by Alisa Adams
“What is it, Doogle?” Did I do something wrong?” asked Louise.
He shook his head. “No, lassie. Ye did everything right. If I had continued kissing ye, I would not have been able to stop myself.”
“Would that have been such a bad thing?” she asked, looking a little confused.
“We are not married. Where I come from the union of the flesh between man and woman is permitted prior to wedlock as long as the couple so engaged promise to marry.”
Louise frowned. “You do things quite differently to us. In France, you need to be married before the consummation of the flesh.”
“That is what I thought. Ye mean too much to me for me to have dishonored ye like that.”
His words made her heart skip a beat. The notion that she meant something to Doogle almost made her want to scream out her joy.
“What happens now?”
“I dinnae ken.”
“Then why don’t you ask my father for my hand in marriage? Father Mortimer could say the words.”
Louise had never felt more certain about something in her life. She wanted nothing more than to be Doogle’s wife – she had known from the day she met him.
Doogle chuckled. “Can’t ye wait until ye are asked, lass?”
Louise dipped her head to one side and regarded the Highlander closely. “Non, Doogle. I know what I want. Papa taught me that if you want something in life you have to fight for it and not wait around.”
“Wise words from a wise man.”
“So, are you ready to go to my father and ask him?” The expression on Louise’s face was serious; it did not broach any room for argument.
“I would like nothing more,” replied Doogle.
He got to his feet and held out his hand to Louise who beamed back at him.
“I can’t wait to tell Papa. He will be so excited.”
* * *
For the remainder of the walk back to the farm Louise did not stop talking. She spoke of the home they would live in and how many children she wanted.
Doogle could listen to her enthusiasm for all eternity. All he could do was cast glances in her direction. Each time he discovered new and more enchanting attributes about her. He realized that when she spoke quickly that her nose would wiggle. And when she laughed, her cheeks would indent slightly. The woman that was to be his wife was the most enchanting creature he had ever seen.
“Papa!” Louise dashed forward when she saw her father exit the barn. He waved back at her.
Doogle watched her race the final paces to the farm. She resembled a dainty sprite that floated over the land. It was a breathtaking sight to behold. He quickened his stride. Despite it being the happiest day of his life, Doogle was nervous – what if Alexandre said no to his proposal?
“Louise tells me that you have something to ask of me. Allez, spit it out,” said Alexandre when Doogle came to a halt in front of him.
“I, I – Well, ye see, sir. It’s like this,” stammered Doogle.
Alexandre cast him a wry grin. “Take a deep breath, Doogle.”
He did as he was told.
“I would like to marry yer daughter?” he blurted.
Alexandre chuckled. “Now, was that so difficult?”
Louise huffed and placed her hands on her hips. “Men! Papa, you have not answered him.”
Her father raised an eyebrow at his daughter. “Are you sure you know what you are letting yourself in for, young man. My daughter is bossy and fierce.” He promptly received a slap to the shoulder. “See what I mean.”
Doogle laughed. “I love yer daughter more than anything in the world, Alexandre. I would like nothing more than to have Louise as my bossy and fierce wife.”
“Well, Papa,” said Louise.
“Well then, I would be delighted for you to marry my Louise, Doogle. These past weeks I have seen how happy the two of you are when you are together. It would be an honor to have you as my son-in-law. Come! We must tell Lisette.”
Alexandre turned on his heel and marched in the direction of the hovel where his wife had already prepared the evening meal.
“I love you, Doogle. Papa said yes – we are going to get married.” Louise danced about on the spot before she hurled her arms around the burly Highlander and planted her mouth on his.
They were so engrossed in their second kiss of the day that they initially did not hear the approach of many horses. Doogle was the first to pull away. Automatically, he pushed Louise behind his frame to protect her from the oncoming riders. He counted about twenty of them.
“Mon Dieu! It is Jean Philippe,” said Louise.
Doogle turned to look at his betrothed. “Jean Philippe? Who is that?”
When he saw the color leave her face, he knew that something was very wrong.
Louise never got to answer his question; before they knew it, the horsemen surrounded them. Doogle scanned the men’s faces. It did not take him long to ascertain which of them was the leader – Jean Philippe.
“I promised you that I would return after the battle to stake claim to my bride to be,” announced Jean Philippe. “Now I am back, my love.”
Doogle scowled at him. “She is not to be yer bride but mine.”
The Frenchman squinted. “It appears my woman is a harlot and has been cavorting with other men in my absence. How many have there been, wench?”
Doogle felt Louise shudder behind him. The anger surged inside of him – nobody called the woman he loved promiscuous and lived. He scanned the heavily armed cavalrymen. It was hopeless, and he knew it. He was a formidable warrior, but even he could not take on so many heavily armed men unarmed. His mind raced. He needed to do something lest they kill him, and worse still, Louise and her family.
If only Brice, Mungo and Murtagh were here, he thought.
“Speak, woman! I asked you a question,” snapped Jean Philippe.
“She will not be talking to the likes of ye. I suggest you leave this land and return to whichever hole you sprung from,” said Doogle with a snarl.
“So, we have a brave man in our midst.” Jean Philippe chuckled. He switched his attention to the man next to him. “Gaston!”
“Oui, Monsieur,” Gaston replied.
“Take care of this fool. I have not the patience for this,” said Jean Philippe with a hiss.
“Right away.” Gaston dismounted along with three other men and slowly advanced on Doogle and Louise.
“Go to the house and barricade the door,” said Doogle.
“Non! I will not leave you,” protested Louise.
“We do not have time to argue, my love. You being here will only distract me. Go now – please.”
Reluctantly, Louise turned and hurried in the direction of her home. Doogle saw her casting glances over her shoulder as she went, then turned his attention quickly back to his aggressors.
“This’ll teach ye a lesson, ye French tallywasher.”
Doogle punched the first mercenary in the face. He felt the man’s nose break on the impact of his knuckles. With lightning dexterity, he reached for the man’s sword and drew it from the scabbard before he collapsed to the ground.
Doogle spun on his feet to face the next attack. He parried the first sword thrust expertly. Moments later, he rammed the hilt of the weapon into the face of another antagonist who had come upon him from the rear. With the skill honed into him by countless hours of sword practice with Mungo and Murtagh, he promptly dispatched the soldier in front of him with a thrust of his blade to the ribcage – the man slumped to the ground gurgling.
Only Gaston remained standing. It was apparent to Doogle that he would not be as foolhardy as his fellows. He cautiously circled the Highlander on the balls of his feet. He was ready to attack should he discover any opening on Doogle’s part. The stalemate endured for what seemed like forever.
A piercing scream coming from behind him forced Doogle to turn around. In his distraction, Jean Philippe had gotten his hands on Louise. He held a knife to her throat and glower
ed at Doogle menacingly.
“Drop your sword, or I will harm her, stranger. We wouldn’t want to put a nasty gash on her face now, would we?” Jean Philippe hissed.
Doogle swallowed deeply. He took a few steps in the Frenchman’s direction. Gaston moved with him like a shadow. Already the other men in the force had dismounted and moved in on where the Highlander walked.
“I will not ask you again. Lower your arms, and no harm will come to the woman,” said Jean Philippe.
“Louise!” yelled her father. Alexandre stepped out of the house with his wife who screamed when she saw her daughter’s predicament.
Doogle raised his hand to forestall Alexandre from doing anything rash, then peered back at Jean Philippe.
“Let Louise go, and I will do as ye ask.”
Jean Philippe hacked out a laugh. “No! You will drop your weapon now.”
He added pressure to the knife in his hand.
Doogle could see the blade digging into Louise’s cheek – any harder, and it would cut the skin. He had to do something before it was too late. But what could he do? He was outnumbered, and the woman he loved was directly in harm's way.
What he needed now was a miracle.
12
12
* * *
The Banquet and More
* * *
Bordeaux, Aquitaine, December 1356
* * *
A few days earlier
* * *
The planning for the banquet was phenomenal. For the entire day, the Black Prince’s servants slaved away, preparing everything from the banquet hall for the over three hundred guests, to making sure the residence was spotlessly clean. Stewards, maids, cooks, and squires acted like they were denizens in a nest of ants. Each one of them had their own particular task.
However, the greatest undertaking was in procuring the food. In order to feed the huge castle’s residents and the guests that often frequented it, a constant party of around forty hunters obtained the necessary game, consisting of river and wild birds and deer.
The live catch was kept in pens close to the kitchen to maintain the freshness of the meat. Presently, the birds were being slaughtered, plucked of their plumage, prepared, and hung in the larder by a small army of kitchen staff.
The quantities of food were massive – two hundred kids and lambs, one hundred calves, two thousand poultry birds, over a thousand hares, four hundred oxen, four hundred pigs and two hundred boars were needed. And when it was Friday, fish in the form of salmon, pike, and perch were fished and transported by the cartload to the prince’s residence.
Spices such as white and Mecca gingers, pepper, cinnamon and grains of paradise, which were of West African origin with properties between cardamom and pepper, were sourced from far and wide. There were nutmeg, cloves, coloring agents and decorative items. Added to this came the practical items such as wheat starch, as well as almonds, rice and candied fruits, pine nuts and dates.
The huge kitchen in the castle was a hive of activity. The servants would work late into the night. Alick and Bruce had seen large sideboards lining the kitchen walls. Some of the prince’s guests that evening had even brought along their own cooks. Restorative and fortifying dishes had to be prepared for those people who suffered from some kind of ague. The logistics and preparations were monumental.
The visitors, domestics and late-night revelers required light. This came in the form of over one hundred torches, fifty pounds of wax candles and one hundred pounds of tallow candles. The storehouse was full to the brim with coal, and more than one thousand cartloads had passed the gatehouse, transporting firewood.
“I have never seen the likes. This prince lives like a king,” said Bruce to his older brother.
“Aye, who’s going to eat all of this food?” responded Alick.
“I will certainly give it a go,” said Mungo, slapping his boys on the back. “I can’t wait to get stuck in. My flaming belly has been rumbling all day because of the aromas wafting out of the kitchen. Some buxom wench threw me out when I tried to nab a meat pie – the dragon.”
“Reminded me of my wife she did,” said Murtagh, joining in the conversation – he knew what he was talking about because his woman worked in Castle Diabaig’s kitchen back home. And she had no scruples in denying her husband access to her culinary domain.
“Well, the prince certainly kept his word,” added Murtagh sadly.
Brice and the others had spent the whole day scouring the prisons of Bordeaux in search of Doogle. The Black Prince had given them full access. However, they had not been fortunate. Doogle was nowhere to be found. They did manage to talk the prince into freeing some fellow countrymen though – in total, there were no more than fourteen men left in captivity after the massacre of Poitiers, and they now formed a part of Brice’s command.
“Do ye suppose he’s dead, Da?” asked Bruce.
Mungo pressed his lips together until they formed an almost straight line. “I dinnae ken, laddie.”
“The both of ye are aff yer heids. Nothing has happened to Doogle. I can feel it in my bones,” said Murtagh with confidence.
“I do hope ye are right, brother,” said Mungo.
“When am I not right, ye great big galoot.”
“Most of the time. But I hope that this time is an exception.” Mungo paced up and down in the main hall of the castle. Around him, servants continued to busy themselves with their tasks.
“What does Brice have planned now?” asked Bruce.
“We’re leaving on the morrow. Brice decided that it would be best to search closer to where the battle was fought. Maybe Doogle took refuge in one of the villages near there,” answered Mungo.
“It would be just like that footering numptie to be sitting in a French tavern quenching his thirst with wine while he makes sweet eyes at the lasses,” said Murtagh.
Mungo stopped his pacing. “Aye, And all the while we are worrying about him. I tell ye – if I find out that he’s been enjoying himself while we’ve been riding across half of France…”
“And not to mention that foul sea crossing we had to endure to get here,” added Murtagh.
“Aye, that was a right nightmare.”
“What are ye two complaining about now?” asked Brice, approaching from his meeting with the prince.
“Da and Murtagh were just about to say what they’d do to Doogle if they caught him sitting in a tavern with a woman,” said Alick with a grin on his face.
Brice laughed. “I hope that is exactly what he is doing.”
He always appreciated Mungo and Murtagh’s ability to put an easy spin on things that were grave. It was men like them that put spirit into soldiers before any battle. And also, they kept up morale with their simplistic and positive view of life. It was left to the likes of Brice and his father to do the worrying. In many respects, Doogle was more like the two burly clansmen than his father or elder brother.
“Where do we head for first?” asked Mungo.
“I suggest we go to the place with the best inns and the most beautiful women,” said Murtagh.
“Aye, the laddie’s bound to be there,” concurred Mungo.
“The prince mentioned a village close to Poitiers.” Brice scrunched his brow. “It’s called Iteuil.”
“Mm, at least we have a destination.” Mungo patted Brice on the shoulder. “Dinnae worry, laddie. We will find yer brother – I ken it.”
“Aye. I ken. Let’s try and enjoy the festivities tonight,” said Brice with little enthusiasm.
“That will be easy. From what I have seen, it is going to be quite a bash,” said Murtagh.
“Enough food and wine for all of us,” concurred Mungo.
“Try not to overindulge, laddies. We need to be well rested for tomorrow’s long ride,” said Brice.
The others grunted their agreement.
“I have never seen the likes before,” said Alick, his mouth agape.
“Aye, the prince certainly lives up to his reputatio
n,” responded Bruce.
It was well known throughout Europe that the Black Prince held a lavish court in Bordeaux. The procession of food emerging from the kitchen was endless. So far, the great feast was meticulously color-coordinated to the last detail. The first course had been in gold and green; produced by saffron, egg yolk, green vegetables, herbs and gold serving dishes.
The second course of ‘bruets’, or almond milk stews, was white, while the third – lampreys in beef gravy – was red. This was followed by a course of German stews cooked with onions and fish in batter in a green sauce, which had to be carefully judged to come out as a bright and festive green, not a sombre dark green.
Decorative pies had supplemented this lavish offering. And still, the gluttonous pageant continued. Roasted boar, poultry of all sorts, kid, lamb, beef, and fish were carried into the hall on huge silver salvers. All of it was doused in rich sauces made in myriad colors. Wine flowed by the barrel and was drunk in copious amounts. Music serenaded the guests throughout.
Between courses, there were dramatic interludes, full of elaborate symbolism, with musicians and members of the party taking part. Everywhere, the tables had been festooned with sumptuous table designs containing stuffed peacocks showing off their fanned plumage. Flowers of all sorts hung from the banister belonging to the gallery up above the hall. Hundreds of candles gave their light, making the space so bright that it seemed that it was daylight.
“Look at that,” said Alick, pointing.
The final course appeared. It was a spectacular four-colored blancmange, in which the colors were sharply defined by cooking the four sections separately. And still, more wine flowed.
“I dinnae think I can move,” said Murtagh, looking slightly ill at ease. He had attacked the lucullan offering with his customary gusto. But even he had his limits.
“I dinnae think I will be able to mount my horse on the morrow. I feel like a stuffed boar,” said Mungo who had been equally as enthusiastic regarding the food and wine.
