by Alisa Adams
The further they got inside of the keep, the more lavish the décor. Illustrative and luxurious tapestries bedecked the walls, depicting all manner of scenes from the hunt to the surrounding countryside.
Finally, they reached a large double door where four soldiers stood. A group of people stood before them obviously waiting for their turn at an audience with the prince who ruled Aquitaine with an iron fist. The man escorting Brice and his men walked up to an elaborately dressed gentleman Brice assumed was the chamberlain.
“I have the Scots his royal highness requested to see,” he said.
The chamberlain scrutinized Brice first before his gaze flitted over Mungo, Murtagh, Bruce, and Alick.
“I see. They don’t look like much do they – savages the lot of them,” said the official.
“And ye look like a right Bubbly Jock in your frilly clothing.” Mungo hissed.
“Aye, and he’s a right skinny malinky longlegs – a Sassenach numptie if there ever was one,” added Murtagh.
“That’s quite enough ye two,” chided Brice.
The chamberlain continued to look down his nose at the Highlanders.
“I suppose there is nothing for it. If the prince wishes to see them no matter how insalubrious their appearance, we have no choice but to do his bidding.”
He then turned and indicated with his hand that the guards open the doors. A murmur of complaint erupted from the other people who had obviously been waiting for their turn. The official quickly ordered them to be quiet and threatened to send them on their way if the hubbub did not stop.
A vast hall emerged beyond the scraping double doors. In the far reaches, an enormous vaulted staircase rose up to a gallery that lined the entire side of the hall. To the left, rose windows provided light. The hearth was large enough to accommodate four men standing at their full height. Overall, the hall was truly impressive.
And not only that – elegantly attired and bejeweled courtiers stood to the left and right. The finest clothing was everywhere the eye could see – thick silks flawlessly woven with elaborate furs were the hallmark of the Prince of Wales’ court.
Bruce and Alick could not keep their mouths shut as they walked down the entire length of the hall. All eyes were upon the Highlanders as they progressed. At the far end, an elevated plinth came into view. It was where the prince stood.
The Black Prince resembled a resplendent jewel in his vestment made of cigaston with a dark blue background woven with a pattern of lozenges and birds in gold. The seamlessly tailored suit made of the most expensive silk clung to his body perfectly, enhancing the prince’s strong physique and good looks.
His hair was golden-blond and shimmered gossamer, like a halo, on his head. The first thing Bruce noticed was his broad shoulders and confident poise. The prince was a tower of a man, and he had the ego to match. He felt somewhat apprehensive to be standing in the presence of the man who had led his army to victory not so long ago. He almost looked away when the prince’s steely blue eyes that felt as if they were boring into him – it was like standing in the presence of a young god. Truly this man surpassed his illustrious Plantagenet forbearers by miles.
“I have the Highlanders for you, Your Royal Highness,” announced the chamberlain in a high-pitched voice.
He bowed obsequiously when Prince Edward inclined his head, and moved to the side so that his liege lord had a better view of the newcomers.
The Black Prince regarded Brice and the others closely. The expression on his handsome face was stern and unwavering. After a while, he stepped off of the dais and slowly walked up to Brice with the grace of a panther on the move. It did not take him long to stop before Brice. Without uttering a word, he continued to look.
After a few moments, he moved past Brice and inspected the other men in his party. He then stopped in front of Mungo. The prince looked him over and arched his eyebrows.
“That looks as if it was a nasty wound,” he said, referring to the pronounced scar running diagonally across Mungo’s face. He tipped his head to one side as a small grin materialized on his lips.
“Aye, it was. Some bleedin’ Sassenach bastard did the honor of giving it to me with his sword during the Battle of Stanhope Park,” said Mungo. He stared right back at the prince, his gaze stanch.
“Mm, a Scottish victory I believe,” said Edward.
“Aye. We nearly captured yer da as well,” he said, referring to the near capture of Edward the Third.
The prince really smiled for the first time. “But you didn’t, did you?”
Mungo guffawed. “No, we did not, Your Highness. But we gave ye English a darn good thrashing. That was worth it. It was one of the greatest days of my life. I fought alongside my laird’s father.” Mungo paused as the memories came flooding back to him. “We fought like lions.”
“More like owls if my recollection of history does not deceive me,” intoned the prince with a smirk still on his face.
“Owls?” Mungo looked confused.
“You came at us in the night. Not the most honorable way to wage war, wouldn’t you say.” To Mungo’s great surprise the prince patted him on the shoulder. “But you are here to tell the tale, for that you should be grateful. Me less so to have men such as you standing against me.”
The prince then walked up to Alick. “And who might you be?”
“I am Alick, son of Mungo of the Clan Macleod,” he replied with a stammer in his voice. “The man you just spoke to is my father.”
“Aha – so I have two men of that ilk in my halls,” said the prince.
“Three, Your Highness, sir,” said Bruce. “I too am Mungo’s son.”
The prince chuckled. “You have raised fine boys, Mungo. I can see that.”
“Aye, they are all fine men. The two young ones fought against ye at the Battle of Poitiers. As did my brother, Doogle,” interrupted Brice.
The prince spun on his heel and walked down the line of men until he once more came to a halt in front of Brice.
“Then, we shall have to find him, old friend.” He looked genuinely happy to see Brice. “Tell me – how do you fare and your father for that matter? I remember him and your mother well. She is the very epitome of English beauty.”
Brice nodded. “My mother and father are well, Your Highness, as am I, despite the loss of my brother.”
“That is good to hear. But not so much the news about your brother. I will do all that I can to help you find him if he is still alive.”
Hearing that his brother may be dead sent a chill down Brice’s back. He had, of course, considered the prospect, but hearing it spoken out loud gave the possibility a proprietary character.
“Tell me one thing, Brice,” said the prince.
“Anything, Your Royal Highness.”
The prince smiled at the use of his official title. When he and Brice roamed the parklands surrounding Windsor Castle they had addressed each other with their given names.
“Why in God’s name would a fair English maiden such as your mother marry a Highlander?”
Brice chuckled. “Love transcends all boundaries – even the ones birthed out of war.”
“Yes, that is true. I believe you were to be married when we last saw each other. What was her name again?” The prince thought for a moment. “She is called Skye. Did you marry her in the end?”
“Yes, Your Royal Highness. I did. We have two children now.”
“That is good to hear, my friend.”
“How about ye and your ladylove?” whispered Brice. He spoke in a low voice because the lady the prince coveted was married to another man.
The prince sighed. “I am afraid I was not able to convince my father to annul her marriage to her husband. For the moment, Joan and I have to content ourselves with waiting for our bond to come to fruition.”
“I am sorry to hear that,” said Brice, feeling for him. He could imagine nothing worse than not being able to be with Skye because of her being married to another man.
&nbs
p; “Enough about that. The chamberlain will arrange for you to be shown to your quarters. You and your party are my guests. We shall have a feast this evening in your honor to celebrate the reunion of old friends,” announced the prince.
“Ye are most kind, Your Royal Highness,” said Brice, bowing.
The prince moved closer until his mouth hovered by Brice’s ear. “Don’t you think that it is about time that you start calling me Edward?”
He winked before he turned and walked back to the plinth.
“Show my guests to their quarters and arrange for the next person to be shown in,” commanded the Black Prince.
11
11
* * *
The Kiss
* * *
Iteuil, Aquitaine, December 1356
* * *
“Do you ever look at the clouds and think that they carry messages from God about our destiny?” asked Louise.
She lay next to Doogle on the grass under a thick blanket and watched the sky and the clouds therein that scudded across the vast expanse above them.
For the most part, it had been a sunny day. The air was icy crisp. It made Doogle feel alive – more so than ever before in his life.
“I dinnae think much about such things,” said Doogle.
“Don’t you believe in destiny?”
He shifted his weight to his side so that he could look at her. The breath hitched in his throat. She was exquisite. Doogle scrutinized every detail of her face that to him was absolutely flawless. He loved her skin that was darker than that of the women from his country. Her obsidian-colored black hair shimmered in the weak sunlight like silk.
But what he appreciated the most about her was her mind. Louise reminded Doogle of his mother. Like Mary, Louise was quick-witted and very well educated. She grasped all things very quickly, and when she was unsure, she had no qualms in voicing her questions.
“Do I believe in destiny?” Doogle mused about it for a few heartbeats. “Well, I suppose I do,” he said at last.
Louise turned her head to face him. Immediately, his gaze seemed to capture her, robbing her of speech.
“What makes you believe in fate then?”
“Meeting ye, lassie.”
“Me?”
“Aye, ye.”
A smile flickered across her lips. “Do you think that our destinies are entwined?”
“Aye, I do. How else would I have found ye,” said Doogle. He moved closer. With his right hand, he brushed away an errant lock that had settled on Louise’s cheek.
“It was I who found you,” she said, lifting her chin in the way Doogle had noticed she always did when she wanted to make her point.
The gesture made him laugh. “Aye, that ye did, lassie.”
“I was so happy to find you despite the state you were in. You cannot imagine how worried I was. For weeks, you floated between life and death.” A lone tear slipped down her cheek, which Doogle wiped away with his thumb.
“I am better now – thanks to ye and Alianor,” he said softly.
“And soon you will leave and return home.”
Doogle pressed his lips together. It was true. He had regained his full strength. Physically, he was able to travel the long distance home. However, he had put off the decision for days. He was not ready to leave quite just yet.
The feisty Frenchwoman held him in a vice. She was like a magnet or the blossom to a bee. Her entire way captivated him. Doogle was not sure whether he could ever leave her – they had grown very close as the days had turned to weeks. The feelings he felt toward Louise were alien to him and like nothing he had either experienced or heard about.
His brothers or father had never spoken to him about how they felt with regard to their women. All Doogle knew was that they loved them. That information had always been enough. Not today. What he would give to be with his brother, Brice. He desperately needed his counsel.
At night, he dreamt of Louise. During the day, he could not tear his eyes away from her. When she spoke, he listened with rapture as if she was a bird tooting the sweetest melody. Louise was everywhere all the time. Her saccharine scent invaded his nostrils. The twinkle of her emerald green eyes that shared the color of the fields around Iteuil constantly lured him in – it was like being caught in the most satisfying embrace.
However, he had trouble understanding how there could be such beauty in the world. He wondered how it could coexist with the horrors he had seen on the battlefield. And for the first time in his life, he truly understood why men fought for their countries.
They did not do it for a flag, a sigil or a king. Men did it for their women and the families they left behind. Without them, kings would wield no power; they would have no influence for the only thing worth fighting for was love.
But did he love Louise? Did he even know what the love for a woman was? Since she saved him on the banks of the river, strange sensations had occupied his body. It was as if constant warmth stroked the underside of his skin. The feeling was most prevalent in the abdominal region. It robbed him of his appetite, inviting reproachful looks from Louise’s mother who often asked whether the food was not to his liking.
Doogle felt as if he had his feet lodged in two separate dimensions. He had never been so confused in his life – the feelings were alien to him. At the same time, he had to admit to himself that he felt good. Being with Louise brought out the very best in him. As the days passed by, the more he could imagine spending the rest of his life with her.
In the midst of all of this, Alexandre, Louise’s father, was the only true constant in his daily life. As men do, they worked side by side for the larger part in total silence. And when they did exchange words, it was about the animals, the war with the English and the state of the French kingdom that was described to them by the many refugees that roamed the land.
Often, Louise would come out to where Doogle and her father worked on the fields or with the animals in the pens. She would bring them cold meat, bread, fruit, and wine. Then, the three of them would sit down on the grass and eat the food no matter how cold it was.
The conversation was always light and full of laughter. It reminded Doogle of back home. He shared the very same easy-going relationship with his mother and father when they were not in the view of the entire clan in the Great Hall. He missed them and his brothers a great deal. And yet, he knew that if he left Iteuil, he would miss Louise just as much.
His gaze focused. He could see her lips moving. The vision was blurred but unmistakable. Soon, he heard her voice. It was soft and incomprehensible at first until it gradually became clearer.
“Doogle, you did not answer me. When are you returning home?”
Doogle remained fixated on her green eyes. They drew him in. Without him knowing it, his lips pressed against hers. He was gentle. He could feel her shuddering. He moved his hands up until his arms enveloped her body. And when her lips parted, he felt her tongue tentatively brush against his – it was the most wonderful experience he had ever had.
* * *
Against everything her mind was telling her, Louise found herself becoming more and more engrossed by the power of the kiss. Before she knew it, she kissed him back with the same increasing vigor and need. She relished the feel of his strong arms around her. She knew that, if he wanted to, he could crush every bone in her body. Knowing that was an aphrodisiac in itself – his brute strength was hers, and she was riding it like an eagle in the sky.
When Louise felt her back touch the ground, she knew that she had never felt safer in her life. Doogle’s body was like some mighty castle – his arms and torso were the walls and towers, his face the keep, the heart of the structure and where she most wanted to be, and his tongue the army that conquered her and made her his subject and…
Mon Dieu!
Louise almost choked when she felt his ardor press between her legs. Naturally, she had heard of the ways of men and how their bodies’ functioned, but she never considered what it might feel
like to experience a man’s full excitement.
The feelings burbling inside of her were mixed. They alternated between great pride at being able to make his body react so to abject fear when she realized just how powerful the beast under his kilt was.
She wanted to reach down and touch it – discover what it was that drove men insane with lust. But feeling it press against her body was enough. His eager tongue and firm grasp of her with his hands were impossible to resist. For a moment longer, she forgot where all of this could lead.
Father Mortimer had instructed her in the sins of men. How a man would lust after a woman’s body and leave her to suffer the consequences after he had gotten what he wanted. But in her heart of hearts, Louise knew that Doogle was a good man and that he would act honorably. He was not like Jean Philippe and his ilk – they only took, plundered and pillaged in a quest to assuage their avarice and lust.
Louise felt the heat of their embrace crest her skin. Her heart pumped at double its usual pace. Her hands rubbed Doogle’s body, relishing in the feeling of hard muscle. The very best was having him kiss her.
They had become far more demanding with their probing, touching and licking. It was as if they had been doing this their entire life. Doogle and Louise moved as one being. The cold of the winter, although present, was a mere bystander in the heat of passion.
All reason had left Louise’s mind. If she did not stop herself, she would give all of herself to the Highlander. Her body had usurped any cognitive thought – raw lust, desire and emotion held her in a vice. The feeling of Doogle’s tongue in her mouth had been strange at first, but now she embraced it with her own. It was the most normal and beautiful thing in the world.
With a deep breath, Doogle moved away from her. It took him a few moments to regain his composure. All he could do was stare at the Frenchwoman. Her cheeks were flushed pink, and her chest moved up and down with her heavy breathing.