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

by Alisa Adams

  It took them much longer than expected to navigate their way past the hundreds of people walking the same way. There was simply no alternative than to go with the flow of humanity. Murtagh and Mungo pushed and shoved as much as they could. Occasionally, a braver sort attempted to complain, but one look at the brawny clansmen invariably shied the aggrieved person away.

  At some point, they passed the massive fortress of the Louvre, originally designed to protect the Right Bank of the Seine against an English attack from Normandy. The fortress was a great rectangle surrounded by four towers and a moat. In the center was a circular tower thirty meters high. It was the anchor on the Right Bank of the new wall King Philip II had built around the city. Presently, it was used as a castle for recreation and also for ceremonial functions rather than a bastion; the vassals of the king took their oath of loyalty at the Louvre rather than the city palace.

  “Well, that’s a castle if ye ask me,” said Murtagh, looking up at the large fortifications.

  “Aye, the English will have trouble storming that should they ever get here,” added Mungo.

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” said Brice. “Now, stop gawking. We have a tavern to find.”

  They arrived just in time – for the churches had started to ring their bells in announcement of the onset of curfew.

  “This looks like a right dump.” Murtagh grumbled as he looked up at a sign of a pig painted on a wooden board that hung so loosely that the next gust of wind might knock it off the hinges.

  “Well, there’s nothing for it. It’s either this or sleep on the streets.” Mungo handed the reigns of his horse to Alick. “And remembering what that French lass threw from her window earlier, I am going in.”

  He pushed open the door and vanished inside of the tavern.

  A gust of warm air assaulted his face the moment he stepped in. The dense waft that came at him was like a moving wall made up of a comingling of cooking aroma, sweat, and an overall putrid odor. It was dingy and dark inside. A fire in a hearth and a few sconces with flickering flames provided the only lighting. The others, except for Bruce who looked after the horses, followed Mungo across the straw-strewn floor up to a counter where a short, bald man with a frowzy appearance stood. With him, a buxom woman in a grimy dress and no older than nineteen reclined behind the bar.

  “We’ll have five of yer pottages and five jugs of ale,” ordered Mungo, speaking English. He slapped a coin onto the bar to make his point.

  The landlord just gawped at him. He obviously had never seen a clansman before, and not to mention a man of Mungo’s size.

  “Well, how about it then? This one looks a right bampot,” said Mungo, staring down the innkeeper.

  “Aye, not to mention the unspeakable establishment he keeps,” added Murtagh.

  “Laddies, allow me,” said Brice, stepping forward. He began to address the Frenchman in his language.

  “Sorry, friend, but we’re closing the doors for the night. The curfew has begun,” said the tavern owner in French.

  “I forgot to mention, we’ll also be needing chambers for the night and stabling for the horses,” said Brice.

  The short man studied him for a moment. He couldn’t help his worried scrutiny alternating between Mungo and Murtagh who stood there glowering at him.

  “Now, ye listen here, Frenchie. The laird’s son just asked ye politely in yer miserable language that he requires rooms, stabling, and food.” Murtagh snarled. He pulled the landlord toward him with his beefy hand.

  “Aye, and lest ye want me to chop yer welly off with this, I suggest ye do his bidding,” intoned Mungo, moving forward until his head was right next to Murtagh’s.

  The landlord scrutinized them with his nervous, ferrety eyes. Mungo’s threat was obvious to him when he saw his hand come to a rest on the pommel of his claymore that hung off of his belt.

  Finally, having decided that the strangely dressed men meant business, he said, “Il vous coûtera.”

  “How much?” asked Brice.

  The tavern keeper shrugged and blinked with avaricious eyes. “A few coins of silver…” he said, wanting his prospective patron to take the initiative and hopefully give more than he would have asked for.

  Brice took his leathern money pouch from inside his plaid. He removed a few coins and thwacked too many of them onto the counter. The innkeeper arched his eyebrows in surprise. He then hastily ferreted away the money on the wooden worktop quicker than it had materialized and before Brice could even think about changing his mind. Snorting, he walked down the length of the area behind the counter, picking up a few pewter pitchers on the way, which he then dipped into a large barrel, removing them brimming with wine.

  “Vous pouvez vous s’asseoir là-bas,” he said, pointing at a table in the corner of the establishment. “I have three rooms available.” His tone and manner had changed considerably since seeing the moneybag. “One of my lads will take care of your horses. It’ll cost you a few more of those coins though,” he added, squinting.

  Brice removed some more money from the purse and socked the silver onto the counter for the second time. Without another word, he stomped across the low ceilinged room that was nearly empty because of the curfew. Only one other man sat at a table close to the fire eating his stew. He produced occasional feral grunts as he wolfed down the brew. He took no notice of the newcomers.

  “Ye be nice now and make sure the food is good.” Mungo growled before he followed Brice to the table.

  “Aye, none of that shite ye have in those chanties,” added Murtagh, referring to the chamber pots that he had seen routinely emptied onto the streets.

  He too left. Instead of heading straight for the table, he went to fetch Bruce who still waited outside.

  “This is just what I needed,” said Mungo, pouring the contents of the jug into the individual tankards.

  When he was done, he picked up his and drained it in one. He promptly refilled it and again assaulted the drinking vessel with the same vigorous flourish, ending his swilling with a cacophonous burp.

  Brice chuckled. “Aye, traveling makes ye thirsty.”

  He sipped down the beverage with far more restraint than his companion. The wine was better than he had expected. It tasted deep and full, adding pleasant warmth to his belly after the cold of the fields he had traversed that day.

  “This sure beats sleeping outdoors,” said Bruce, joining the others along with Murtagh.

  Promptly the second belch of the evening rounded off Murtagh’s first hearty gulps of the wine. “Ah, that was good. Now that my thrapple is wetted, we need a toast.” He turned to Brice. “Ye got a good one, laddie?”

  “Aye, I do.” Brice lifted his goblet. “To finding Doogle. May he be well and in good hands.”

  “Aye, I will certainly drink to that,” said Mungo, raising his cup

  “And may that be very soon,” added Alick, bringing his tankard to the others.

  “To Doogle and may he be shagging the first bonnie French lass he meets,” intoned Murtagh.

  They all laughed as they clinked their cups, each of them following suit with hearty draughts of the wine. They sat in silence for a while. Only the enthusiastic gulps coming from Mungo and Murtagh’s drinking and the audible grunts and slurps from the only other patron in the tavern could be heard.

  “Votre dîner,” said the curvaceous serving woman.

  She slapped three wooden bowls onto the table. She left at a snail's pace only to return with two more and some bread, all of which she deposited in front of them with the same brash un-courteousness.

  With hesitation, Bruce dipped his spoon into the brownish, congealed liquid. No matter how distasteful it looked, the aroma fanning out of the bowl reminded him just how hungry he was.

  In the meantime, Mungo pulled on the crust of bread, grimacing at how hard it was. “This ruddy bannock is as hard as a brick. Trust that ne'er-do-well to serve stale bread. I just hope it is not full of weevils to boot.” With a gr
unt, he freed some of it, which he then proceeded to dip into the pottage. “Never ask what is in it,” he said with his mouth half full. “It can contain all manner of things lying about the kitchen and environ. Sometimes, they chuck in an old draft horse that was well passed it. You got just about anything – blood, entrails, if yer lucky carrots…” he continued, ridding his mouth of a piece of gristle with his finger.

  “I thought ye said not to talk about it,” said Bruce.

  Murtagh guffawed. “Well, I couldn’t resist… Now, eat up, laddie, while it’s still hot. It won’t kill ye.” He too ate with equal gusto, rivaling that of his fellow clansman.

  The five men ate in silence until their bowls were scraped clean with the bread that had fortunately softened when it was left in the stew.

  To Bruce’s surprise, it had been surprisingly savory.

  Brice too was content. He felt a warm glow in his belly that made him drowsy. He was exhausted from the road. Every limb on his body ached. The food and wine had added to his tiredness.

  It was the same for the others. Only Mungo and Murtagh seemed as if they had not ridden a single league that day. With loud burps and shouts for more wine, they looked as if they might turn the evening into a drinking bout.

  “It’s time we all got to bed, laddies.” Brice stood up to make his point.

  Mungo and Murtagh exchanged glances before Murtagh’s meaty paw forced Brice back to his seat. “Now, ye listen here. I have just ordered some more wine, and we are going to drink it. And when that’s done, we’ll have some more.”

  “Aye,” said Mungo, nodding his agreement. “After being cooped up on a bloody boat and riding the countryside, this is the best I’ve felt in days. And the wine sure beats the ale we drink.”

  Brice had no choice but to acquiesce to the elder men’s suggestion. To his chagrin, the evening would last a bit longer. The older men’s stamina was exhausting at times, but he was grateful that they were with him. Their presence could make all the difference if they ever faced a foe.

  It did not take as long as Brice, Alick and Bruce had feared until they mounted the stairs to the first floor where they found a narrow corridor with three doors leading from it. Mungo and Murtagh had decided to remain for some more wine. Brice directed them to the furthest one at the end of the hallway. He opened the door with a heavy key, provided to him by the owner and entered the chamber.

  “As the laird’s son and all, I suggest ye take this room, and my brother and I will sleep in the other one,” said Bruce.

  Brice smiled. “Thank ye, Bruce. I only dread to imagine what those two great big clods downstairs are going to do when they find out that they have to share a room.”

  The three of them laughed.

  “It will be a night to remember,” said Alick. “Goodnight, Brice. See ye tomorrow.”

  As the brothers stepped into their room, Brice did the same. The wood beamed ceiling hung so low that he had to bend over. The building was so constructed because the limited height provided more warmth during the colder months of the year. There was also a fire burning in a small hearth. For this he was grateful. No matter the mugginess of the room below him, he still felt the after-effects of the long, cold ride throughout the day.

  He did not bother to disrobe. Instead, he lowered himself onto the bed and closed his eyes.

  Images of Skye promptly filled his mind. He thought of the way she had looked when he left Diabaig. Her golden blonde hair had shimmered in the sunlight whenever it managed to peek its head past the clouds. Her blue eyes were slightly moist. It did not matter that he had traveled often. Being parted from her and she from him always tore at their hearts.

  Before he drifted off, he swore that he would return home to her with his brother, Doogle.

  8

  8

  * * *

  A Home away from Home

  * * *

  Iteuil, Aquitaine, November 1356

  * * *

  “Here, let me handle them!”

  Doogle stood ankle-deep in the muddy quagmire in the pig’s sty. The newly born piglets wallowed contently in the dirt nearby. Matilda, their mother, watched her drift with piggy-like eyes as she too relaxed in the mud, completely perturbed by the other animals milling about and the burly Scotsman who shifted the beasts into the next pen.

  “Merci, Doogle.” Louise wiped her brow with the back of her arm.

  Despite it being cold, her cheeks glowed from the exertion of the heavy work of moving the pigs around and organizing the feed. She took a moment to catch her breath, the air exiting her lungs steaming white as it came into contact with the cold air. She could not fail but notice Doogle’s sheer strength as he maneuvered yet more livestock as if he was merely coaxing small puppies around.

  He had regained much of his former vigor. However, the wound that had already healed still harassed him when he overdid it.

  She watched him move to the barn where he promptly started moving bales of hay. A small smile flickered across her lips when he turned and grinned at her. She felt something flip in her belly. It felt warm. And there it was again. The same feeling she always had whenever she was near him. It felt alien to her even though it was a persistent and recurrent phenomenon.

  “We’re nearly done, lassie,” said Doogle, wiping the sweat off of his brow.

  “Oui, c’est vrais, Doogle – we only have to finish feeding the animals.”

  “Aye. How about we go for another one of those walks when we are done?”

  Louise nodded. It was her favorite part of the day. The long strolls she and the Highlander took in the surrounding countryside were like escaping to a different world.

  “I would like that very much.”

  Doogle nodded back at her. Promptly, he bent over and resumed his work.

  She watched him for a while longer. He was attired in his plaid again. Louise had sewn the hole where the sword had punctured the fabric and washed it as best she could. Despite her not being accustomed to a man dressed this way, she had to admit to herself that his clothing made him look regal and powerful – but most of all foreign. He was a being that belonged somewhere else.

  Louise sighed. Although he had not mentioned it, she knew that the Highlander would leave in the not too distant future when he was fully recovered. The mere notion of his departure made her sad. They’d had time to learn more about each other during their strolls in the forest while he was still convalescing in Alianor’s hovel. At first, they had only gone small distances, but gradually, as he grew stronger, Louise had shown him more of the land she loved so much.

  The Scot had been impressed with the beauty of his surroundings. And yet, he never failed to tell Louise of the splendors of his home. The more she heard him recount of the marvels of the mystical land to the north, the more she wished that one day she would be able to see it – and maybe one day she would.

  It had only been a few days since Doogle had left Alianor’s home in the forest. Louise had spoken to her mother and father about the Highlander and how he had fought in the French king’s army at Poitiers. It did not take much convincing, and they were more than willing to let him work on the farm until he would be ready to leave for home.

  Louise felt saddened by this prospect – she had grown fond of Doogle and his easy manner. The man, who had the strength of two men, was kindhearted and gentle. In her heart of hearts, she knew that he would make a good husband one day.

  Doogle slept in the barn as their house was too small to accommodate a man of his size. During the day, he helped Louise’s father tend to the animals – the two men got on well from the onset. The Scot did his utmost to use the rudimentary French he had learned when he was younger to converse with the Frenchman.

  “Doogle, you must rest now,” said Louise’s father as he approached.

  “Papa, tu es là,” said Louise, glad to see her father who had been in the forest chopping wood for the hearth.

  “You have been working him far too hard, ma fille,�
� he chided.

  “He is a strong man, Papa.”

  Her father nodded. “Oui, that he is. But still, he is only a man.” He walked up to Doogle. “Here, have some of this. It will warm your belly.” He handed the Scot a steaming wooden mug.

  “Merci, Alexandre. This is much appreciated.” Doogle took the drinking vessel and started to blow into it.

  “Mulled wine with some honey,” intoned Alexandre, Louise’s father, lowering himself onto a bale of hay while he nursed his mug.

  “And what about me – do I not get anything to drink?” protested Louise.

  Her father raised two hands and shrugged. “I have but only two hands.”

  She frowned. “So the man gets a drink first, is that it?”

  “Mais oui – he is our guest,” said the father.

  His daughter chuckled. “You are right, Papa. We wouldn’t want him to return home and claim that the French are not hospitable.” Merely speaking of his inevitable departure reawakened the maudlin feeling from before.

  “Here, Louise, have some of mine. Just be careful it is very hot,” said Doogle, patting on the bale of hay next to him for her to sit down.

  “Thank you, Doogle. It appears that chivalry is not dead.” She took the steaming beverage gratefully and carefully began to sip the contents. The heat felt pleasant, partially countering the icy cold of the early winter.

  “We look after our lasses in the Highlands. And besides, ye worked just as hard as I did today,” said Doogle.

  Louise looked up at the sky. The clouds were thick and gray. They clung to the empyrean as if they were there to stay for all eternity. Instinctively, she knew that the pregnant rainclouds would burst. Maybe, she and Doogle would have to postpone their walk to another day.

  “Well, hello there, young man. I hope you are convalescing well here at the Duroc farm,” said a deep voice.

  “Father Mortimer. It is good to see ye even if ye are a bleeding Sassenach,” said Doogle, grinning at the clergyman. He had met the priest on a few occasions because he was a regular visitor at the Duroc farm.