half full.
“You are far away from home, Doogle.”
Despite his worry for his friends, Doogle smiled at her. He could listen to her laugh for all eternity. He felt warm inside. It was like having careful fingers stroking the underside of his skin. He frowned. Ultimately, Doogle put the strange sensation down to his wounds.
“Aye, my home is far to the north of here. It is a magical place close to a loch. The mountains cover the north and the hills are full of burns and cattle.” He shrugged. “Ye would like it there.”
Louise frowned. “Burns and lochs? What are they?”
Doogle hooted out laughter. The sudden movement forced him to bend over in pain.
“You must be careful.” Concern was etched onto Louise’s features.
“A burn is a small river, and a loch is a lake,” he said, recomposing himself, and allowing her to continue her feeding.
She nodded. “You have family there, oui?”
“Aye, my mother and father are there. And my brother and Syke…” Doogle sighed. “And Mungo and Murtagh.”
“Mungo, Murtagh – are your brothers?” Louise furrowed her brow.
Doogle shook his head. “No, they are my father’s and my closest friends. Brice is my older brother and Skye is his wife.”
Thinking about Mungo and Murtagh, he knew that if Alick and Bruce ever made it back to Diabaig, nothing would stop either of them from coming to France to seek him out.
“You have one brother?”
“No, I also have a younger brother – his name is Callum. He is an English lord.” Doogle chuckled when he saw the disgust register on her face, doing his best not to repeat the earlier outburst of mirth. “I ken. I don’t like it either. But it’s good to have a member of the family in England. Well, at least that is what my faîther thinks.”
Louise smiled at him wanly. “It sounds like you have a lovely family.”
Doogle nodded. “Aye, I do.” He took another mouthful from the spoon she proffered him. “What about ye? Do ye have a husband?”
She blushed and quickly shook her head. “I live with my mother and father in the a small village called Iteuil. It is not far from here.”
Doogle couldn’t believe how relieved he was that she was not married. His smile grew as the notion strengthened in his mind. “And where did ye learn to speak English, lassie?” He chuckled again when he saw the confu
sion play on her face. “Lassie is an endearing term we use to call women.”
“Ah, oui – a priest in the village taught me your tongue.”
“That’s good because my French is terrible. Never could get my head around it. Out of the three brothers, Callum is the only one who mastered it to perfection. He’s the smart one in the family.”
Louise nodded. “You must miss them very much?”
“Aye,” he replied automatically. However, being with Louise softened the feeling. He felt as if he had known her all of his life.
“Only one more,” she said, holding the spoon in his direction.
Doogle obediently took the last offering and belched contently, forcing the Frenchwoman to smile at him.
“Bon, eh?”
“Très bon,” said Doogle, alluding to the excellent taste of the broth. He looked past Louise. “I suppose I must also thank ye, Madame. Ye saved my life,” said Doogle, looking at Alianor.
The crone dipped her head. “Speak nothing of it, Monsieur. But mostly it was God that did all the work. There were times when I thought you wouldn’t make it.”
Doogle lifted the tunic he wore that Louise had borrowed from her father. It was slightly tight around the shoulders and far too short, but it served its purpose. He scrutinized the bandage wrapped around his leg. Fortunately, the bleeding had stopped.
“What were you doing with the French army?” asked Louise.
“We are their allies,” replied Doogle.
“But this is not your country, and it is not your war.” Louise got up and placed the bowl on the table.
Alianor promptly picked it up and exited the house to wash it.
“Oh, but it is. The English are our enemies. My country has been fighting them for years. After we lost at the Battle of Neville’s Cross and the Scottish king was captured, the only way to really fight the English was if I came here.” Doogle waved his arm expansively.
Louise frowned. “You could not fight at home, so you traveled to seek out war?”
