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

by Alisa Adams

  “Aye. I only wonder how the prince remains so slim. If I lived here, I would be as fat as one of the boars they served this evening.”

  Mungo chuckled. He cast his gaze in the direction of the Prince of Wales. He was in deep conversation with Brice. For a heartbeat, he wondered what they might be talking about. However, the thought did not linger. His attention was directed to the final course that was placed on the long table before him.

  It was obvious that the two similarly aged young men shared a lot in common. The prince and Brice had been locked in deep conversation for the duration of most of the banquet – the royal hardly paid any attention to his courtiers. Even the King of France was ignored

  The French monarch was a sad sight to behold indeed. Even though he was treated with the utmost respect at the Black Prince’s court, his defeat at the Battle of Poitiers still weighed heavily on him. His kingdom was ravaged with strife because so many of his noblemen had died. The state coffers were empty, forcing his son, the Dauphin, to raise taxes on his already overly burdened subjects. The king feared for the worst. If his people were pressured too much, they would revolt, and his realm was in no position to deal with something like that.

  “It was good to see you again, Brice. I wish you the best of luck in the search for your brother,” said the Prince of Wales.

  “Thank you, old friend. Yer hospitality and help were beyond anything I could have hoped for. Ye truly are a friend,” responded Brice.

  The prince dipped his head marginally. “When you find him, come back to Bordeaux before you leave for home. If you are lucky, you will find your brother before Christmas, and you can spend it here. There is still so much for us to talk about.”

  “That is most kind, but I think I should get home as soon as possible. My mother and father will be worried about us.” Brice had written a letter the day before, and the prince had promised to arrange for its safe delivery.

  “Find your brother first, and we will talk about the other matter when you return. Go with God, Brice.”

  “And ye stay with God, Edward.”

  The two men clasped their arms. And to the astonishment of the courtiers and guards, the English prince and the Scot embraced like brothers, slapping each other on the backs heartily.

  “Now, that is something ye don’t see everyday,” muttered Mungo.

  “Aye, an English prince and a Scot behaving as brothers. This world certainly is a strange place indeed,” said Murtagh.

  “It could be a good thing. Maybe when the Black Prince ascends the throne the war between England and Scotland will come to an end,” said Bruce, joining the conversation.

  The two older clansmen regarded him with expressions of surprise on their faces.

  “That prince may get on well with Brice, but that does not mean that he will sacrifice his wider ambitions. Look at him – that man was born to rule,” said Mungo.

  “Aye, he will continue running the French into the ground until they have nothing left. And when he is done with them, all attention will be directed at us in Scotland – mark my word, laddie,” said Murtagh.

  “It’s time for us to hit the road,” said Brice, rejoining his command that had grown by the number of the prisoners they had freed from the English jail.

  “We are ready, Brice,” said Mungo.

  Brice mounted his horse that was a gift from the prince. It was a beautiful animal. The stallion was black like the night. The color suited his hair, which was of the same hue. It took him a moment to calm the animal – the hooves sounding off the cobbles in the courtyard belonging to the castle.

  “Are ye able to manage that thing?” asked Murtagh, grinning.

  “Of course I can handle him,” snapped Brice.

  It took two more turns on the spot before the horse calmed down. When he was confident that the skittish stallion was under his control, he lifted his hand and waved at the prince.

  “Laddies, we ride for Iteuil,” he yelled prior to digging his heels into his mount’s flanks.

  His men soon followed him through the main gates of the castle and into the town beyond. The populace on the narrow lanes made way for the quickly moving horsemen. It did not take long for the Scots to reach the city gate and the countryside beyond.

  “How long will it take us to get there?” asked Alick of Brice.

  “Judging by what the prince told me, I estimate about two days of leisurely riding,” replied Brice.

  “I do hope we find Doogle in this Iteuil place,” said Bruce.

  “Me too, laddie,” said Brice.

  “We have to remain positive. There’s nothing for it,” said Mungo. The countenance on his face was serious as he gazed in the direction of the horizon.

  The journey north took place without incident. The spirit in the small force of Scotsmen was high. The fresh additions from the prisons quickly learned that they best obey every order given to them by either Murtagh or Mungo. Also, they had developed great respect for Brice who was an honest and fair commander.

  As Brice had suggested, they reached Iteuil in a little more than two days of easy riding. He could already see the church spire in the center of the small village.

  “I suggest that is where we go first,” he said, pointing at the church in the distance.

  “Aye, ye are right, Brice. If anybody in the village would ken whether a Highlander was in their midst it would be the priest,” said Mungo.

  “Nosy buggers, priests,” added Murtagh.

  The others laughed. Everyone knew that Murtagh was not the most religious of people.

  “Ha, ha,” yelled Brice as he heeled his black stallion.

  In moments, he was galloping across the frost-covered field toward the village of Iteuil. He felt the breeze ruffle his hair. The icy cold air felt like small needles on his cheeks, but it was exhilarating and life awakening. It was in moments such as this when Brice felt totally alive – the wind, the cold, and the vibration of the powerful animal between his legs and the notion and hope that he would be reunited with a family member he loved inspired him further.

  The others in the small party were equally as enthusiastic as they followed their leader across the hoary ground. Their advance was so fast that it did not take them long to reach the settlement. The sound of the hooves quickly changed from dull thumping to clopping when the animals moved from the hard mud covered surface to the town’s cobbled main square in front of the church.

  As was typical in small settlements, the village folk eyed the strangers with a degree of suspicion and prejudice. Nobody spoke a word. Small children held their mothers’ hands and looked on cautiously. Old men scowled, and young men held their bunched fists to their hips. And the young women pointed discreetly at the Highlanders, occasionally giggling and blushing.

  When Brice reached the church, he dismounted and slowly walked up to the steps leading up to the main entrance. He had to admit that it was an impressive building for such a small place with so few inhabitants. He guessed that many of the people had succumbed to the Black Death that raged in these parts not so long ago.

  “Are you in need of confession, young man,” boomed a deep voice in heavily accented yet perfect French.

  “No, Father. I am in need of information,” replied Brice in the same language.

  Father Mortimer waddled up to the Scotsman. “I think we can dispense with the speaking of French. Judging by your plaid, you are Scottish, eh?”

  Brice nodded. “Aye, Father.”

  “You wouldn’t be the first from your country to be in these parts,” said Father Mortimer.

  “Are ye telling him that you’ve seen another man dressed like us?” asked Mungo, who as usual joined in any conversation without any hesitation.

  “That is exactly what I am saying,” replied the clergyman.

  “That is good news.” Brice held out his hand. “My name is Brice Macleod, son of Laird Alastair Macleod. And the gentlemen standing next to me is one of my closest friends and one of the laird�
��s chief confidants – may I present Mungo of the Clan Macleod.”

  Brice continued to introduce Murtagh, Bruce, and Alick.

  “And I am Father Mortimer.” The priest returned the handshakes enthusiastically.

  “Father Mortimer, might I ask how a flaming Englishman becomes a priest in a small French village?” asked Mungo.

  The priest chuckled. “The service of God is not dependent on where you are from or where you are. You follow your calling, and mine took me here after many years of wandering.”

  “I see.”

  “If things continue to go on like this, I might even develop a soft spot for these bleeding Sassenachs. First, the Black Prince and now this man,” whispered Murtagh into his friend’s ear.

  “Aye, I ken what ye mean. I too never thought I would ever think kindly of an Englishman,” said Mungo.

  While the two clansmen were discussing their surprise at the kindness of the English, Father Mortimer directed the conversation back to where Brice most wanted it to go.

  “It does my heart good to hear the name Macleod, young Brice,” said Father Mortimer.

  Brice looked surprised. “Ye ken my family?”

  The clergyman nodded. “Not in person maybe, but I have been acquainted with you, your father, mother, and younger brother, Calum. And you Mungo and Murtagh. The things I heard about you made me laugh so hard and weep because of your honor and courage. And last, but not least, Alick and Bruce – Doogle’s close friends and the young men he fought with at Poitiers.”

  Brice thought that he was going to fall over with shock. To his mind, there was only one way for Father Mortimer to know so much about his family. Doogle was alive and possibly in the village.

  “You have met my brother, Doogle?”

  “Yes, I can say that I have had that honor,” replied Father Mortimer with a large smile on his lips.

  “By God, Father! Tis wonderful news. I nearly lost all hope,” said Mungo, his blaspheming making the priest wince.

  “Where is the laddie?” asked Murtagh.

  “He lives with the Durocs not so far from here. They have a small farm with pigs and some fields. They are kind people. Their daughter, Louise, saved your brother’s life,” said Father Mortimer.

  “Told ye the mingin numptie was with a lass,” said Mungo to Murtagh.

  “Would ye believe it? We have been worried sick, and the laddie has been convalescing in the capable hands of some beautiful woman,” responded Murtagh.

  “How do ye ken that she is bonnie?”

  “Don’t be daft. Of course, she is bonnie. That’s the blasted reason the lad hasn’t left this place yet. He’s frolicking aboot with some bonnie French lassie.”

  “Where is this farm, Father?” asked Brice, ignoring Mungo and Murtagh’s ridiculous conversation.

  “I will take you there, Brice,” replied the clergyman.

  “Alick, Bruce – help Father Mortimer with his horse,” ordered Brice. He then turned to Murtagh and Mungo. “Do you two always have to argue? Who cares if my brother is in the hands of a woman. He is alive and well, and that is all that matters.”

  “Aye, ye are right of course. I am just eager to find out what she is like,” said Murtagh.

  “Aye, I am certain she has blonde hair, large breasts, and a firm bahookie,” said Mungo, grinning.

  Brice rolled his eyes. The two clansmen were incorrigible. They behaved as if they had always known that his brother was alive.

  He indulged them as he waited for Father Mortimer to return with his mount, for soon he would be reunited with his brother.

  13

  13

  * * *

  A Fateful Reunion

  * * *

  Iteuil, Aquitaine, December 1356

  * * *

  The stalemate between the French mercenaries and the Highlander prevailed on the Duroc farm – Doogle remained glued to the spot. Louise’s mother was weeping. Alexandre held his wife in his arms to comfort her. The men in Jean Philippe’s troop waited for the Highlander to make up his mind concerning Louise’s fate.

  Jean Philippe continued to hold the blade to Louise’s cheek. He leered menacingly at Doogle.

  “What is it to be – do you want me to mark this beautiful girl’s face? Is that what you really want?”

  Doogle gulped. The situation was untenable and unbearable. To see the woman he loved in such peril burned a hole in his heart. He could sense the French mercenaries waiting to pounce on him the moment he was distracted enough.

  “Doogle, you must withdraw. They will kill you and my parents if you do not move back,” said Louise in a surprisingly steady voice.

  Her bravery tore at Doogle’s heart. He loved her even more in that moment – if that was even possible.

  “I cannot leave ye, lass. That vile man will hurt ye.”

  “Don’t worry, my beloved Doogle. God has brought us together and he won’t rip us apart. You must have faith.”

  “Enough of this.” Jean Philippe pressed the cold steel of the knife to her cheek, drawing a small globule of blood.

  Louise did not utter a sound. She took the punishment with stoic reserve. The cut was but a small one. However, Doogle knew that if the current situation drew out any longer, Jean Philippe would lose his patience. He already knew the kind of man he was – a coward and a wretch. He would have no scruples in first maiming, raping and then killing Louise, her family, and then Doogle himself.

  Louise managed to turn her head a fraction. She squinted into the distance and frowned.

  “Men, enough of this waiting. Move in for the kill. I want you to gut that man and then execute the mother and father,” ordered Jean Philippe.

  He manhandled Louise in the direction of the safe cordon of his soldiers who gradually tightened the circle around the Highlander.

  Doogle counted at least ten men converging on him. The remainder of the force withdrew with their leader and Louise toward the horses. He did not have a moment to lose. Jean Philippe had been bluffing. He never had any intention of damaging the woman he so coveted – not yet at least. He would first have his fun with her.

  * * *

  “What in the name of God is going on here!” boomed a voice that was used to speaking to large groups of people.

  “Father Mortimer,” shrieked Louise. She almost managed to free herself from her captor’s grip.

  “This is none of your concern, Father,” responded Jean Philippe, calmly.

  But his sense of control fast evaporated when he saw an equally sized force to his own ride alongside the clergyman. He recognized them as the same people as Doogle.

  “Oh, but it is his concern and that of the laird’s son.” Mungo growled. He quickly dismounted and fearlessly strode up to the cordon of men surrounding Doogle.

  Murtagh, Alick, Bruce and six other Scotsmen advanced with him.

  “I see ye got yerself into a wee bit of bother, Doogle.” Despite the precarious situation, the smile on Mungo’s face split it from ear to ear.

  “Ye took ye time in getting here, Brother,” Doogle said to Brice.

  The relief washed over him. The French raiding party of thugs did not stand a chance now. He had seen Mungo and his sons fight and that is not to mention the indefatigableness of Murtagh when his blood was up.

  In the meantime, Brice had gaged the situation perfectly. He instinctively recognized Louise as the woman who looked after his brother. He left his brother in the capable hands of Mungo and Murtagh. Still on horseback, he and the remainder of the men moved in on Jean Philippe and his companions.

  “Hand over the woman and we will let ye and yer party leave in peace. However, if I ever see ye in these parts again, I will personally gut ye,” said Brice.

  Jean Philippe hastily mounted his horse. One of his men helped Louise up until she sat in front of him. She shuddered at being in such close proximity to the man she despised above all things. She could feel his breath on her neck. His left hand grabbed her waist and invaded he
r person crudely.

  “I will do no such thing. This woman was promised to me and I am here to claim her,” insisted Jean Philippe.

  “It appears that she does not agree with that claim. Release her now.” Brice’s hand moved to the hilt of his claymore.

  His men followed suit.

  “Enough of this footering aboot.” Mungo charged forward and rammed his blade into an unsuspecting Frenchman.

  “Aye, talk is cheap. Let’s gut the bastards,” shouted Murtagh, dispatching the man closest to him.

  Doogle reacted in an instant. He had seen Mungo’s furtive hand gesture – they had trained this so many times during sparring practice back in the Highlands. He spun on his feet and smashed his head into the mercenary standing closest to him – he was on the ground in moments.

  “Ye will pay for frightening and hurting my lassie.” He growled before plunging his sword into his chest.

  He felt the blood pumping in his veins. Doogle took a moment to survey the scene around him. But his eyes were for Louise and her evil abductor alone.

  “When I get to ye, ye will wish ye were never born.” With a feral cry he launched himself into the fray.

  In the meantime, a fierce melee broke out. Mungo faced two of the enemy. Despite his advancing years, he was more than a match for the younger men. His brute strength and battle experience soon overpowered them. Along with him, his stepsons handled their opponents with equal skill. The remainder of the Highlanders quickly encircled the attacking force, drawing them back.

  On the other side of the fighting ground, Brice had urged his horse forward. Jean Philippe screamed for his men to charge. The men on horseback were soon engaged in a ferocious fight – the two sides were equally matched. But Jean Philippe had the element of surprise, and as it so often was the case, the coward invariably gets away due to their slippery nature.

  “Gaston, ride with me. Men, hold them off for as long as possible,” commanded Jean Philippe.