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

by Alisa Adams

  “Yes, Louise, it is good. But now, we shall be good to our bellies.”

  “Henri, is Louise already home?” came a woman’s voice from inside the small wattle and daub house. It was as if her mother had sensed her presence.

  “Oui, chèri!” Louise’s father winked. “Come now. It is time for supper. If you must, you can tell me all about the French and the English. But be careful, Maman does not like such talk at the table.”

  Father and daughter laughed together as they followed the wafting scent of pork stew spewing from the chimney and cracks of the hovel.

  Louise’s tummy rumbled, reminding her just how hungry she was. She promised herself that she would say a prayer before bed, thanking God for the generous bounty he always bestowed upon her family.

  2

  2

  * * *

  The Calm before the Storm

  * * *

  Nouallie, south of Poitiers, September 1356

  * * *

  “Here we are facing our old foe again,” said Doogle.

  The son of Laird Alastair Macleod looked at the neatly arrayed English army across the plain. “Yer father would go all doo-lally if he knew how many of the blighters we are facing today.”

  Bruce and his brother, Alick, who stood close by, snorted their agreement.

  “Aye, he would pop an eyeball. He wouldn’t miss something like this for the world,” said Bruce, the younger of Mungo’s two stepsons.

  Mungo was one of the fiercest clansmen in the Clan Macleod. Along with Murtagh, another warrior and his best friend, he was Doogle’s father’s most trusted advisor. He was a lion in battle, and like the others, a legend in the Highlands.

  Mungo had adopted Bruce and Alick when he had married their mother, Freya, many years ago when they were still young lads. Their real father had died a prisoner at Chillingham Castle in Northern England. However, the two men, now in their thirties, regarded Mungo as their father. He had molded them in his image, making them true clansmen of the Clan Macleod.

  Doogle, too, was like a son to Mungo and his friend Murtagh. They had fought side by side at the Battle of Neville’s Cross against the English ten years earlier. It was Doogle’s induction into battle. He had fought bravely, and like both Alick and Bruce, he had earned the respect of the elder clansmen.

  “I think Da is past it though,” said Bruce with a frown.

  He promptly received a thwack to the back of his head from his brother.

  “Do ye think at close to sixty that our father could not give those Sassenachs a good hiding, eh? He is still as strong as an oak.” Alick sniggered. “If I remember correctly, Da threw ye into the loch back at Diabaig when ye last sparred – said ye were a right dobber for lowering yer guard.”

  Doogle and Alick hooted out laughter when they saw the chastened expression on Bruce’s face. It was true. Only Alastair, possibly Murtagh, and as of late, Doogle, could best the aging Mungo – and that was only if the stars were aligned the right way.

  “Aye, who has not heard of the great Mungo and Murtagh and Laird Alastair for that matter. I wish I’d had the chance to fight alongside such men,” said another man.

  It was William Douglas, 1st Earl of Douglas, the man in charge of the Scottish contingent in the French army. The slightly older man was as tall as Doogle but not nearly as beefy in stature. A true patriot and a warrior, he showed such loyalty to the Scottish king that he had arranged safe conduct through English lands to visit him in exile before coming to France to fight in this war. Since the capture of the Scottish King David, the only way to keep the war against the English going was to join forces with their French allies.

  “My Laird, ye do us great honor with yer words,” said Doogle.

  “They are well deserved.” Douglas inclined his head slightly to Doogle. He had a big liking for the young Scot who was a few years shy of thirty. The man was like an oak, thickset and unyielding. He wished he had more such men in his host.

  “So, laddies! What do ye think?” he asked, pointing at the English lines.

  “The stupid tally-washers have the forest to their back. There is no escape for them when their army routs,” said Alick, with confidence fortifying his voice.

  “Aye. And we outnumber them almost two to one. Also, they have only four thousand infantry to our eleven,” added Bruce. He was the softer looking of the two brothers. Instead of hard chisel, his face was smoother and more youthful in appearance.

  “Laddies, ye have forgotten their bastard longbowmen. Ye must still remember what the blighters did to us at the battles of Halidon Hill and to the French at Crécy.”

  “I was but a wee laddie back then, and I was not about at Crécy,” said Alick.

  “Don’t be a walloper. Ye ken exactly what I mean. The English can annihilate entire armies with their arrows. They have done so on numerous occasions,” said Doogle. By now the expression on his face was a feral scowl. It somehow pronounced his fiery red hair.

  “Doogle is right,” intervened Douglas. “But where are they?” His gaze scanned the slight elevation where the English army stood in readiness.

  “I’d wager that the Black Prince has them hidden behind that big hedge right behind his infantry,” said Bruce.

  Douglas frowned as he continued to scan the lay of the land. “What do ye think, Doogle?”

  “I agree with Bruce. It is the best place to conceal them. Edward wants us to feel at ease when we attack.”

  “Mm – I see what you are implying. Would ye recommend I tell the king that we remain here so as to lure the English to our side of the battleground?”

  “No, my Laird. Their bowmen would only advance and harry us like they did at Neville’s Cross. King David ordered a hasty charge that lost us the battle once their arrows started whittling away our men.”

  “That and when those two vile traitors, the Earl of March and Robert Stewart, did not send their troops in support and fled the field instead – those two cost us the victory.” Alick snarled. He brushed his golden blond hair from his face. It was the same color as his mother’s and younger brother.

  “Aye,” said the other three men in unison.

  It was a harsh day for Scotland. Doogle’s father and his oldest brother, Brice, had been captured that day and taken to England as prisoners. However, fortune had smiled on these two members of the Clan Macleod. King Edward the Third and his son had grown fond of Alastair and Brice. After a joust, Brice had won their freedom, allowing for them to return to Scotland.

  “I am going to recommend to King John that we leave the horses and advance on foot,” said Douglas with conviction.

  “That is wise, my Laird. English arrows would only kill and maim the animals,” said Doogle.

  “It is decided then, laddies. Now all that remains is to find out if the King of France is willing to do battle today,” said Douglas, twirling on his heels and marching off in the direction of the command post.

  “Aye, I hope he is no dithering fool. Our allies have not been doing particularly well since the English started this war,” whispered Doogle. He scanned the neatly arrayed Frenchmen behind him.

  They were a fine sight. Almost every nobleman in the kingdom had joined his king’s army. Their accouterments and armor shone like jewels in the weak sunlight. The banners belonging to their houses flapped in the light breeze. In terms of appearance, they outshone the English with their mere presence. But was it enough?

  The English army was made up of true veterans from the Battle of Crécy. Also, the feared longbowmen were not of aristocratic stock. They had obtained their position due to only their skill, which could take more than ten years to acquire. Doogle knew that it took great strength and training to pull the string of a bow. It was something that the English and Welshmen learned from a young age, inuring the muscles in their neck, back and arms until they could release at a rate of six arrows a minute (this was the pace that did not overly tire the man).

  “That Black Prince is a clever one,” sa
id Alick.

  “Aye. I just wish King Jean had not left nearly twenty thousand of his soldiers back at Chartres. We could use them to be certain of victory,” said Bruce.

  “But they were of lesser quality. And besides, with such a large army we would never have caught up with the English,” said Doogle. “Now we got them before they could fortify their position in Bordeaux.”

  The two others grunted their agreement.

  “I still do not like it. The Black Prince is waiting for us like a spider,” added Doogle, stroking his long red beard.

  “Look! They approach,” shouted a Scotsman further down the line.

  “They aim to negotiate,” said Doogle.

  “Aye, maybe they do not feel so confident after all,” said Alick.

  “What do ye think the King of France will do?” asked Bruce.

  “He will see it as weakness on the English’s part. There is to be a battle, that’s for sure, laddies,” said Doogle.

  3

  3

  * * *

  The Battle of Poitiers

  * * *

  Nouallie, south of Poitiers, September 1356

  Doogle was right. The King of France did not agree with the English terms that were quite generous. The English had offered to return all of the stolen booty they had taken during their warpath and offered a seven-year peace treaty to boot. The French king had flatly refused and demanded that the Black Prince surrender his army.

  “They flee the field,” yelled Bruce, looking ahead and pointing.

  The cry was taken up by more and more of the Scots until their French allies joined in the hullabaloo.

  Doogle squinted into the distance. Something did not feel right. As a lad, he was always impulsive. His youngest brother, Callum, who was now an English lord due to their mother’s English heritage, had always advised caution in battle. Callum was the smartest of the three brothers. His good sense and wariness had finally rubbed off on Doogle, tempering his more impulsive nature.

  “They are not retreating,” said Douglas.

  “It’s but the English baggage train. They aim to place it behind their army for safety,” said Doogle, realizing the enemy’s intent. “They will hold their ground. We should wait and see what they do next.”

  “It’s too late. The king is about to commit his forces.”

  Doogle’s regard followed the Scottish earl’s outstretched arm. Already, the King of France had ordered his German knights to advance. Promptly, these meticulously equipped troops began their approach on the English forces. Like a patient spider, the English waited.

  “This does not bode well. I ken it.” Doogle shifted his weight on his feet.

  “Aye, the English are waiting to use their longbowmen,” said Douglas. “Those men will be at their mercy.”

  The marching knights appeared to take forever to reach the center of the field that separated the two armies. Their commander, Jean de Clermont, made sure they remained in formation, making their progress even more cumbersome, and them, as targets, all the more inviting.

  “They are huddled together too closely. When the English start shooting their arrows, they will pick them off one by one.”

  Alick was right. The waving of colorful flags behind the enemy ranks heralded the arrival of the bowmen. Like when the sea switches to high tide, more than two thousand archers stepped from behind the large hedge. They swooped forward like one being.

  “So, that’s where they have been hiding the buggers.” Bruce snarled.

  “Aye, if our comrades don’t get a move on, they’ll be butchered,” said Douglas.

  “Their armor is too heavy for them to go any faster. And the incline of the hill is already tiring them out.” Doogle turned to his commanding officer. “We must do something.”

  “Apart from sending in the cavalry, there is nothing we can do,” lamented Douglas. He looked behind him to see the French king dressed in the finest glinting armor that shone when the sun’s rays caught it. He remained stoic in the face of the threat.

  “A shock charge might break them up and force them back,” said Doogle, hope lacing his voice.

  “It’s too late.”

  Bruce spoke almost simultaneously with the release of the first salvo of English arrows. The projectiles erupted into the sky like a black swarm of insects. They rose and rose until they reached their apex and gradually began their fall to earth. Despite the distance that separated the two armies, Doogle swore that he could hear the missiles’ procession toward the helpless knights below. It sounded like an increasing wind that eventually turned into a storm.

  In a series of clinks and meaty thuds, the arrows landed on the German knights. There was no reprieve. In moments, the archers had knocked the next arrows to their strings and released them. This was repeated until part of the men fled back in the direction of the French lines and back out of range. The waiting English men-at-arms hacked down the German soldiers that continued the advance irrespectively. It was a slaughter.

  In the meantime, the next wave of French soldiers, led by the Dauphin, moved forward. It was too late. The longbowmen now directed their attention to this new threat. Like before, the distance was too great. By the time the French got to the English lines, they would be exhausted. The bloodbath began. For two hours the English and French would jostle it out.

  “I am certain the English are gaining the upper hand,” said Doogle after having spent what seemed like a lifetime watching the skirmish.

  “Aye, laddie. I will have to persuade the king to send in the next wave before we are repulsed yet again,” said Douglas.

  “But what happens if the advancing men run into the retreating soldiers?” asked Bruce.

  “It’ll be a bloody melee,” answered Doogle.

  “There is nothing else for us to do,” said Douglas, looking increasingly worried. He knew of English tenacity. Once they smelt victory, they were almost impossible to stop.

  “It appears the decision has already been made,” said Alick, pointing to the next advancing French ranks.

  “The Duke of Orléans leads his men into the fray,” said Douglas. “May God help them.”

  “It will be a massacre.” Doogle scratched his beard for the umpteenth time that day.

  And he was right. The Duke of Orléans led his men right into the vanguard of the fleeing French soldiers. The confusion on the battlefield was total. Seeing his opportunity, the Black Prince sent his English men-at-arms and Gascon forces into the rear of the retreating Frenchmen.

  “He can’t be serious,” said Douglas.

  “We are to advance,” said Doogle, seeing the signalman waving a flag commanding all remaining troops, which included the king, to move forward.

  “May God be with us,” said Douglas. He turned on his heel. “LADDIES, ADVANCE!” he yelled to the over five hundred Scotsmen under his command.

  A loud roar came in response, and the remainder of the allied French army moved forward. At first, all appeared to be well. However, it would be almost impossible for the reinforcements to make it to the fighting in the front lines. All they did was prevent the exhausted men moving before them from withdrawing, leaving them at the English’s mercy. By now, the French army was one large grouping of men without any coherence or structure.

  “Move to the side, ye craven scum.” Doogle stepped ahead like a behemoth. He had no time for the soldiers attempting to escape the field of battle. He brushed them aside with his trunk-like arms.

  “Cavalry!” yelled Bruce who stood to his right.

  Doogle slowly turned his leonine head in the direction of the threat. As he stood taller than most, he could see over the heads of the jostling men all around him.

  “By God, the Black Prince has committed his horse. They will outflank us and provide the coup de grace,” said Doogle.

  “Nothing for it, boys. We fight until the end,” said Douglas, pushing himself a path to the front of the melee.

  Doogle nodded. He received a feral grin
from Alick. Bruce did not look quite as convinced as his fellow clansmen, but he showed no fear. The three men of the clan Macleod pushed after the earl.

  The men-at-arms fighting on the fringes of the confusion of men began to break up and run for their lives. The English remorselessly followed thrusting and hacking in their wake.

  Doogle finally faced the first English soldier that day. Due to his size and brutish appearance, he had created a small island among the writhing bodies that moved like one organism. Around him lay the corpses of the enemy he had already dispatched. But despite their numerical inferiority, the English outmatched the French and Scots in skill and morale.

  A hellish bellow erupted from beyond the fighting.

  “We must get out of here,” cried Bruce, pointing ahead.

  “I dinnae believe it.” Alick almost got himself cut down because of his stunned scrutiny.

  “The Black Prince has committed his archers. They fight like men-at-arms,” said Douglas.

  “We must save the king.”

  Doogle pointed to the side. The English surrounded King Jean and his son. They fought like lions, but it was not sufficient. Gradually, the men that protected them fell to the sword.

  “No, Doogle, you will not make it,” shouted Alick.

  Doogle ignored his friend. “Yer father would never abandon a king,” he said, dispatching an enemy soldier as he moved.

  “He would if he was French,” said Bruce.

  Before Doogle could go any further, he was pushed along with the tide of men starting their retreat. Not even his large bulk was enough to withstand the tide of fear. It did not take him away fast enough. A longbowman managed to strike him with his sword, running the blade into his body.