by Alisa Adams
“Aye. I have been aching to do that since I first saw the bampot back at the farm. I think that it was a very fitting payback for knocking the laird’s son off of his horse,” said Mungo.
“Aye, and for helping steal the bonnie Louise,” concurred Murtagh.
Louise fell into Mungo’s arms. “Merci, Monsieur. Tu ma sauvée la vie.” She thanked the burly Highlander for saving her life.
“It’s all right, lassie. Ye are safe now,” said Mungo.
Jean Philippe tried to protest and intervene, but Murtagh just shook his head. The expression on his face showed that he would have no scruples in gutting the baron in a heartbeat.
Mungo backed away until he stood next to the Black Prince who smiled at him. “All that footering aboot was getting us nowhere, Your Royal Highness. Somebody had to do something to convince these numpties to admit that this bonnie lass was held against her will.”
The prince nodded. “I was fortunate that King Jean did not have more men like you in his army at Poitiers.”
“Aye, we would have given ye Sassenachs a real run for yer money,” said Mungo, smiling.
Despite the fact that the prince was English, he had grown to like him. He couldn’t help it. The prince was a fair and intelligent man who did not consider himself above all other men because of his privileged station. Mungo was certain that if he had been born a peasant, he would have still fulfilled his destiny. Men like the Black Prince made their futures.
“Doogle,” cried Louise, at last falling into her betrothed’s arms.
“I have missed ye, lassie. I was so worried,” said Doogle, peppering her face with kisses.
He couldn’t believe that everything had gone so smoothly. But he also knew that without his good friends, Mungo and Murtagh, Louise may have been harmed.
“That scene answers my question, Baron,” said the prince.
“Oui, the woman belongs to the Highlander and not to you,” concurred the King of France.
“So, what do you recommend we do with him? This is your realm after all,” said the Black Prince.
“He will face me in open combat,” said Doogle, pulling away from a weeping Louise.
“Non, Doogle. You must not fight him,” beseeched Louise.
“He besmirched yer honor and mine by abducting ye against yer will, my love. It is only fitting that I face him in combat to correct that insult,” insisted Doogle.
“Aye, I agree with the laddie. It’s aboot time the world saw what craven filth he is,” said Mungo, slapping the younger man on the back.
The Prince of Wales shrugged. “I am not opposed to it, but it is up to the king. What say you, Jean?”
King Jean looked Jean Philippe up and down. It almost seemed that an eternity passed before he spoke.
“I will grant the young man’s request…” He raised his arm to point at Baron Le Blanc. “You have been issued with a challenge, Monsieur. How do you respond?”
Jean Philippe’s gaze moved to the left and right. Gaston was still out cold on the floor behind him. Normally, he would have asked his trusty companion to answer the challenge in his stead, but he did not have that option now. There was no escape. His men waited. They would only pay heed to the king’s commands now.
“Do you accept the challenge, Monsieur?” prompted the king.
Jean Philippe nodded reluctantly. “Oui, Your Majesty, I accept the challenge.”
18
18
A Fight to the Death
* * *
Château Le Blanc, Kingdom of France, December 1356
* * *
“Doogle, why must you do this? We have just been reunited, and now you want to put your life at risk,” complained Louise.
Doogle stroked her cheek. They were in a tent set up outside of the castle. The Prince of Wales had ordered the establishment of a camp for the night. The duel between Jean Philippe and Doogle would take place before the onset of dusk.
It would be a fight to the death.
“Ye ken why, lassie. That man cannot go unpunished. He dishonored ye and me,” said Doogle.
“He is a coward. He will do everything in his power to cheat. What if something happens to you?” wailed Louise.
She looked frightened, and Doogle understood why. Although he was a formidable fighter, sneaky rats like Jean Philippe had an innate penchant for survival.
“I will be all right, lass. Mungo and Murtagh taught me how to fight since I was but a wee laddie.”
Louise was still not convinced. “I have seen firsthand how Jean Philippe operates. It wouldn’t surprise me if he reverted to adding poison to his blade or having Gaston stick it to you from behind when you’re not paying attention. Men like Jean Philippe do not care about honor. Survival is the only primal instinct that governs such men and they will do anything for it.”
She paused before continuing on.
“I know that you can beat him, my love. I just don’t want to see you hurt.”
“It’s time, laddie,” said Mungo, stepping into the spacious tent that the Black Prince had put at the young couple’s disposal.
Murtagh whistled when he entered shortly afterward.
“The two of ye are living like royalty. Ye should see my tent; it’s as small as a hat.” He took in his sumptuous surroundings that had everything from ornate furniture to two campaign cots. He walked up to a table and poured himself a hearty dram of wine. He raised the silver goblet. “To ye giving that sneaky bastard a right thrashing.”
“Aye,” Mungo chimed in.
He too poured himself some wine and held up the drinking vessel.
“Can the two of you at least look a little concerned about my betrothed’s well-being,” chided Louise.
Mungo shrugged as he swilled his wine and smacked his lips contently. “What is there to worry aboot, lassie?”
“Aye, we trained him ourselves. He learned what not to do from Mungo’s inferior fighting style and what to do from me,” said Murtagh, chuckling when he received a slap to the back from Mungo.
“That numptie couldn’t organize a bucket of piss in a tannery let alone train the lad. Everything the laddie kens is thanks to me,” said Mungo.
Mungo and Murtagh continued exchanging insults.
Louise was visibly infuriated by how they could be so cavalier about the entire situation.
“Doogle is about to face the man who has been my nemesis, for as long as I can remember, in open combat with the sword. The man I love could die,” she shouted.
The two Highlanders stopped their good-hearted banter and turned to face her.
“Ye must never say that, Louise,” said Mungo sternly.
“Aye, it puts the pox on a fight,” agreed Murtagh.
“Doogle will win because he is fighting for the woman who is to be his wife. And when he is done, we will all return to Diabaig. It is aboot time ye met the laird and lady,” said Mungo.
“What about Maman and Papa?” asked Louise.
“They can come with us. We have need of such people back home,” replied Mungo.
Aye,” concurred Murtagh.
Doogle started laughing. “Well done, brothers. Ye have taken the heat out of the situation. Now, before we continue discussing domestic arrangements, can I go and stick it to that French walloper?”
“What is keeping ye, Brother?” asked Brice, stepping into the tent.
“My beloved betrothed just had her first disagreement with those two,” replied Doogle, pointing at Mungo and Murtagh.
Brice hacked out a laugh. “It was bound to happen. Those two are always interfering. But enough aboot that. The king and the prince are waiting.” He lifted the flap at the front of the tent, indicating that it was time to leave.
Doogle gave Louise a fond look before following Mungo and Murtagh out of the tent.
“Ye must not worry, Louise. I have fought alongside my brother on many occasions. He is a great warrior. And in many respects, he is better than the men who trained him,” said Bri
ce.
Louise just nodded.
“Come or would you rather not attend the duel?”
“Non! I will be there. Doogle needs all the support he can get. I would never let him face death alone,” said Louise with conviction.
“Spoken like a true lass from the Highlands. Now, come. We do not want to keep a king and a prince waiting,” said Brice who still held the flap.
Brice gave Louise confidence. He would one day make a fine laird of the clan. He had such authority over older men like Mungo and Murtagh.
“You know, Brice, the more time I spend with Doogle’s people, the more I want to meet the women. I am certain that they are strong ladies to be able to deal with such headstrong men.”
“Aye, that they are,” Brice concurred.
* * *
“I thought you weren’t going to show up,” said the Prince of Wales when they reached the royal enclosure that had been set up for the purpose of the duel.
“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Your Royal Highness,” said Doogle.
He cast a look to the other side of the fighting ground that was enclosed by hundreds of the prince’s and Jean Philippe’s men. His gaze immediately found his opponent – he stood with Gaston who had regained consciousness. Searing hatred was evident in Brice’s eyes. The sentiment would hold him in good stead when the time came for the fight.
“Good! I suggest we get this thing started.” The prince turned his head to face Louise. “Mademoiselle, you would do me a great honor if you sat with me,” he said in French.
Louise curtseyed. It was how Father Mortimer had taught her to behave in the presence of royalty. She just never thought that the day would come when she would actually stand in the presence of the son of a king “Thank you, Your Royal Highness. That would give me great comfort.”
The prince dipped his head. “I will look after your very charming betrothed until the fight is over, Doogle. But before we go, I suggest you, Louise, give your man your colors.”
Louise frowned. “My colors, Your Highness?”
The prince pointed to the green silk scarf that hung about her neck. “That would do nicely.”
Louise finally understood his meaning. She took a few steps and tied the scarf around Doogle’s arm. “Come back to me, mon amour.”
“I will, lassie. I promise,” said Doogle, kissing her.
“Doogle, please join the king and me,” said the prince.
When Louise made to follow, the prince shook his head.
“You must remain here.” He did not wait for a response. He walked off with the King of France and Doogle following in his wake. A troop of ten soldiers accompanied them.
Louise watched them reach the center of the fighting area. Jean Philippe also converged on the other men with Gaston walking beside him. A surge of relief coursed through her when one of the prince’s men-at-arms removed the sword and knife on Jean Philippe’s person. The two antagonists were handed swords and knives that had been approved by the prince.
“This fight is to the death…” announced the King of France.
A loud murmur eddied over the assembled men. The sound gave the proceedings an eerie feel. Louise felt a shiver of trepidation slide down her spine. Soon, the man she loved would be engaged in a fight for his life. A part of her wished that Alianor was with her just in case he was wounded. Having the old crone’s healing skills close at hand would’ve made her feel a lot more at ease.
“This man’s honor was besmirched when the baron took his betrothed from him in an attempt to make her his own,” continued the king.
Louise barely heard the words. Her heart hammered in her chest like a piston bellows. To her chagrin, the king’s opening speech did not last long – the fight was about to begin.
She watched the king and the prince in the company of their escort take a few steps back until they were a safe distance from Doogle and Jean Philippe. The king lifted his arm. He held a white silk cloth in his hand. It fluttered in the wind for a few moments.
Then without another word, the king dropped it.
While Jean Philippe was slim and wiry, his adversary was a mountain of steel and muscle. Not a gram of fat bedecked his body despite his bulk. He had wily blue eyes that darted from left to right. The Highlander was already casing the area for possible avenues into which he could trap him.
Jean Philippe immediately knew that he was in the presence of a seasoned fighter. He had trained for such a moment all of his life since becoming his father’s squire. He had seen men face off in combat. He had the skill. His only weakness was that he was a coward. Men who feared for their lives did not have the same chances because they could not channel that fear.
Men like Doogle also experienced fear, but instead of trying to assuage it, they rode it like a wave. They used the sentiment to their advantage. Fear was a fighter’s greatest asset. Men who did not fear for their lives invariably succumbed to death because they made mistakes. A man who could control his fear and use it as a weapon almost always came out on top.
However, the spineless had one thing up their sleeve. They were unpredictable. And like a cornered animal, they could surprise even when death looked them in the eye. But Doogle had the measure of Jean Philippe. He had seen his way back at the Duroc farm when he had kidnapped Louise. All he had to do was pressure him enough until he broke.
Doogle took a step forward. His antagonist sneered back at him. What he saw was lethal determination in the other man’s eyes. There was no emotion, just intent and the will to win.
Jean Philippe grinned a crooked smile, hiding his fear like a trained coward. He nodded curtly, indicating that the bout was about to begin. Opposite him, Doogle pressed his lips tighter as he sought out a way to get past the impenetrable wall that was his opponent.
“So, let us get this over with. I want to enjoy my betrothed’s naked body some more,” said Jean Philippe, sneering.
Doogle bit down on his lip. The jibe almost worked. It took all of his efforts not to charge the other man. It was what Jean Philippe wanted.
The two men continued to circle each other for a while longer, neither one of them wanting to make the first move. Then, without warning, Jean Philippe came at Doogle with lightning speed. It surprised him. He never expected that the Frenchman had the courage to start things off.
Doogle’s riposte was perfect, just like Mungo and Murtagh had taught him. But the force of the French aristocrat’s first strike jarred his arm all the way up to his shoulder. Jean Philippe’s strength was extraordinary. He attacked four more times before taking a few steps back.
Jean Philippe smiled evilly. His dark eyes felt like they were boring into the clansman’s like daggers.
“Had enough, you Scottish dog?”
“I haven’t even started.” Doogle grunted. By now, his arm had recovered from the Frenchman’s surprise attack.
The baron sneered back at him. “The night I had Gaston rip off Louise’s clothing, I realized why you are so infatuated with her. She is like a ripe peach. Her flesh is soft and the secret place between her legs…”
The crude invitation worked. This time Doogle was the one who attacked first. However, the skill in which the baron defended himself made him swallow deeply. His opponent was not even out of breath. He danced on his feet like a prancing dryad. He fought well and with confidence for a coward. Doogle started to doubt whether Jean Philippe was in fact craven. Maybe he had underestimated him.
There was a loud, hissing intake of air from both Mungo and Murtagh.
“Crivens, the laddie bleeds; he’s finished if he can’t end it soon,” muttered Mungo with concern etched on his features.
He looked guilty when he saw the worried expression on Louise’s face. She stared right at him. She had heard every word.
In his fighting fever, Doogle had not noticed that the baron’s sword had sliced a deep gash across his torso.
“You are bleeding,” said Jean Philippe, smiling. His brownish teeth glinted at
Doogle in the weakening sunlight.
Seeing the blood soak his plaid, Doogle at last felt stinging pain. He had to force back the pain that threatened to overwhelm him. He looked in the direction of his fellow clansmen and saw the pleading in their eyes.
His gaze then rested on Louise. Her lower lip was trembling.
When he saw the fierce determination in Mungo and Murtagh’s eyes, he steeled himself, drawing strength from the Highlanders’ formidable force of will. But it was the look of fortitude reflected on his brother’s face that convinced him that he was fighting for a good cause.
Love was the most powerful emotion known to man and woman. He had seen its force work its magic when he watched how his parents interacted. He had seen the same thing with Skye and Brice. Also, Callum and Effemy displayed that force of love, which he shared with Louise. He had to win this fight if he ever wanted to experience the full power of a woman’s love.
“This is not over yet. This’ll only be another scratch. A small reminder of the day I killed the man who hurt the woman I love. You won’t be so haughty when I have ye lying on yer back with my sword in yer gut.” Doogle hissed.
“You have to win first.” But Jean Philippe could not conceal a flicker of fear from materializing on his face.
It was all Doogle needed.
In a flash, it happened. Fast as a mamba, Doogle threw all he had at the baron without showing any sign that the loss of blood had weakened him. Jean Philippe could barely see his blade as it clashed with his opponent’s. He reacted instinctively, time seemed to slow down, and suddenly as if in slow motion, he saw an opening and butted the other man on the head.
Surprised and dazed, Doogle cried out in pain, instinctively taking a step back. But he left the baron no time to recover; he moved forward with speed and youthful agility. Stunned, all Jean Philippe could do was trust his instincts. His defense, although uncoordinated, was efficient and the bout ended with yet another gash. This one too on Doogle’s person.
