Highlander's Stolen Destiny: A Medieval Scottish Historical Romance Book Read online

  “Who’s that?” asked Brice.

  “He was a Christian native from Carthage in Northern Africa and lived in the eleventh century. He translated various medical texts from Arabic into Latin. Many of them were lost after the sacking of Rome by the Visigoths – especially those from Hippocrates and Galen. Strangely enough, those former Greek and Roman texts found their way to the east where the Arabs translated them into their own tongue. Or Ibn Ishaq Suleiman, the famous Arab…”

  “All right, Callum, ye don’t have to give me the entire list of yer planned learning. I understand there are many smart blokes out there. Still dinnae ken why ye are doing it at all.” Brice shrugged. “It appears ye ken them all and what they wrote already.”

  Callum laughed. He laid a hand on his older brother’s shoulder. “Trust me, Brice, it will be a journey of enlightenment. I have in no way nearly broached the surface of the knowledge of the world that is to be had in Italy.”

  “Let’s hope that a thieving English bastard won’t thrust his sword up yer arse while ye are enjoying the sights of the French countryside and Paris then.” Doogle grunted his displeasure. “Ye have heard that there is a bleedin’ war on? Before ye get to Rome, ye must pass the English troops.”

  Callum chuckled. He was used to his middle brother’s crude way. In terms of temperament, he was a mixture between both Murtagh and Mungo. The seventeen-year-old did not have a shred of grace in him. “I will be careful not to get caught, brother.”

  Alastair smiled at his three sons across the open fire they had only recently set up. Each one of them was so different. His eldest was to be married. It came as no surprise to Alastair that a lass had swiftly taken him off the market – Brice was a pleasure to look at and the bravest and most lovable of souls. Then there was Doogle. Good loyal and honest Doogle who always spoke his mind without ever veering to an untruth. His strength was prodigious and his heart as pure as a mountain burn. Lastly, came Callum, the cleverest of the brood. He would make a difference in the world, of that, Alastair was certain. His manner was so refined, and one could see the care he harbored for his fellow man radiating off his person.

  “Where’s the grub, Faîther? I could eat an entire bullock,” said Doogle, fidgeting on his bottom nervously. Everyone laughed when his stomach growled in alignment with his words.

  “Murtagh and Mungo are trying to find some for us,” said Alastair.

  “I hope he is successful. The Lowlands are not as bountiful as the Highlands,” said Brice.

  “Aye, then we’ll have to eat Callum if there’s nothing else. Maybe that big brain of his might rub off on me.” Doogle snorted, inviting another round of hilarity from those around the fire.

  Murtagh was out and about with Mungo and some men hunting something for their dinner. The laird had decreed that there would be enough oats and water, salted meat and hard bannocks full of weevils when they marched south to face the English. This night, there would be a feast if the hunters were successful.

  Shouts coming from the other side of the camp announced that the aforementioned worry was for naught. The lads and their father heard their fellow clansmen shouting their acclaim:

  “Couldn’t the pair of ye have shot down a few bigger ones? I’ll eat one of those mangy deer all by myself.”

  And.

  “Ye are an ungrateful bastard. The size of them couldn’t be better. They look young and succulent, and I can’t wait to get my teeth sunk into some meat.”

  And.

  “Aye, we’ll be feasting tonight.”

  Doogle lifted his bulk to his feet. “Faîther, I am off to help Mungo and Murtagh skin and prepare the blighters. With my help, we might get some food sooner rather than later.”

  Alastair nodded and watched his son stalk off in the direction of the approaching horses. He smiled when he saw how well met his son was when Mungo and Murtagh dismounted. The moment his feet were on the ground, Murtagh hurled a heavy carcass at Doogle. The action would’ve knocked most other men off their feet.

  “Da, do we have a chance against the English?” asked Brice, breaking the silence.

  “Aye, of course we do. What worries ye, laddie?” asked Alastair twirling a sprig of white heather between his fingers. He smiled when he thought of its providence. Freya had given him one along with Brice, Doogle, Callum, her father, her stepbrothers, and Murtagh.

  “I dinnae ken. It feels different to the other times we headed for the enemy’s border. I am more nervous than the last time. It feels strange – is it the way cravens feel?” asked Brice, frowning.

  “Ye weren’t about to marry the love of yer life the last time, Brice,” said Callum, answering for his father.

  “Yer brother’s right, Brice. I feel the same thing every time I go off to war. There is nothing craven about it,” said Alastair, feeling good to be sharing something so personal with his boys.

  “Ye do?”

  “Naturally, I do. I love yer mother just like ye love Skye. It frightens me to death that I might get killed and leave her behind. I dinnae want to do that. I dinnae want to never see ye two and Doogle again. What ye are feeling, Brice, is when a man becomes more than just himself… He becomes a husband and a father. These are two of the noblest things in the world and never forget that.”

  Brice looked serious as he thought of the last kiss he had given Skye on the edge of the village. It had been warm and all-consuming, drawing him in like it had done down by the loch that night when they had become one body. She had cried when he had drawn away from her. Brice remembered looking about. His mother had said her farewells back at the castle. When he had looked over his shoulder, Mary had been but a silhouette standing on one of the towers.

  At that moment, Brice realized that he and Skye still had a lot to learn. There was just about nothing more painful and disconcerting than a crying woman whom you loved, begging you to stay, displaying only the subtle actions of her quivering lips and without a word. Skye would never dishonor him by acting like the petulant wife, but she was still young, and the experience had torn at her heart – Brice knew exactly what she had felt because he had felt it too.

  A burning pain had filled the insides of his body, emitting the agony one suffered when one overeagerly swallowed a lump of hot food and burned their esophagus. Brice had felt breathless the moment he had mounted his horse. He had stared at Skye, not registering anything but her watery blue eyes and trembling lips. He had said farewell and uttered a few dreamy words of love. And by the time he was five leagues away from his home, he had looked back only to find the toothed tips of the mountain range behind Diabaig in the distance. Gone were the other landmarks he remembered from his childhood and gone was the vision of the woman he loved more than life itself.

  “Ye will be all right, Brice. I can’t offer ye any promises that it will get easier as the years go by. If I did, I would be lying to ye,” said Alastair, who had eyed his son for the better part of five minutes. His brooding face had been too special for him to break the mood, so he had just left him to come to his own conclusions. It was generally the best way.

  “I ken, Da. I just miss her.”

  “This is not the end, ye ken. Ye will get back to her and hold Skye in yer arms. As will I yer mother,” said Alastair with confidence.

  “What are ye three lasses whispering about?” asked Mungo, throwing a huge chunk of meat to the ground before them.

  “These pansy-arsed malingering wallopers are having a wee chat about the beauty of life and fair lasses prancing about,” joined in Murtagh, chucking another hunch of venison on the ground. “Trust them to shirk their duties for a wee chat while the rest of us do all of the work.”

  “Haw, laddies, they miss their women,” said Doogle, guffawing. “The winging twats,” he added for good measure.

  Murtagh and Mungo slowly turned their heads toward the chortling seventeen-year-old.

  “Ye find that funny, do ye?” asked Murtagh.

  “Aye, the laddie finds it amusing tha
t men miss their women on the eve of leaving for war,” added Mungo.

  “My Laird, Brice, and Callum, would the three of ye be so kind as to put the meat on a couple of spits? It’s been prepared – all ye would have to do is cook it,” said Murtagh.

  Alastair nodded knowingly with a grin on his face. Sitting next to him, Callum and Brice exchanged confused glances. Standing before him, Doogle was starting to get worried when the two bury veteran clansmen moved closer to where he stood. They caged him in like a pair of hunting dogs.

  “Doogle…”

  Doogle tensed when he heard Mungo’s rasping voice that sounded like a blade being meticulously dragged across the surface of a whetstone. “Aye,” he muttered.

  “Do ye fancy a wee turn in the burn down yonder?” asked Murtagh, knowing exactly what Mungo had in mind.

  “Ye reek of a man who is full of shite,” added Mungo.

  “What shall we do with him?” asked Murtagh, playing the game perfectly.

  “With a man who thinks it’s only a sissy that yearns for his wife?” Mungo scowled at Doogle to make his point.

  “Aye. I don’t like being insulted because I love my Caitlin,” said Murtagh.

  “Aye, and I love my Freya, and I miss her.” Mungo shrugged as he slowly slid his dirk from its sheath. “Ye thinking what I am thinking?” he asked, looking at Murtagh.

  “Aye. We cut the laddies bawsack and welly off. He won’t be needing it with an attitude like that,” said Murtagh, also drawing his dirk and moving to grab Doogle’s arm.

  With a feral howl of fear, Doogle ran off down the entire length of the camp. He stumbled and tripped, falling facedown in the dirt a few times before he fell from view. Behind him, Alastair and his two sons and Mungo and Murtagh collapsed onto the ground laughing. Tears streamed down their faces and their bellies hurt as they lost themselves in Doogle’s hilarious flight.

  “Did ye see the big laddie run?” yapped Murtagh.

  “Aye, he thought we were really going to do it,” said Mungo, crying with mirth.

  More laughter followed until Alastair said, “Callum, Brice, go fetch yer brother…” He chuckled. “If I send either Mungo or Murtagh, he will run away even further and get lost. Just tell him the food is on the spit. That’ll convince him to come back.”

  “Aye, that will lure the glutton back.” Murtagh snorted.

  More laughter followed his remark.

  6

  The King’s Camp

  * * *

  Perth, Scotland, September, 1346

  * * *

  “We have arrived,” said Alastair, eyeing the large camp before him. He had brought his force to a temporary halt on a hillock overlooking the town and the adjacent camp.

  The transitory encampment was located right outside the town of Perth or ‘St John’s Ton’ as the locals liked to call it. It spread over the land in all directions. Thousands of tents in various colors had been erected. An endless procession of men and vehicles carrying all manner of provisions entered it. Smoke billowed up from the campfires in twirling streams of white. The sound of men shouting, the cacophony of the hammer on the anvil from the blacksmith’s efforts and the thump of horses’ hooves all scudded toward Alastair and his men.

  “Trust the weedy Lowlanders to need a tent to sleep in at night. It appears the further south one goes, the less manly the man,” said Murtagh with a look of disdain etched onto his features.

  “Aye, I have to agree with ye there, Murtagh. It is a sorry sight when men become soft and try to emulate the Sassenachs,” said Mungo.

  “The blighters will run at the first sight of an English soldier,” interjected Doogle.

  Both Murtagh and Mungo turned to face the young man with scowls on their faces. “Look who’s the veteran now,” said Murtagh. “One might think the laddie’s been on a thousand campaigns judging by the way he speaks, eh, Mungo?”

  “Aye. But if ye ask me, Murtagh, it’s all in his addled mind. The laddie nearly ran all the way back to Diabaig when we gave him that little fright last night – I doubt he’d be any better than those Lowlanders when the English come marching up to him in perfect rank and file,” said Mungo.

  “Laddie’s not got quite the makings of a warrior, if ye ask me.” Murtagh jerked forward in Doogle’s direction, nearly knocking him off his horse in fright.

  “All right, all right, that’s enough, lads,” said Alastair, enjoying the banter. He pointed to the municipality. “Fine walls surround that town.”

  “Courtesy of King Edward the Third, Da,” said Callum.

  “What are ye on about?” snapped Mungo.

  “He forced six monasteries in Perthshire and Fife to pay for their construction. He wanted a permanent English base from where he could control Scotland. Perth has the strongest fortifications of any town in the whole of the land,” said Callum, continuing his instruction.

  “The bastard. Trust that English king to come on up here and build castles like that other English bastard did in France,” said Murtagh, also alluding to Château Gaillard in France that was built by Richard the Lionheart and where they had met King David the Second of Scotland before his return home a few years ago.

  “It’s not a castle, Murtagh. It still is a town with a wall around it,” corrected Callum.

  “Ooh, listen to ole clever boots over there. He’ll be giving me a history lesson on the English and how to fight a war if I let him. We beat the bastards more than once,” said Murtagh.

  “Maybe I should; it might improve our chances against the English if our men were more… how shall I say… informed. Not everything is about brute force in war, Murtagh. The Romans slept in tents like those men over there, and they weren’t weak or cowards. A Roman legionary could march up to twenty-five miles carrying his pack and build a fully fortified camp at the end of the day. They conducted perfect military strategy and believed in fighting as one unit as opposed to individual fights between men.”

  “A Roman what?” asked Murtagh. “Never heard of him.”

  “Aye,” intoned Mungo.

  Close by, his brother Doogle looked just as confused as the others. Afraid to incur even more wrath from Murtagh and Mungo, he kept his mouth shut.

  “That is the name of a highly-trained soldier in the Roman army. They used to rule in the British Isles, nearly getting as far north as present-day Stirling at one point,” said Callum, chuckling when he saw the expressions on the others’ faces. “They didn’t much like the clime and the people, so they headed back south and built a wall there to keep us Scots out.”

  Murtagh and Mungo just stared at him flabbergasted while Callum continued his teaching. “Anyway, getting back to the present, I have been speaking to Sir Peter, and as it turns out, the English defeated a far stronger force with almost just the bow and arrow. So, you two should think twice about putting muscle before wit and stratagem.”

  “What’s stratagem?” asked Mungo.

  “The very same as tactics, subterfuge or ruse.” Shaking his head, Callum urged his horse forward in pursuit of his father and Brice who already led the posse down the hill, leaving Murtagh, Mungo and Doogle behind, tongue-tied.

  Mungo grunted. “He’s got quite a set of brains that one.”

  “Aye, that he does,” confirmed Murtagh.

  “Maybe we should develop some kind of stratagem when we face the English.” Mungo’s chest inflated with pride at the use of the new word he just learned.

  Murtagh frowned at him until his face lit up. “I got one.”

  “Ye do – out with it, brother.”

  “Well, it’s quite simple really. Ye shout as loud as ye can and run at the Sassenach, brandishing yer claymore, and then ye stick it to him with the pointy end.” A massive grin split Murtagh’s face.

  “Don’t we always do exactly that?”

  “Not really… We tend to hack with our swords first,” said Murtagh, slicing down with his hand onto his palm. “If ye stick it to ‘em, it’d be faster, ye see.”

/>   “Aye, ye might be right on that one, brother… Stick it to ‘em… I like that.”

  “Aye.” Murtagh snorted, still grinning and tapping the hilt of his sword.

  “One thing though.”

  “What?”

  “Sometimes yer blade can get stuck in yer opponent’s body with all that suction and all. Ye need to pull on it quite forcefully to get it out,” said Mungo, sporting a deep frown on his forehead. “That kind of takes time in the heat of things.”

  “Mm… probably best to just do what ye think’s right… sort of follow yer instincts and all.”

  “Aye, we’ll leave the thinking to the likes of Alastair and Callum.”

  Both men smiled at one another in agreement.

  “All that clever stuff wouldn’t help my brother in the heat of battle. The sword always does the talking,” added Doogle.

  Mungo clipped him on the top of his head with his hand. “‘Ave ye not been listing to a thing yer brother’s been saying, ye dimwitted arsepiece? It’s all about stratagem. Ye need big lads like us to do what the smart folk like yer brother say. Remember William Wallace at the Battle of Stirling Bridge – he beat the English by using individual schiltron divisions with long spears against their heavy cavalry.”

  “Full of shite, he is,” said Murtagh, giving the lad another clip to the head before he joined Mungo in the same direction as Alastair, Brice, Callum and the rest of the men rode.

  “What?” yelled Doogle, heeling his horse in hot pursuit. “Wait for me.”