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

by Alisa Adams

  “Come now, God makes no difference among men,” said Father Mortimer.

  “Mm, ye should tell that to the English. They want the entire world to be their own.”

  “Yes, my countrymen are a truculent bunch. It is their way and most of all the way of our kings.” Father Mortimer waddled over to Louise and her father and greeted them warmly. Afterward, he lowered his prodigious bulk onto one of the bales.

  Doogle nodded. “Ever since I was a boy we have been fighting the Sassenachs. Sometimes, we were successful, but mostly they won. My country is nothing more than a puppet state.”

  “Don’t worry, son. When King David returns from exile things will revert back to normal,” said Father Mortimer.

  “I admire yer optimism, I do. However, I dinnae think that King Edward will release him any time soon. And besides, we cannae raise the coin for the extortionate ransom he demands for the king’s release,” said Doogle, sighing.

  “Is he treated well?” asked Louise, joining in the conversation.

  “According to my former commander he is. Laird Douglas said that King David lives in a castle – a gilded cage of sorts.” The Highlander hacked out a laugh.

  “So then the king is well?”

  “Aye, I suppose he is.”

  Alexandre cleared his throat. “Enough talk of things we cannot influence. What happens in the realms of kings is not for us simple folk to contemplate.”

  Doogle nodded, but Louise was not satisfied with her father’s remark. “Doogle is the son of a Scottish laird and a warrior. Of course, he would hope to think that he could change the fate of kings.”

  “Ma fille, you are always trying to change the world. For the moment, Doogle is a farmer and our guest.”

  “Aye, and what a pleasant life this is,” intoned Doogle, his gaze sweeping over the hoary fields beyond the small homestead.

  His regard finally came to rest on Louise, and she looked away sheepishly to stare ahead.

  Alexandre smiled at the Highlander.

  When Doogle noticed him looking at him, he nodded wanly.

  “So, Doogle, tell me why there is no woman waiting for you back home?” asked Alexandre.

  The clansman shrugged. “I suppose I never found the right one.”

  Alexandre nodded. “Oui, in a way, love is such a simple thing. And yet, it is so difficult to find. Some men can spend a lifetime searching for it and never discover its meaning.”

  “How did ye meet yer wife, Lisette?” asked Doogle.

  “Oh, I was lucky that her father and mine were close friends. Lisette’s and my fate were decided the moment we were born.”

  Doogle pleated his brow. “That very much sounds like my brother and his wife, Skye.”

  Louise scrutinized the Scott. Doogle had often spoken to her about his brothers and their wives during their long walks. She could see that he missed them both.

  “Your brother and...” Alexandre rolled his next word on his tongue for a few moments. “… Skye – that is her name, eh?”

  Doogle nodded, smiling. “Aye.”

  “They grew up together and always knew that they were meant to be together.”

  “Uh-huh – those two are as thick as thieves. There is no greater love – my mother and father are the same.”

  Alexandre grunted something incomprehensible as he drained his tankard of mulled wine. Then, he stroked his daughter’s cheek. “C’est bon ça, eh, Louise – there is no greater thing in this life than to love unconditionally and for all eternity. I pray that you will also find such passion, ma fille.”

  “She will – God works in mysterious ways. He will guide your daughter to the right man when the time is right,” said Father Mortimer, rejoining the conversation.

  Louise looked the clergyman in the eye. “How can you be so certain?”

  Father Mortimer got to his feet and smiled down at her. “Because I just know.” He tilted his head and strolled away.

  “At first, I was skeptical of that man. But now I think that he is a worthy and good addition to this community,” said Alexandre, eyeing the priest as he waddled back to the village.

  Louise was still thinking about what Father Mortimer had said. Conflicting emotions played in her mind – Father Mortimer’s certain words still did not convince her. And again Alianor’s worrying premonition came back to haunt her – what if Jean Philippe was the man she was supposed to marry? She had known him for most of her life.

  “Are ye all right, Louise? Ye look as if ye have just seen a ghost,” said Doogle. Concern was etched onto his features.

  Louise’s eyes shot up. Doogle was looking directly at her. “Oui, oui, all is fine,” she stammered. A small red flush crept up her neck and settled on her cheeks.

  “Allez, let us go to the house. Lisette will have prepared supper for us.” Alexandre got to his feet and gingerly walked over to his home. He was a comical sight – he moved lightly for such a big man.

  “Come, Louise. I could eat a horse,” said Doogle, getting up and holding his hand out to her.

  “With your voracious appetite I believe that you could eat an entire horse,” said Louise, accepting his proffered hand.

  Doogle hooted out laughter. “Aye, us lads in the Highlands have the appetite of a bear. Let’s go before yer father eats everything.”

  They both laughed because Alexandre ate almost as much as the clansman.

  “Doogle?”

  “Aye, lassie.”

  “When will you return home?” She hated the question, but it had been plaguing her mind for days.

  The Scot shrugged. “I dinnae ken. One day I will have to go home. My mother and father will be worried about me.”

  “It must be terrible for them not to know where their son is – whether he still lives.”

  Louise could imagine what Doogle’s parents must be feeling. When she was but a girl, she had known of similar uncertainty when her father had not returned home one day from tilling the fields. It had been a stormy night, and the banks of the River Clain had been flooded, as the watercourse had filled to a bursting point.

  “What are ye thinking, Louise?”

  “Oh, just about a time when Maman and I were worried about Papa. He did not return home from work until the next day…” Louise told Doogle all about that fateful night.

  “Aye, not knowing the whereabouts of yer kin is a horrible situation indeed,” he said in a low voice.

  “You will see your family again.”

  Doogle nodded and awarded her a smile, but Louise saw something almost hidden in his expression. Could it be hesitancy, to return home?

  She dared to wonder that if it was, could she be the cause? Had Doogle grown as fond of her as she had of him?

  9

  9

  * * *

  On the Way to Bordeaux

  * * *

  Bordeaux, Aquitaine, December 1356

  * * *

  “Laddie, are ye absolutely certain that this Black Prince fellow will receive us?” asked Mungo, looking ahead.

  Before him, the town of Bordeaux spread out to the north, south, east and west. The La Garonne River was the last remaining obstacle in their path. Nightfall was already fast creeping up on them. Soon, it would be night and the beginning of curfew. The town was still too far away to approach before the onset of dusk, so Brice thought it prudent to enter it the following morning.

  “Aye, he will remember me from my time in England. And more importantly, he will receive us.” Brice exchanged glances with the others. “We will make camp here. And tomorrow we will attempt to gain an audience with the Prince of Wales.”

  There was a murmur of discontent from Mungo and Murtagh. Alick and Bruce looked a little taken aback by the laird’s son’s boast.

  “Won’t the Sassenachs spit us like pigs if we get close to that town?” asked Bruce, peering into the distance. “We are their enemy after all.”

  “Maybe,” replied Brice matter-of-factly as he dismounted from his horse.<
br />
  Bruce swallowed deeply and peered back into the distance as if the Black Prince would appear out of the river like a specter and float to where he stood and gut him.

  Beyond, the large wall of circumvallation around the town looked daunting even at this distance. Every so often, towers interspersed with the gray stone wall. They resembled cones with their pointy tops upon which fluttered pennants in various colors.

  It was an impressive sight indeed. The land of France certainly was a wealthy domain – everywhere Bruce looked, there was abundance. Although, he had a short memory, for he had forgotten the abject poverty and misery he had witnessed on the route south of Paris.

  The Black Prince’s chevauchée had caused much damage to the surrounding landscape and towns and villages. And the lost battle at Poitiers had cost the lives of many French nobles and soldiers. The Kingdom of France was weak. It remained in the hands of God whether this proud realm would survive the travails of war and destruction for another year.

  “Ye mentioned on the ride over here that the prince has the French king as his captive?” asked Murtagh.

  Brice nodded. “Aye, brother. That he does.”

  Mungo spat on the ground. “It appears that those Sassenach devils are in the process of collecting foreign kings.” He released a cavernous grunt as he too dismounted from his mount.

  “It is how the English get what they want. The ransom they ask for King Jean will be very large indeed,” said Brice.

  Murtagh grunted something uncouth through his thick beard. He led his horse away and tethered it to a tree. In the meantime, Mungo stared at Brice with searing anger in his eyes.

  “Ye want to ask for the help of this devil’s prince, eh, laddie?” He growled.

  “Aye. That is exactly what I aim to do, Mungo,” Brice responded.

  “If ye ask me, I think ye are aff yer heid,” said Mungo.

  “Well, I did not ask yer opinion.” Brice took a step closer to the older man. “I will do anything to find out what happened to my brother. Have ye even thought that he may be a prisoner of war and held captive at Bordeaux, eh?”

  The older clansman arched his eyebrows. “Naw, I dinnae think of that.”

  “Did ye not. Well, then ye have discounted one of the most logical things – yer anger for the Sassenachs has clouded yer judgment, friend. Ye’d be wise to temper it when we enter the royal halls of Bordeaux.”

  Mungo nodded reluctantly. “I will, young Brice.”

  “Ye better. Otherwise, ye can stay out here in the countryside and wait for our return.” Brice placed his hands on Mungo’s shoulders. “I ken that ye love my brother as much as I do. But there is a time to fight and a time for talking.”

  “And this would be the time for idle chatting now, would it?” The veteran warrior gave him a slit-eyed look.

  “Aye, that it would be, old friend. Ye must remember that my father and I were both the king and prince’s guests at Windsor Castle after the Battle of Neville’s Cross,” said Brice.

  “Aye, I ken,” responded Mungo. “More like prisoners if ye ask me.” He hissed through his teeth.

  “Then ye will also ken that Da and I waited it out until we could get away. And during that time, I became better acquainted with the English prince.” Brice took a moment to think about his next words. “In a way, he is not much different to me.”

  “Never say that, laddie. Ye are no murdering bastard like that savage Sassenach.” Murtagh growled, interrupting. He had already unsaddled his horse and ordered Alick and Bruce to organize some firewood and find something to eat.

  “He is a man who loves his country, just as we do,” countered Brice.

  “Now, jist haud on! That bastard is by no means honorable,” snapped Murtagh, inviting snorts of agreement from Mungo.

  “And how would either of ye two galoots ken? Ye have never met the man. Just because he is a tactical genius, it does not mean that he is some sort of barbarian,” said Brice.

  He was getting angry at the obstinacy of the two older clansmen. It was always the same. Murtagh and Mungo only saw things in shades of black and white – the English need to be killed, and that was that. To them, it was impossible that the enemy might also be fighting for their place in the world.

  However, on the other hand, their hatred for the English was understandable. Edward I ‘Longshanks’, Edward the Third’s grandfather, had proven to be most brutal when it came to subjugating the kingdom to the north. Ever since the English had almost constantly held the upper hand.

  “All right, we will haud our wheeshts when we get to Bordeaux,” said Mungo with deep creases on his forehead.

  “Aye. But that does not mean that we cannae call him all of the names under the sun tonight,” intoned Murtagh.

  Brice let the air escape his lungs. “I will let ye vent yer wrath tonight. But tomorrow, the two of ye will be the very epitome of courteousness. Do I make myself clear.”

  The two other Highlanders exchanged comical looks. “Will ye look at him,” said Mungo.

  “Aye, the pup has become like his sire – a grouchy old demon if ye cross him,” said Murtagh.

  “Aye, he is behaving as if the contents of some bowfing chamber pot landed on his heid while we was in Paris.”

  The two friends shared a laugh. Even Brice’s hardened stance started to soften at the other man’s joke.

  “All right then. Let’s help Bruce and Alick with the arrangements for supper. By God, I could do with some fresh meat tonight,” said Brice.

  Murtagh looked up at the sky. It was overcast and gray. He had often heard of it described as a widow’s sky. The kind one could only find in the deep of winter. High above the small party of Highlanders, the clouds appeared churlish and angry. They raced across the empyrean expanse above them with increasing speed. It was as if they needed to be somewhere in a hurry.

  For most of the day, they had been one great, gray mass, blotting out the sun. He felt as if he was stuck at the bottom of a cauldron with the surface covered by a vapor of gray that gradually turned darker as twilight approached.

  “It’s going to rain, laddies. We best get under those trees over there and start a fire before the wood and kindling becomes too wet,” said Murtagh, lowering his head.

  Brice and Mungo nodded their agreement.

  When Murtagh’s belly rumbled cacophonously, everyone vented their mirth. The party of Scots had not eaten since the morning. They would be grateful if they ensnared a rabbit or two.

  “I could certainly do with something good to eat. Something we made ourselves rather than another one of those French stews,” said Mungo.

  “Aye, who kens what filth they put in ‘em,” added Murtagh.

  “Enough talk – it is time to gather some wood for the fire,” ordered Brice.

  The two other clansmen nodded wanly before they spread out and started gathering kindling and firewood under the trees and beyond.

  Brice knelt down and quickly started preparing the fireplace in the small copse. All around him, the trees’ bark was thick, scaly, and dark gray-brown on the lower trunk, and thin, flaky and orange on the upper trunk and branches. These mature trees were distinctive due to their long, bare and straight trunks topped by rounded and sometimes flat-topped masses of foliage. He only hoped that they would provide ample protection from the impending rain.

  As Brice placed the kindling and other fuel on the ground, Bruce and Alick returned to the camp triumphant with a string of five rabbits held between them.

  “Well done, sons,” said Mungo, licking his lips.

  “Thank ye, Da,” answered Alick proudly as he slung the rabbits onto the ground close to Brice.

  “The two of ye better start skinning the blighters,” ordered Mungo.

  Promptly, Alick and Bruce set to work. It did not take them long to apply the correct incisions to the pelts with their knives. After, they pulled roughly on the furs, peeling them off the carcass with deft tugs.

  “Pass me that branch ov
er there. It’ll serve perfectly as a spit,” said Mungo, sitting down next to Brice, who had already started blowing into the birthing flames.

  Brice chucked one in his direction and promptly continued enlivening the fire. Mungo began to sharpen one end of the branch with his knife. When this was done, he grabbed one of the skinned rabbits and pierced the carcass until it skewered the wood down the entire length. After fastening the hind legs together, he repeated the process with the remaining bounty of food.

  Above the small party, the winter sky continued to be dark and vengeful. Steaming shrouds of cloud coiled and writhed, amalgamating further into a single entity. Then, an unearthly caterwauling sound filled the air. The wind picked up, shrieking and keening as it induced the flames in their small birthing fire to flicker this way and that. The clouds continued to race across the sky angrily, thrumming with charged energy, bulging them almost to bursting point.

  The deluge started suddenly with big, sopping drops of moisture that were wild and indiscriminate plump missiles that splattered the ground. Soon, the topsoil turned into slushy goo. It was as if God in the heavens vented his wrath on the world below.

  All around them, the rain poured down in sheets. Despite feeling the cold increase with the ferocity of the wind and deluge, the five men felt cozy, content and at ease. The entire air had something quixotic about it.

  Mungo did not waste any time scrutinizing his surroundings. He continued to prepare their food. He had already fashioned supports for the spit out of twigs. The rabbits hung over the fire, beginning to roast in their own juices.

  He did not mind the rain. To him, it was a part of life and the nectar of God and the serum of the sky. He was neither philosopher nor farmer, yet he understood the importance of nature’s bounty.

  “If beauty is God’s mark, then the rain is his final embellishment,” he said, staring into the flames.

  “Well said, Mungo,” said Murtagh. “I never knew that ye were a philosopher.”