by Alisa Adams
He grinned when he saw the flow of blood sliding down Doogle’s arm, dropping onto the grass. He realized that although the Highlander outmatched him when it came to brute strength, he was faster. He had to use his superior speed to his advantage.
“As a noble of the realm, I will ask the king for Louise’s hand in marriage. He will grant my request because he will see your death as a sign from God that she is mine,” said Jean Philippe, circling and always making sure that the distance between him and the Scotsman was maintained.
Time seemed to come to a standstill for Doogle. He saw everything clearly on his enemy’s face – each pore, hair, and scar. The sound of the murmuring soldiers all around him was blotted out. His entire focus was on Jean Philippe. However, the Frenchman left nothing to chance. His poise and the manner in which he held his weapon was perfect – the result of countless hours of training.
Jean Philippe came again in a blur of steel and flesh, as he hammered onto Doogle’s sword, attempting to break him. This onslaught forced him back a few paces until he halted the attack with his superior strength. Their swords were locked together in a deathly grip; the lover’s dance, twirling in circles when swordsmen clashed.
“Go on, laddie. Ye can beat that sneaky bastard,” shouted Mungo from the stands.
“Aye. Ye ‘ave what it takes. There’s a tankard of wine waiting for ye when ye are done with him,” yelled Murtagh, adding his support.
Brice did not say a word. He saw that his brother was weakening. His movements were becoming less coordinated. If the fight lasted for much longer, his brother might lose his life. For a heartbeat, he closed his eyes and whispered a silent prayer.
“The salvation of the righteous is from the Lord; he is their refuge in the time of trouble.”
Brice repeated the words again and again. When he opened his eyes, he saw the Highlander and the French baron circling each other again like predators.
Jean Philippe had never felt more confident about a fight in his life. He could see the strain on Doogle’s face, betraying the younger man’s fatigue. He also assumed that he had none of the endurance of a hardened veteran – he was wrong; Doogle had fought in many battles.
With his eyes fixed like rapiers, he launched his next attack. One, two and three large steps were all he needed. In moments, he was upon the Highlander with the full force of his momentum.
“You are going down now.” Jean Philippe snarled, slamming his blade onto Doogle’s.
He forced the clansman to the limits of the fighting ground. The soldiers lining the boundary pushed Doogle back, forcing him to stumble and fall to the ground. He immediately rolled onto his back.
The baron immediately stopped his attack and gloated, “Say your prayers, boy. Tonight, I will be in the arms of the woman I love. And tomorrow she will be my wife.”
Jean Philippe moved his blade toward Doogle’s neck in an attempt to make his point. He was so certain in his victory that he, for a heartbeat, let his gaze wander around the fighting ground to the disappointed faces all around him.
It was all Doogle needed.
With athletic agility, he jumped onto his feet, and in a crouching motion, sliced his blade into his baron’s thigh. The man yelled in consternated pain as blood seeped through the rip in his breeches and down his leg. Doogle gave him no respite as he came at him with whirlwind ferocity, forcing the upstart knight back the entire length of the space he’d only recently gained.
With one last thrust of his blade, Doogle forced him onto his back. A loud shout of jubilation erupted from the men. Thinking he’d won, he beamed at Murtagh and Mungo. His gaze then quickly sought out Louise who held her hand to her mouth.
Doogle frowned when he saw more worry appear on her face. He turned his head, but he was not quick enough.
Jean Philippe kicked the exhausted young man’s legs from under him, knocking him onto the ground. Within moments, he was on top of him and pressing his sword onto his neck.
Doogle barely managed to roll away in time. He quickly stumbled to his feet and took a few steps back. The pain in his abdomen and arm pulsed. He felt dizzy because of the loss of blood. He knew the baron had no such ailments. The gash he had given him was superficial. Not enough to slow him down.
“Yield!” Jean Philippe hissed. “It is over. There is no shame in dying at the hand of a superior swordsman.”
Doogle struggled; he looked to the left and right but his opponent left no opening for him to take advantage of. His vision was clouded by his mortal enemy’s feral visage. He had to gather what was left of his strength and make one final effort. He could not die now. He had only recently gotten Louise back.
Thoughts of what might happen if he died tried to usurp his concentration – he did not have time. Jean Philippe’s sword came at him in a blur of shining steel.
Doogle’s great speed and agility saved him from the first and the three hacks that followed that might have severed the limbs of a lesser combatant. Jean Philippe’s blade slithered forth like an attacking snake. He still had the upper hand because his wounds were superficial.
However, all it would take was one telling stroke on Doogle’s part, and it would all be over. But the longer the fight lasted played more and more into the baron’s hands. He knew exactly what he was doing. A few scratches would not slow him down, especially when he was fighting for his life.
Doogle’s fear had entered into that place where it could be tapped for acuity and skill but contained all of its weaker emotions that made a man’s belly and legs turn to water. He saw everything clearly: the baron’s every scar, the hair follicles on his face, and beyond, the serious expression on his brother’s face and the worry etched onto Louise’s features.
The sword hissed past Doogle’s ear, nearly slicing it off in the process. He moved forward, drawing his opponent into the fighter’s dance, the place and time when swords became locked as one and faces almost joined like in a lover’s embrace.
“Ye are going to pay for what ye did to Louise.” Doogle growled.
The baron guffawed. “You overestimate your position, boy. It is you who will pay with your life and the knowledge that I will be plowing your woman.”
Doogle did not respond. The swordsmen’s dance continued as they pirouetted with their blades held in a vice. Doogle felt the baron’s resolve weakening.
“I will kill you now.” The baron hissed.
But Doogle just smiled back at him with feral intent. He saw that his opponent was weakening – fear had crept onto his face.
“Ye talk too much. Time to end this with yer arse on the ground.”
It was what Doogle had been taught to do. Heap negativity on your opponent to sap his energy and courage – all great fighters did it; the trick was not to fall for it yourself
With a savage cry, Doogle pushed his arm forward, bringing the swords closer to the baron’s person. At the same time, he punched him in the face with his free hand. Doogle heard the baron’s nose crunch. He yelled in pain, staggering away from the Highlander while he held his nose with his left hand.
Blood streamed down Jean Philippe’s face and dropped from his chin. Doogle gave him no chance to recompose himself. He attacked once more. However, the baron’s ripostes were lackluster and weak.
With a vicious blow, Doogle knocked the baron’s sword from his hand and kicked him in the belly. The air hissed out of Jean Philippe’s mouth as he fell. In seconds, the Highlander pressed the tip of his sword to his enemy’s exposed throat.
To his surprise, Jean Philippe started crying. He started to beg for his life. It surprised Doogle that the men that were the least deserving of clemency were always the men that begged for it the hardest. He hesitated. Due to exhaustion, his sword arm began to shake.
“It is time, Doogle. You fought well and have saved your honor and that of your betrothed,” said the Black Prince who had walked up to where the fighters were.
“Finish him, Brother,” said Brice who stood next to the prince.
; “Aye, the tallywasher deserves to die,” said Mungo.
Doogle did not hear any of the words. He just glowered at the sniveling wretch lying at his feet. When he felt a hand slip into his, he looked to the left. It was Louise. She appeared as frail as a newborn babe. Her complexion was deathly white and her expression serious as she looked at her former tormentor.
It was then that Doogle knew what he had to do. He had survived the Battle of Poitiers, he was reunited with his brother and his friends, and he had the woman of his dreams standing next to him. Soon, he would return home to the Highlands – Doogle would not besmirch his honor by killing a helpless man, no matter how vile and deceitful he was.
“The wretch shall live in shame for the rest of his life. I will not dishonor my clan and my betrothed by murdering a helpless man,” he announced.
He pulled back the sword and stuck it into the grass next to Jean Philippe’s head, making him wail even louder in fright. He turned his head to look Louise in the eye.
“Your colors, my love,” Doogle said, untying the scarf she had given him before the fight.
Louise took it. She stroked the silky fabric for a few moments as if reliving each excruciating second of the bout. The dried blood on the cloth retold the story of how her man had nearly died. “Merci, Dieu!”
She thanked God and let Doogle guide her in the direction of the encampment.
They walked in silence, each of them grateful for the other.
19
19
The Start of the Long Voyage Home
* * *
Iteuil, Aquitaine, December 1356
* * *
“Why in the name of God did ye not kill the vile bastard?” asked Murtagh for possibly the hundredth time since they left Château Le Blanc on their way back to the Duroc farm.
The prince had returned to Bordeaux where they would head next after informing Louise’s parents that their daughter lived and was well. It would be their final port of call before returning to Scotland.
“Aye, he did not deserve to live,” concurred Mungo. He too looked equally as disappointed with Doogle’s decision to let the baron off the hook.
“He is the Black Prince’s prisoner. He will remain in a dungeon for the rest of his life. In my view that is a fate worse than death,” said Brice.
“Aye, especially since he only managed to stay a baron for a short while. It will be especially hard on him to give up all of the luxuries he had gotten used to,” said Doogle.
“I think that Doogle acted honorably,” said Louise.
At first, she had not been happy that the baron still survived. However, the more she had thought about it, the more she admired her man’s honorable handling of the situation.
“That man does not have an honorable bone in his body. If ye ask me, life is too good for him.” Murtagh snarled.
“Aye. And what about his minion? No one saw him after the fight,” asked Mungo.
Louise had forgotten all about Gaston. Mungo was right. He had disappeared the moment Jean Philippe lost the duel. She wanted him to share the same fate as his master. It was the very least he deserved.
“He will get his comeuppance one day. I do not want to waste any more time thinking about it. All I care about is that I have my woman and we are going back home,” said Doogle.
The expression on Louise’s face lit up when she saw the farm in the distance. Without waiting for the others, she heeled her horse’s flanks, coaxing the animal into a gallop, and raced the rest of the way to her home.
“Papa, Maman,” she cried out at the top of her voice.
Her father was working in the pigsty with Alick and Bruce. The remainder of the clansmen that had stayed behind to protect the Durocs were all busy pursuing their chores. It was obvious that Jean had kept them busy. The farm had never looked so organized before.
A new enclosure had been built for the animals. The hovel’s roof had been repaired, and the walls improved. Not only were the Highlanders formidable warriors but they were also good workmen and farmers.
“Louise!” shouted Alexandre when he saw his daughter riding toward him. He clambered over the fence and rushed in the direction of her fast-approaching horse.
Moments later, her mother appeared out of the house. She squinted into the distance until she saw her daughter.
“Louise!” Lisette followed her husband as quickly as she could.
Louise brought her mount to a standstill and jumped off of its back. She took a few more paces and fell into her father’s muscular arms. It was like returning to a safe haven. His familiar scent and the soothing words he whispered reminded her of when she was a little girl.
“Ma fille – you have come back to us,” said Louise’s mother when she added her affection and relief to the family embrace.
“I thought that I would never see you again,” said Louise, weeping with happiness.
“I always knew you would come back,” said Alexandre.
* * *
The small family was still hugging when the others arrived.
Doogle felt as if his heart would melt when he saw Louise’s and her parent’s happiness. He promised himself that nothing or nobody would ever harm her again. He dismounted, but he did not join them just yet. He wanted to let them enjoy their family reunion for a moment longer.
“Da, it is good to see ye,” said Alick, striding up to Mungo.
Bruce followed in his wake. He too looked happy to see his stepfather alive and well. “Welcome back, Da.”
After dismounting, Mungo took his two sons in a hearty embrace. “Look at the pair of ye. Well rested and covered in dirt. I never thought I’d see the day with ye two playing at farmers.”
“It is a good life, Da,” said Bruce.
“Aye. And Alexandre is a good man,” concurred Alick.
Mungo ruffled their hair. “Just make sure that ye get back to doing some soldiering.”
“Speaking of that – what happened?” asked Bruce.
“I never thought that I’d ever be praising a Sassenach, but that Black Prince certainly kept his word. The way he handled the situation was incredible. No one lost their lives, and Doogle gave the baron a right good walloping,” said Mungo.
“Aye, he fought well. But he spared that vile tallywasher.” Murtagh grunted, dismounting from his horse. He gave the two young men hearty slaps to their backs.
“Are ye saying that Doogle fought a duel?” asked Alick.
“Aye – he did,” replied Mungo.
“So, what happened?” asked Bruce.
“It was close at times, but our laddie won the day in the end,” answered Murtagh.
“Not without getting a few scratches though,” added Mungo.
“Aye, he did not fight the way we taught him – too slow and all over the place. There were times when I thought that he would lose. For a coward, the baron fought well,” said Murtagh.
“Now, now, my brother got the job done,” said Brice, hugging Alick and Bruce.
“Come, laddies. We will tell ye all aboot it over a nice cup of wine,” said Mungo, marching off in the direction of the hovel.
Murtagh did not need any more convincing. He followed in his comrade’s wake.
Brice and the two others chuckled. It was always the same with the two elder clansmen. They would be heavily in their cups before the day was out.
“Doogle, I do not know how to thank you,” said Alexandre, walking up to his future son-in-law.
“I could not have done it without my brother and the others,” answered Doogle.
The two men hugged.
“You are my son now.” Alexandre’s eyes were red with emotion.
“And I am proud to call ye my father,” said Doogle in his broken French.
“Do not forget that you have another mother as well,” said Lisette. She peppered the Highlander with kisses. “You saved my daughter just as you promised.”
“Oui, we must celebrate. I will slaughter some pigs, and we must send wor
d to Father Mortimer for some more wine. Your men have drunk everything since you left,” said Alexandre, looking at Brice.
Brice chuckled. “That’s one thing about the Highlanders, Alexandre. They love their drink.”
For a moment, it looked like the Frenchman would break out into tears again. “Merci, Brice. You are also my son.” Alexandre enveloped the slim Scot in a barrel-like embrace.
His wife followed suit. She then stroked Brice’s cheek affectionately.
“I will prepare a feast in your honor. Louise, you will help me,” said Lisette.
By now, she had regained her full composure. Everything had reverted back to normal – her family was reunited again.
“Yer malingering galoots!”
Everybody turned their attention in the direction of the hovel. Murtagh and Mungo came storming out of the house’s door like a crash of rhinos. The closest clansman was the target of their ire. They homed in on him like a pair of lions ready for the kill.
Mungo lifted him up until he stood on his tiptoes. “Ye drank all of the wine while we were out there risking our lives.”
In the meantime, Murtagh was pushing another clansman’s head into the drinking trough belonging to the animals. “Ye are going into the village to fetch us some wine. I need some to wet my thrapple after that long ride. How dare ye swill it all.”
The remaining Highlanders slipped away from Mungo and Murtagh lest they direct their attentions in their direction.
“At times like this, I wish there had been a battle. Their blood is still up,” said Brice, smiling.
“God help them if they don’t get some wine soon,” said Doogle, laughing.
Bruce and Alick were happy that their father and Murtagh were not with them the moment they discovered that the wine was gone. The memory of being thrown into the River Seine was still too fresh for them to have forgotten.
“Are they always like that?” asked Louise.
“Aye – a true force of nature,” said Doogle.
“Come on – let’s help those poor blighters before they get hurt,” said Brice.
