---

Bordeaux, Aquitaine, December 1356

---

“It is said that the prince holds his court at the archbishop’s palace,” said Brice.

“Then that is where we shall go,” said Mungo.

“We first have to pass the sentries at the gate. Somehow, I worry that our Scottish garb will give us away,” said Brice.

Mungo pleated his brow as he rode with the others and the throng of people that moved with them seeking entry into the city. “What would ye have us do? Dress like a bleedin’ Sassenach?”

Brice chuckled. “No. I think that the way we are dressed will garner the necessary attention.”

“Necessary attention?” asked Alick.

“Aye. If the guards are doing their duty well, they will escort us to the prince,” said Brice.

“Throw us in the dungeon more likely.” Murtagh snorted.

“Have some faith, brother. We will get there in the end.” Brice did not feel as confident as his words suggested. What if Murtagh was right and the English just locked them up and threw away the key? It wouldn’t be the first time that someone went missing at the hands of the English.

The enemy had captured Brice’s father when he escorted his mother back to England from Scotland many years ago. He had ended up in Chillingham Castle, the most horrible prison in England. It had once been Edward the Longshanks preferred location for his captives. It was even claimed that the ghost of the one-time king’s executioner still roamed the halls and cells.

“All right, laddies, the time has come,” said Brice when they were only a few paces away from the turnpike by the gates.

“Now, who might you be, eh?” asked a burly sentry. The chainmail on his person clinked along with his weapons when he moved.

“We request an audience with the Prince of Wales, sir,” replied Brice in the haughtiest tone he could muster.

The man who had asked the question and the other guards within earshot chortled. “You would be seeking an audience with the prince, eh? May I inquire who it is that is asking?”

By now, four other Englishmen converged on the party of Scots. In the corner of his eye, Brice saw that more soldiers were exiting the main gates of the town of Bordeaux. There was no turning back now – the die had been cast.

“My name is Brice Macleod, son of Laird Alastair Macleod. I am an old friend of the prince. I know him from the time I was his guest at Windsor Castle.”

The sentry with the deep pockmarks on his cheeks hitched his eyebrows. “A friend ye claim?”

“Aye, a friend.”

“But you are a Scot judging by your attire and miserable lilt. The prince would definitely not befriend the likes of you. I should ‘ave the lot of you thrown in the dungeon.” The guard cleared his throat to give the order for their arrest.

Brice raised his right hand. “I am certain that the prince would like to hear of my arrival. I do not suggest you make any hasty decisions you are sure to regret.”

The Englishman frowned. “Hasty decisions you say. I am only doing my duty. And that entails arresting any Scot within my reach.”

Brice hitched his shoulders. “Be my guest.” He held up his arms in surrender.

The gesture of submission unnerved the Englishman. He turned to his fellows who now numbered more than twenty with more men by the gates for moral and martial support.

“This Scottish vagabond claims to be a friend of our prince. What say ye to that?”

Howls of laughter followed this question.

“I’d say he’d be a Scottish liar. A dog that should be whipped, drawn and quartered like that traitor William Wallace.” One of the soldiers snarled.

“Now, ye listen here, ye Sassenach cur. If ye ever insult the laird’s son again, I will have yer heid off in a heartbeat,” said Mungo, getting off of his horse.

He walked over to the English guard until he stood barely a hand’s width from his person. The husky clansman towered over the other man.

“Keep yer heid, Mungo. I appreciate yer effort, but this man is only doing his duty,” intervened Brice, as he dismounted.

“He insulted ye, laddie,” protested Mungo.

“Aye, he did,” added Murtagh who already stood shoulder to shoulder with his friend.

Brice raised his right arm to forestall any more protests on Mungo and Murtagh’s behalf. “There is no need for truculence. We can sort this out as civilized men.” He patted Mungo on the back. “Take a step back, old friend, and let me do the talking, eh.”

He took a moment to regard the Englishmen standing before him. He could smell the traces of stale wine and onions on his breath. He knew that if he made a wrong move, the guard would have no compunction in giving the order to have them all slaughtered on the spot.

“Why don’t ye send someone to the prince and tell him who I am? If I am lying, ye can do with us what ye like. But if I am telling the truth, ye best make sure that my men and I are treated well because, from what I hear, your prince is not the forgiving type,” said Brice.

Brice could see the conflict playing on the other man’s face. He knew that if he made a mistake his life and that of his brethren was on the line.

After what seemed like an eternity, he snorted something unintelligible to the man standing next to him.

“All right, but if you are wasting my time, I will personally take you to the gallows,” he uttered.

“I would expect nothing less, good sir. Now that we have set aside our differences for the moment, I would like ye to offer us some refreshment while we wait.” Brice arched an eyebrow.

Next to him, Mungo and Murtagh could not help smiling, infuriating the Englishman.

“I am not a bloody innkeeper.”

“Ye will hope that you were if word gets out to the prince that his guests who have traveled so far to see him have been treated discourteously. I suggest you do as I say, and I give you my word that no repercussions will come your way because of the rebarbative welcome we received this morning.”

The guard eyed Brice for a moment with his ferrety eyes. For a few heartbeats, Brice thought that he was going to refuse him.

“Take these men to the guard’s chamber and treat them as honored guests. But do not take yer eyes off of them. Is that clear?” He turned from his fellow guards, back to Brice. “Now, I will have yer weapons.”

“With pleasure.” Brice handed him his claymore and dirk.

“There’s no bleedin’ way that I will let some Sassenach bastard take my weapons,” protested Mungo when an English soldier approached him.

Next to him, Murtagh was equally as noncompliant.

“Mungo, Murtagh, ye will do as I say. Give these men yer arms. I am certain the prince will let you have them back the moment he knows I am here,” ordered Brice.

“Ye are aff yer heid, laddie. Trusting these Sassenachs.” Mungo handed over his sword reluctantly.

The others followed suit.

“Come with me,” said the sentry gruffly.

Brice and his party followed the Englishman through the gates of the town. A detachment of some ten guards accompanied them. Their procession was short. Within moments, they were shown into a vaulted chamber built into the thick walls surrounding the settlement.

It was a large room where the sentries gathered when they were off duty. There was a sizeable fireplace, and sconces hung off of the thick stone wall – there were dark smudges where the fires burned. A wooden table and eight chairs stood in the center of the room.

When Brice and the others were seated, one of the sentries brought them a larger pitcher with wine and socked it on the table. Without a word, he left and closed the thick wooden door that creaked until shut.

“Well, it looks like we are at the English’s mercy now, laddie,” said Murtagh, helping himself to some wine.

“Aye, I hope ye ken what ye are doing,” said Mungo.

“It all boils down to the Black Prince now,” said Brice.

“Let’s hope that he remembers who the hell ye are. If he doesn’t, we’ll be swinging from the gallows come nightfall.” Mungo grunted, swilling his wine.

“That prince of yours took his bloody time in answering yer call,” complained Mungo.

The five Scotsmen were being escorted through the town by a troop of no less than twenty soldiers. Bordeaux was very much like Paris in terms of the stench and the way the buildings were constructed. The main difference was the size. With approximately thirty thousand inhabitants it was far smaller. Also, the breeze from the Bay of Biscay carried away some of the wood smoke and foul odors.

“Stop winging, Mungo. Ye sound like an old woman who got fleeced at the market,” retorted Brice.

“It’s my winging that keeps us alive.”

“We got this far. I suggest ye haud yer wheesht and let Brice do the talking,” said Murtagh.

Alick and Bruce were quiet. They both felt uncomfortable in the presence of so many enemy troops that formed a tight cordon around them. It was obvious from the way they handled themselves that they were hardened veterans from the many battles fought by the English. From what they had seen at the Battle of Poitiers, these men could hold their own in any skirmish.

The group of men continued to advance through the narrow streets of Bordeaux. The inhabitants they passed hastily moved to the side to make way for the prince’s men and their charges.

“There it is – the archbishop’s palace,” said Brice, pointing ahead.

Before them, a huge rectangular castle emerged. It was located right next to the Garonne River. Soldiers lined the battlements. It seemed like a small army camped outside of the structure – it was nigh impregnable.

It did not take long for the Highlanders and their escort to reach the main gates. The man in command of their escort exchanged a few words with the lavishly attired sentries.

It was evident to Brice that the spoils of the recent chevauchée had reached Bordeaux. Everything and everyone from the soldiers to the people entering and exiting the palace displayed abundance – noblemen with their bejeweled wives walked past Brice and his clansmen. Carts transporting game, poultry and casks of wine flowed into the castle.

“Now, we ken where all that loot went,” whispered Mungo into Brice’s ear.

“Aye. The prince must be swimming in coin after his recent conquests,” responded Brice.

“How many knights do ye think reside here?” asked Bruce, craning his head to the left and right.

“There must be about eighty of them and four times as many squires,” said Alick. The awe was written right across his face. He had never seen such power before.

“If ye think this is impressive, ye should see Windsor. The King of England has a whole army protecting him,” said Brice.

“Makes me think why we even bother to fight these people. We haven’t got a hope in hell of winning,” said Bruce.

He received a slap to the back of his head from Mungo for that remark.

“Never talk like that again. We have beaten the Sassenachs on more than one occasion, and we will do so again.”

“We’re on the move again,” said Brice.

Promptly, they began to pass the gate. The sentries holding vigil eyed the newcomers closely. It was a fact that Scots were an unwelcome sight in these parts. The massive arched entryway opened up onto a vast courtyard with another rectangular structure in the center.

“That is the keep and where the prince will be,” said Brice, pointing ahead.

The inside of the castle was a beehive of activity. Men and women in fancy clothing milled about. Close to the outer wall, blacksmiths forged weapons. A little further afield, stabling for hundreds of horses was apparent. The Black Prince held a court that almost rivaled that of his illustrious father back in England.

“Follow me, Scot,” said the unfriendly sentry from earlier.

Brice did not take long to follow up on the man’s command. He and the others marched up to the donjon and entered. At first, it was dark inside. It took awhile for the men’s eyes to adjust to the gloominess.

The corridors were lined with guards in pristine tunics and polished chainmail. It was evident to Brice that the prince left nothing to chance – he was well protected.

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.

“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.