by Alisa Adams
“I am many things ye dinnae ken.”
Murtagh hacked out a laugh. “Aye, ye definitely are many things. And a manky tallywasher is one of them.”
“It’s black as the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat out there,” said Brice, interrupting the town men’s banter. He stared into the pitch-black beyond the fire. A slight shiver slid down his back. “Is there is no sun in this infernal country.”
“Ye should be used to it by now. It is not too different to home,” said Mungo.
“The sun empowers life and the rain bequests it safe passage. It is the way of the world, laddie,” added Murtagh, inviting surprised glances from the others.
“Although, I wouldn’t mind a little more sun,” said Bruce.
“Aye. But we were lucky that the rain dinnae catch us while we were still on the road. At least, here, we have some cover under the leaves. These pines should do the trick quite nicely. And besides, I have a little surprise for ye.” Murtagh rummaged in his plaid, producing a leather flask from the folds. “How about some wine, laddies. I have been saving it for a night such as this. It’ll keep us mellow.” He took a large swig and then handed the leathern flagon to Brice.
Brice took the container gratefully and slugged a wholehearted dram. Murtagh was right. It warmed him up on the spot. On cue, a pleasant heat caressed his insides. He then handed it to Mungo, who copied him, smacking his lips for extra measure.
“Just what we needed. Nothing like a dram to wet yer thrapple and warm yer bones.” Mungo lay back, resting his back against a tree. He sighed contently as he passed the flagon to one of his stepsons.
“Brice…”
“Aye, Alick.”
“What’s going to happen when we get to Bordeaux on the morrow?”
Brice turned his head to look at him. “I dinnae ken. I haven’t thought that far yet. I pray that the prince has fond memories of our walks around Windsor Castle.”
“So ye spent some time with him?” asked Bruce, joining in the conversation and handing the flask back to Murtagh who drained it.
“Aye, I did, laddie,” replied Brice.
“What is he like – I mean is he a good man?” asked Alick.
“He is honorable if that is what ye are asking,” said Brice.
“I’ll gie ye a skelpit lug, laddie.” Mungo grunted. “How can ye say that he is honorable? He wiped out the entire French and Scottish army at Poitiers.”
“A victory that was well deserved,” Brice insisted.
“A cowardly victory. He hid behind his craven longbowmen who shot from a safe distance. Where is the honor in that?” added Murtagh.
“I am sorry, Murtagh. But ye were not there. The Sassenachs fought valiantly and better than any of us did,” said Bruce.
“Ye should watch yer tongue, boy,” snapped Mungo.
“No! I for one would like to hear what Bruce has to say about that day. Despite us being on the road for such a long time, neither he nor Alick have spoken much about it,” said Brice.
They sat in silence for a while, watching the rain fall in an unending cataract from the sky. Due to its intensity, the occasional drop found its way through the foliage above them. The fire hissed and crackled in retaliation to this invasion. The down pouring had taken on the sound of one rushing cacophony, like a raging river, fighting its way across the land until its final release off a cliff, transforming the torrent into a waterfall.
It fell on every part of the dark central plain before them, on the treeless hills, falling harshly upon the blades of grass, and farther westward, softly dropping into the dark mutinous hillocks. It was so cold that the men half expected the drops to become heavy bulbous snowflakes, coating the land with a white blanket. The trees around them creaked and resisted against the wind. The branches swayed, some of them perilously, threatening to snap off the trunk.
“The English fought bravely. And the Black Prince commanded his army like a veteran general for one who is still only twenty-six,” said Bruce.
“Aye. At first, he lured us in and let his bowmen strike with a vengeance, picking us off one by one. And then, when we were fully committed, the archers fought like men-at-arms,” said Alick.
“Ye mean to tell me that they didn’t stand on the sidelines like cowards?” asked Murtagh.
Alick shook his head. “Those archers were the coup de grace. It was their action that decided the fate of the battle.”
Mungo whistled through his teeth. “So, it appears that them Sassenachs do have some mettle in them after all. It will be interesting to meet the prince on the morrow.”
“The man will impress ye,” said Brice.
He then regaled the others with his tale of the time he was held captive at Windsor. The other men sat in silence while he spoke.
“It looks like supper is ready,” said Mungo after awhile. He lifted the spit off the Y-shaped poles and studied the rabbit. “Tis cooked, laddies.” He handed the first rotisserie to Brice and then proceeded to give the remaining ones to the others. “Be careful; it is very hot.”
Brice felt the searing heat radiate off the flesh. It would not be easy, he decided. Carefully, he pulled some of the meat off with his fingers, singeing them in the process. He quickly popped the flesh into his mouth and sucked the juices off of his fingers. The meat tasted a little like chicken, but with a more potent flavor – gamey to a point.
“This is succulent; best meal I have had in ages,” said Mungo, contently.
He ripped at the flesh with his teeth and fingers, the heat not at all disheartening him from his munching.
They continued to eat in silence. It was what they did most evenings, a hard day’s riding robbing them of their words. The quietness between them was never oppressing. All of them had much on their minds, for the following day would be decisive.
10
10
* * *
The Black Prince
* * *
Bordeaux, Aquitaine, December 1356
* * *
“It is said that the prince holds his court at the archbishop’s palace,” said Brice.
“Then that is where we shall go,” said Mungo.
“We first have to pass the sentries at the gate. Somehow, I worry that our Scottish garb will give us away,” said Brice.
Mungo pleated his brow as he rode with the others and the throng of people that moved with them seeking entry into the city. “What would ye have us do? Dress like a bleedin’ Sassenach?”
Brice chuckled. “No. I think that the way we are dressed will garner the necessary attention.”
“Necessary attention?” asked Alick.
“Aye. If the guards are doing their duty well, they will escort us to the prince,” said Brice.
“Throw us in the dungeon more likely.” Murtagh snorted.
“Have some faith, brother. We will get there in the end.” Brice did not feel as confident as his words suggested. What if Murtagh was right and the English just locked them up and threw away the key? It wouldn’t be the first time that someone went missing at the hands of the English.
The enemy had captured Brice’s father when he escorted his mother back to England from Scotland many years ago. He had ended up in Chillingham Castle, the most horrible prison in England. It had once been Edward the Longshanks preferred location for his captives. It was even claimed that the ghost of the one-time king’s executioner still roamed the halls and cells.
“All right, laddies, the time has come,” said Brice when they were only a few paces away from the turnpike by the gates.
“Now, who might you be, eh?” asked a burly sentry. The chainmail on his person clinked along with his weapons when he moved.
“We request an audience with the Prince of Wales, sir,” replied Brice in the haughtiest tone he could muster.
The man who had asked the question and the other guards within earshot chortled. “You would be seeking an audience with the prince, eh? May I inquire who it is that is asking?”
By n
ow, four other Englishmen converged on the party of Scots. In the corner of his eye, Brice saw that more soldiers were exiting the main gates of the town of Bordeaux. There was no turning back now – the die had been cast.
“My name is Brice Macleod, son of Laird Alastair Macleod. I am an old friend of the prince. I know him from the time I was his guest at Windsor Castle.”
The sentry with the deep pockmarks on his cheeks hitched his eyebrows. “A friend ye claim?”
“Aye, a friend.”
“But you are a Scot judging by your attire and miserable lilt. The prince would definitely not befriend the likes of you. I should ‘ave the lot of you thrown in the dungeon.” The guard cleared his throat to give the order for their arrest.
Brice raised his right hand. “I am certain that the prince would like to hear of my arrival. I do not suggest you make any hasty decisions you are sure to regret.”
The Englishman frowned. “Hasty decisions you say. I am only doing my duty. And that entails arresting any Scot within my reach.”
Brice hitched his shoulders. “Be my guest.” He held up his arms in surrender.
The gesture of submission unnerved the Englishman. He turned to his fellows who now numbered more than twenty with more men by the gates for moral and martial support.
“This Scottish vagabond claims to be a friend of our prince. What say ye to that?”
Howls of laughter followed this question.
“I’d say he’d be a Scottish liar. A dog that should be whipped, drawn and quartered like that traitor William Wallace.” One of the soldiers snarled.
“Now, ye listen here, ye Sassenach cur. If ye ever insult the laird’s son again, I will have yer heid off in a heartbeat,” said Mungo, getting off of his horse.
He walked over to the English guard until he stood barely a hand’s width from his person. The husky clansman towered over the other man.
“Keep yer heid, Mungo. I appreciate yer effort, but this man is only doing his duty,” intervened Brice, as he dismounted.
“He insulted ye, laddie,” protested Mungo.
“Aye, he did,” added Murtagh who already stood shoulder to shoulder with his friend.
Brice raised his right arm to forestall any more protests on Mungo and Murtagh’s behalf. “There is no need for truculence. We can sort this out as civilized men.” He patted Mungo on the back. “Take a step back, old friend, and let me do the talking, eh.”
He took a moment to regard the Englishmen standing before him. He could smell the traces of stale wine and onions on his breath. He knew that if he made a wrong move, the guard would have no compunction in giving the order to have them all slaughtered on the spot.
“Why don’t ye send someone to the prince and tell him who I am? If I am lying, ye can do with us what ye like. But if I am telling the truth, ye best make sure that my men and I are treated well because, from what I hear, your prince is not the forgiving type,” said Brice.
Brice could see the conflict playing on the other man’s face. He knew that if he made a mistake his life and that of his brethren was on the line.
After what seemed like an eternity, he snorted something unintelligible to the man standing next to him.
“All right, but if you are wasting my time, I will personally take you to the gallows,” he uttered.
“I would expect nothing less, good sir. Now that we have set aside our differences for the moment, I would like ye to offer us some refreshment while we wait.” Brice arched an eyebrow.
Next to him, Mungo and Murtagh could not help smiling, infuriating the Englishman.
“I am not a bloody innkeeper.”
“Ye will hope that you were if word gets out to the prince that his guests who have traveled so far to see him have been treated discourteously. I suggest you do as I say, and I give you my word that no repercussions will come your way because of the rebarbative welcome we received this morning.”
The guard eyed Brice for a moment with his ferrety eyes. For a few heartbeats, Brice thought that he was going to refuse him.
“Take these men to the guard’s chamber and treat them as honored guests. But do not take yer eyes off of them. Is that clear?” He turned from his fellow guards, back to Brice. “Now, I will have yer weapons.”
“With pleasure.” Brice handed him his claymore and dirk.
“There’s no bleedin’ way that I will let some Sassenach bastard take my weapons,” protested Mungo when an English soldier approached him.
Next to him, Murtagh was equally as noncompliant.
“Mungo, Murtagh, ye will do as I say. Give these men yer arms. I am certain the prince will let you have them back the moment he knows I am here,” ordered Brice.
“Ye are aff yer heid, laddie. Trusting these Sassenachs.” Mungo handed over his sword reluctantly.
The others followed suit.
“Come with me,” said the sentry gruffly.
Brice and his party followed the Englishman through the gates of the town. A detachment of some ten guards accompanied them. Their procession was short. Within moments, they were shown into a vaulted chamber built into the thick walls surrounding the settlement.
It was a large room where the sentries gathered when they were off duty. There was a sizeable fireplace, and sconces hung off of the thick stone wall – there were dark smudges where the fires burned. A wooden table and eight chairs stood in the center of the room.
When Brice and the others were seated, one of the sentries brought them a larger pitcher with wine and socked it on the table. Without a word, he left and closed the thick wooden door that creaked until shut.
“Well, it looks like we are at the English’s mercy now, laddie,” said Murtagh, helping himself to some wine.
“Aye, I hope ye ken what ye are doing,” said Mungo.
“It all boils down to the Black Prince now,” said Brice.
“Let’s hope that he remembers who the hell ye are. If he doesn’t, we’ll be swinging from the gallows come nightfall.” Mungo grunted, swilling his wine.
“That prince of yours took his bloody time in answering yer call,” complained Mungo.
The five Scotsmen were being escorted through the town by a troop of no less than twenty soldiers. Bordeaux was very much like Paris in terms of the stench and the way the buildings were constructed. The main difference was the size. With approximately thirty thousand inhabitants it was far smaller. Also, the breeze from the Bay of Biscay carried away some of the wood smoke and foul odors.
“Stop winging, Mungo. Ye sound like an old woman who got fleeced at the market,” retorted Brice.
“It’s my winging that keeps us alive.”
“We got this far. I suggest ye haud yer wheesht and let Brice do the talking,” said Murtagh.
Alick and Bruce were quiet. They both felt uncomfortable in the presence of so many enemy troops that formed a tight cordon around them. It was obvious from the way they handled themselves that they were hardened veterans from the many battles fought by the English. From what they had seen at the Battle of Poitiers, these men could hold their own in any skirmish.
The group of men continued to advance through the narrow streets of Bordeaux. The inhabitants they passed hastily moved to the side to make way for the prince’s men and their charges.
“There it is – the archbishop’s palace,” said Brice, pointing ahead.
Before them, a huge rectangular castle emerged. It was located right next to the Garonne River. Soldiers lined the battlements. It seemed like a small army camped outside of the structure – it was nigh impregnable.
It did not take long for the Highlanders and their escort to reach the main gates. The man in command of their escort exchanged a few words with the lavishly attired sentries.
It was evident to Brice that the spoils of the recent chevauchée had reached Bordeaux. Everything and everyone from the soldiers to the people entering and exiting the palace displayed abundance – noblemen with their bejeweled wives walked pas
t Brice and his clansmen. Carts transporting game, poultry and casks of wine flowed into the castle.
“Now, we ken where all that loot went,” whispered Mungo into Brice’s ear.
“Aye. The prince must be swimming in coin after his recent conquests,” responded Brice.
“How many knights do ye think reside here?” asked Bruce, craning his head to the left and right.
“There must be about eighty of them and four times as many squires,” said Alick. The awe was written right across his face. He had never seen such power before.
“If ye think this is impressive, ye should see Windsor. The King of England has a whole army protecting him,” said Brice.
“Makes me think why we even bother to fight these people. We haven’t got a hope in hell of winning,” said Bruce.
He received a slap to the back of his head from Mungo for that remark.
“Never talk like that again. We have beaten the Sassenachs on more than one occasion, and we will do so again.”
“We’re on the move again,” said Brice.
Promptly, they began to pass the gate. The sentries holding vigil eyed the newcomers closely. It was a fact that Scots were an unwelcome sight in these parts. The massive arched entryway opened up onto a vast courtyard with another rectangular structure in the center.
“That is the keep and where the prince will be,” said Brice, pointing ahead.
The inside of the castle was a beehive of activity. Men and women in fancy clothing milled about. Close to the outer wall, blacksmiths forged weapons. A little further afield, stabling for hundreds of horses was apparent. The Black Prince held a court that almost rivaled that of his illustrious father back in England.
“Follow me, Scot,” said the unfriendly sentry from earlier.
Brice did not take long to follow up on the man’s command. He and the others marched up to the donjon and entered. At first, it was dark inside. It took awhile for the men’s eyes to adjust to the gloominess.
The corridors were lined with guards in pristine tunics and polished chainmail. It was evident to Brice that the prince left nothing to chance – he was well protected.
