Highlander's Stolen Love: A Medieval Scottish Historical Highland Romance Book

by Alisa Adams

  “Aye, that’s the gist of it, lass.”

  “How strange you men are. Why couldn’t you stay at home, find a wife and till the land,” she asked, sitting down across from him.

  Doogle smiled. “Then I wouldn’t have met ye. And that would’ve been a shame because ye are bonnie like the foxgloves on the hills back in Diabaig.”

  Louise’s skin reddened a little, and Doogle suspected it was partially because of his compliment, and partially because he just confirmed that he did not have a wife back in Scotland.

  “So, you have no woman?”.

  Doogle shook his head. “No, lass, I do not.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugged. “I suppose I never found the right one.”

  “Is that not lonely? Both your brothers are married, n’est pas?”

  “Aye, my older brother, Brice, is married to Skye and the youngest of the brood, Callum, is married to Effemy.” Doogle bellowed laughter when he thought of how both of Mungo’s daughters had married Alastair’s sons.

  “What’s so funny?” asked Louise.

  “Oh, it’s only that their father-in-law, who is a mighty warrior in our clan, nearly killed the both of them when he found out that my brothers were courting his daughters. It was a funny sight. I had never seen either of them look so scared in my life.”

  “Why did this Mungo not approve? Are your brothers rogues?”

  Doogle chuckled again. “It’s just Mungo’s way. His daughters are his biggest treasures. In his eyes, no man is worthy of them – even the sons of a laird. But he has gotten used to it and now sees both Brice and Callum as his own.”

  “I see.” Louise reflected for a moment. “Did he have no daughter for you?”

  Doogle vented his mirth once again. He was fast becoming enamored with the quick-witted and inquisitive Frenchwoman. “No, he only has two daughters.” A frown populated his face. “And two sons,” he added, thinking of Alick and Bruce.

  He had no idea whether they still lived. The dark sensation of old descended upon him. Everything had happened so fast after the battle. He could only remember fragments and those were blurry at best. He had been lost in a tide of men, carrying him farther and farther away from the battlefield until he lost all consciousness.

  “You best lie down again. It will still take more time for you to heal,” said Louise, mistaking the troubled expression on his face for pain.

  “No, it is just that I worry about the two men I left home with.”

  Louise pleated her brow. “Alick and Bruce?”

  Doogle nodded. “Yes…” With Louise’s help, he clambered back onto the cot. “Do you have any way of finding out what happened to the survivors? I vaguely remember hundreds of men fleeing the fight.”

  Louise shook her head. “Non, I am sorry, Doogle. All I know is that hundreds were killed. Nearly all of the French noblemen were either captured or slain. I did not hear anything of your countrymen.”

  “I see. I must travel back home as soon as possible to tell my father the bad news.” A shiver slid down Doogle’s back when he thought of facing Mungo.

  “You will not be going anywhere,” said Alianor, stepping back into the hut. “I have worked too hard to keep you alive for you to go off dying on me.” She flapped her hand hither and thither to forestall any protest on the Highlander’s part.

  “It is best that you do not argue.” Louise moved her head closer. “It is said that she has magical powers.”

  Doogle did not tense because of the threat. Instead, the healthy female scent radiating off of Louise’s person robbed him of all cognitive function. He drew it in as if it were the fragrance of blossoms on a spring meadow.

  “Are you alright, Doogle?” asked Louise when she saw the frown on his face.

  “Aye, lass. I am fine. Just a little woozy that is all.”

  “Then you must sleep. I must go home now, but Alianor will look after you.”

  “You are leaving?”

  “Oui. I must go to my father and help him with the hogs. Then, I am certain Maman will have some more chores for me to do.” Louise smiled wanly. “I will of course return tomorrow, and we can speak some more.”

  Doogle’s relief was palpable. “Maybe we can go for a walk?”

  “Only if you feel up to it. Now, you sleep. It is the best medicine.” To Doogle’s surprise, she planted a kiss on his cheek before she got up. “À demain, Doogle.”

  She said her farewells to Alianor and was gone.

  The small room felt as if the light had gone out with her absence. To Doogle’s surprise, he found that his heart hammered in his chest. He had never before felt the like when not in the heat of battle.

  Is this what my brothers had felt when they first drew close to their women?

  Doogle had always asked himself that question. The mystic of love was something incomprehensible to him.

  “Elle est jolie, n’est pas?”

  Doogle looked up. Alianor was grinning at him, pulling her wrinkled face apart.

  He nodded. “Aye, she is very bonnie. The bonniest woman I have ever seen.”

  “Then you best get some more rest. Us women do not like to be courted by a corpse.” The old crone pushed the brawny clansman down onto the bed. “It will take some time, but you will feel better and then you can return home to tell your family that you are alive.”

  Somehow, that prospect no longer felt as appealing. If he left, would he ever see Louise again? He hardly knew her, but the simple notion of leaving her sent a stab to his chest.

  He slowly closed his eyes. It was Louise’s lingering scent that allowed him to drift off. For the first time in weeks, his mind was not haunted by the happenings of the Battle of Poitiers.

  7

  7

  * * *

  Crivens, We are back in France

  * * *

  Paris, France, November 1356

  * * *

  “The last time we were here was with Da,” said Brice.

  He rode at the head of the procession of clansmen that had left Diabaig a few weeks ago. They had only recently landed in France from Scotland and were on their way to the French capital. They had left the British Isles by ship to avoid the English. Frontier skirmishes were still prevalent between the two countries, making it dangerous for any Scot south of the border.

  “Aye, but this time the air of defeat hangs over the country. You can bloody well smell it as if it were a wet fart inside of Murtagh’s kilt.” Mungo growled.

  “It’s the stink of an old man that ye can smell, Mungo. Ye are rotting away more and more as the days go by. I am surprised yer wife has not thrown ye into the loch to be rid of yer festering carcass,” said Murtagh with a smile on his face. Like Mungo, he loved their humorous and insulting banter.

  “If I am old, then ye are an ancient welly. The reason ye are with us despite yer advancing years is because yer ugly mug might scare away any brigands we might encounter along the way,” retorted Mungo, not able to help himself from chuckling at his friend’s offensive remark.

  “Ancient am I?” Murtagh slapped his fellow clansman on the back. “As ye very well ken, I am two years younger than ye are.”

  “No, ye are not. And ye ken why I ken that?”

  Murtagh shrugged.

  “Because ye are too stupid to count past fifty. So ye will have to live with the fact that if one of us is a festering turd, it is ye,” said Mungo, slapping him back.

  Murtagh sniggered. “Ye do have a way with words, my friend. But putting age aside, it is ye who is the ugly one out of the two of us. That hideous scar ye got running across yer face makes all the difference. It’s like ye have an arse crack smack bang on yer heid.”

  “Do I now? Freya thinks it makes me look more masculine. It reminds her what a warrior I am.” A small frown appeared on his face when he thought of his wife. She had been opposed to him leaving with his two stepsons, Brice, and Murtagh, claiming that he was too old for such adventures. Even the laird had tried to
dissuade him and also Murtagh, but the two veterans had refused. They both loved Doogle as if he were their own boy.

  “Yer woman’s as blind as a bat. Gotta to be if she married ye,” intoned Murtagh.

  “I will show ye.” In one fell swoop, Mungo launched onto the other man from his horse. The two of them landed on the frosty ground with a thump, the air venting past Murtagh’s lips upon impact.

  “Ye always were a sneaky bastard.” Murtagh growled between gasps for air.

  “It’s not sneaky. Ye call it stratagem.”

  It was a word the laird’s youngest son, Callum, had taught them before the Battle of Neville’s Cross. Back then he was on the way to Rome. He never got there. Instead, the young man had ended up getting married and becoming an English lord like his grandfather before him.

  The two clansmen continued to roll around on the ground. The upper hand in the struggle changed hands every other moment. The two veteran warriors were evenly matched. If nothing stopped them, the bout could last a very long time.

  “Will they ever grow up?” asked Brice of Bruce and Alick.

  Alick looked down at his father who was presently slamming Murtagh’s head against the ground. “Na, I dinnae think so. The two of them will be doing that well into the coffin.”

  Bruce chuckled. “I am just happy it’s not me Da’s trying to teach a lesson to.”

  His brother nodded knowingly beside him. He thought of how their father and Murtagh had reprimanded them after their audience with the laird. It had taken all of Freya’s and Caitlin’s, Murtagh’s wife, persuasion to stop them from hurling verbal abuse and changing to pummeling the lads.

  “Who do ye think will win?” asked Brice matter-of-factly.

  “Da looks like he has the upper hand,” said Alick.

  With those words, Murtagh was hurled against a tree.

  “Argh, I will get ye for that, ye scabby tally-washer.” Murtagh howled and promptly freed himself from Mungo’s vice-like grip.

  “Oh, no ye won’t.” With a swoop of his leg, Mungo kicked Murtagh’s from under him. “How do ye like it with yer arse on the ground, ye great big Jessie? Ye fight like a lass; yer ma had bigger balls than ye do and yer da loved it.”

  The color on Murtagh’s face turned bright red as he bellowed out his mirth. He couldn’t resist two more punches before Mungo slumped to the ground and joined in the hilarity. The others watched on in confused silence as the two bears of men laughed it out.

  “One might think that one of us should have grown out of this,” said Mungo, trying to catch his breath from all the exertion and hilarity.

  “Aye, but it’s a darn great bit of fun. But saying that about my ma tipped me over the edge. How do ye come up with that tripe, Mungo?” Murtagh started laughing again because of the well-timed insult in the middle of the fight.

  “Haud yer wheesht. You’ll have me going again,” said Mungo, tears of mirth streaming down his cheeks. It made the burly Scotsman look comical. His usually fearful face scrunched up into a wet rictus of jollity.

  “Are ye two quite finished? I would like to get to Paris before nightfall,” said Brice who was in charge of the expedition.

  “Aye, I dinnae want to sleep out in the cold tonight,” said Bruce.

  “Nice warm inn would do me just fine,” concurred Alick.

  Mungo and Murtagh exchanged glances and nodded. In a flash, they were on their feet. Mungo pulled Alick off of his horse and Murtagh did the same with Bruce. They then maneuvered them in chokeholds to the nearby water of the River Seine and threw them in.

  “Ye find sleeping outdoors too cold for yer liking, ye wee Jessie. Spoken like a winging Lowlander.” Murtagh hissed as he ogled a sputtering and cursing Bruce.

  “And ye – inn would do ye just fine, would it? Ye can ride the rest of the way to Paris in a nice wet plaid. Hope ye enjoy the ride, laddie. Now stop footering about and get yer arse out of the water. We have a long road ahead of us.”

  Mungo turned and left the two splashing lads behind him. Murtagh soon followed. Moments later, they sat astride their horses next to Brice who could not wipe the grin off of his face.

  “Are ye coming, ye winging galoots?” yelled Mungo, heeling the flanks of his mount.

  “Ye better get cracking if ye don’t want to sleep outdoors,” chimed in Murtagh, imitating his friend of many years.

  Brice was the last to leave. He waited a moment longer for the others to vacate the river and approach their horses.

  “Ye two should know better than to speak like spoiled women in front of those two,” he said.

  The two chastened brothers nodded.

  “They’re like children,” said Bruce.

  “Aye, at close to sixty ye might expect them to have grown wiser and more balanced, but oh no – they’re worse than ever,” said Alick, lifting himself onto the chestnut-colored mare.

  Brice chuckled. “No use complaining about it. Now come on. Otherwise, we really will be sleeping out in the open tonight. YA! YA!”

  Brice galloped off after the two clansmen and the city of Paris.

  “Big place this,” said Murtagh, eyeing the massive city walls in the distance that circumvallated the town of Paris.

  “Do any of ye ken anything about the place?” asked Mungo.

  The others shook their heads.

  “Fat lot of use the four of ye are. If Callum were here, he could tell us all there is to ken about the place.” Snorting his disgust at their ignorance, Mungo spurred his horse forward toward the sprawling city.

  Brice shook his head. “Come on. It will be dark soon, and if this town is anything like what we have back home, there will be a curfew in a few hours, and they will shut the main gate.”

  He followed the older clansman.

  The closer they got to the city, the more people clogged the road. There seemed to be a great rush to enter the capital before nightfall. All manner of animals were herded along to feed the vast population that fluctuated between one hundred and two hundred thousand inhabitants. Presently, it was at the lower end of the spectrum because of the plague that had ravaged the land not so long ago.

  “What’s that foul smell? It’s getting worse the closer we get?” asked Bruce, holding a hand to his nose.

  “Oh, don’t worry; it’s only Murtagh. Surprised ye didn’t notice it earlier. He’s been with us all the way from Scotland,” said Mungo, grinning at his friend.

  “Don’t listen to yer da. He always says that when he’s trying to hide the fact that he broke wind,” countered Murtagh, an equally large smile splitting his face.

  “Don’t the two of ye start again. I can’t have ye fighting it out in front of Paris. You will get us arrested,” said Brice.

  “Don’t worry, laddie. There’ll be none of that here,” said Mungo, looking down at the street as they passed the massive main gate. It was covered in all manner of grime; most of which was of an indiscernible and seedy nature.

  In moments, the narrow medieval streets of Paris engulfed the small group of men. The buildings rose up all around them, boasting colorful signs heralding the occupant’s identity.

  “It’s definitely noisier than back home,” said Bruce, looking about. The awe of being in a conurbation of this size was written straight across his face.

  “That’s because it’s a hundred times the size, ye dozy walloper,” said Murtagh, rolling his eyes.

  It was extremely noisy as crowds of people and animals moved along between the three and four-story-high houses. All manner of vendors shouted in an attempt to peddle their wares. No matter how closely dusk approached, it did not deter them from endeavoring to make a few more sous before the commencement of curfew.

  These merchants went door-to-door selling fish, fruits, vegetables, cheese, milk, chickens, garlic, onions, clothing, and countless other products. Competing with these men were mendicants begging for alms. More flocks of sheep, pigs, and cows were being urged along by their often rebarbative handlers.

 
; “Oi, ye there, watch where ye chuck the contents of that thing.” Mungo grumbled when he saw a woman leaning out of a window, holding a large wooden bucket. All she did was shout a few curses in French at him before she tipped the insalubrious bounty onto the street below. The contents landed with a loud splatter on the stone-paved ground.

  “Disgusting these city-dwellers.” Mungo spat.

  “Aye, they take a shit and then throw it onto the street. No wonder the stench is so unbearable here. Does the wind never rise up,” complained Murtagh. By now, he imitated Bruce and covered his nose with his hand.

  “It’s sure different to back home,” said Brice.

  He was equally as amazed and disgusted by the Parisians’ way of life. He was only grateful that it was not the summer – for he imagined it to be far worse in the heat. However, the overwhelming odor of burning wood and charcoal used for heating and cooking dominated the airwaves. In certain parts, it got so bad that he thought he would suffocate.

  Everywhere, the streets smelled strongly of unwashed persons, animals, and human and animal waste. Chamber pots of urine were routinely emptied out of windows onto the street as they further entered the sprawling conurbation.

  “Where do ye have a mind for us to sleep tonight, Brice?” asked Mungo.

  “I dinnae ken. There must be a tavern somewhere around here,” replied Brice.

  “Then why don’t ye use some of that French the tutor taught ye when ye was a wee laddie and ask. The same goes for ye, ye dozy wallopers.” Mungo also directed his query at his two stepsons who had received the same level of education as the laird’s sons.

  The three young men exchanged embarrassed glances.

  “Why didn’t I think of that?” said Brice, blushing lightly at his obvious lack of foresight. He promptly urged his horse forward until he found the most respectable person he could find.

  After a brief exchange, they were directed to a tavern called ‘Le Petit Cochon’ or ‘The Little Pig’. It was situated close to the Grand-Rue Saint-Martin that bisected the city from north to south.