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Bordeaux, Aquitaine, December 1356

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The planning for the banquet was phenomenal. For the entire day, the Black Prince’s servants slaved away, preparing everything from the banquet hall for the over three hundred guests, to making sure the residence was spotlessly clean. Stewards, maids, cooks, and squires acted like they were denizens in a nest of ants. Each one of them had their own particular task.

However, the greatest undertaking was in procuring the food. In order to feed the huge castle’s residents and the guests that often frequented it, a constant party of around forty hunters obtained the necessary game, consisting of river and wild birds and deer.

The live catch was kept in pens close to the kitchen to maintain the freshness of the meat. Presently, the birds were being slaughtered, plucked of their plumage, prepared, and hung in the larder by a small army of kitchen staff.

The quantities of food were massive – two hundred kids and lambs, one hundred calves, two thousand poultry birds, over a thousand hares, four hundred oxen, four hundred pigs and two hundred boars were needed. And when it was Friday, fish in the form of salmon, pike, and perch were fished and transported by the cartload to the prince’s residence.

Spices such as white and Mecca gingers, pepper, cinnamon and grains of paradise, which were of West African origin with properties between cardamom and pepper, were sourced from far and wide. There were nutmeg, cloves, coloring agents and decorative items. Added to this came the practical items such as wheat starch, as well as almonds, rice and candied fruits, pine nuts and dates.

The huge kitchen in the castle was a hive of activity. The servants would work late into the night. Alick and Bruce had seen large sideboards lining the kitchen walls. Some of the prince’s guests that evening had even brought along their own cooks. Restorative and fortifying dishes had to be prepared for those people who suffered from some kind of ague. The logistics and preparations were monumental.

The visitors, domestics and late-night revelers required light. This came in the form of over one hundred torches, fifty pounds of wax candles and one hundred pounds of tallow candles. The storehouse was full to the brim with coal, and more than one thousand cartloads had passed the gatehouse, transporting firewood.

“I have never seen the likes. This prince lives like a king,” said Bruce to his older brother.

“Aye, who’s going to eat all of this food?” responded Alick.

“I will certainly give it a go,” said Mungo, slapping his boys on the back. “I can’t wait to get stuck in. My flaming belly has been rumbling all day because of the aromas wafting out of the kitchen. Some buxom wench threw me out when I tried to nab a meat pie – the dragon.”

“Reminded me of my wife she did,” said Murtagh, joining in the conversation – he knew what he was talking about because his woman worked in Castle Diabaig’s kitchen back home. And she had no scruples in denying her husband access to her culinary domain.

“Well, the prince certainly kept his word,” added Murtagh sadly.

Brice and the others had spent the whole day scouring the prisons of Bordeaux in search of Doogle. The Black Prince had given them full access. However, they had not been fortunate. Doogle was nowhere to be found. They did manage to talk the prince into freeing some fellow countrymen though – in total, there were no more than fourteen men left in captivity after the massacre of Poitiers, and they now formed a part of Brice’s command.

“Do ye suppose he’s dead, Da?” asked Bruce.

Mungo pressed his lips together until they formed an almost straight line. “I dinnae ken, laddie.”

“The both of ye are aff yer heids. Nothing has happened to Doogle. I can feel it in my bones,” said Murtagh with confidence.

“I do hope ye are right, brother,” said Mungo.

“When am I not right, ye great big galoot.”

“Most of the time. But I hope that this time is an exception.” Mungo paced up and down in the main hall of the castle. Around him, servants continued to busy themselves with their tasks.

“What does Brice have planned now?” asked Bruce.

“We’re leaving on the morrow. Brice decided that it would be best to search closer to where the battle was fought. Maybe Doogle took refuge in one of the villages near there,” answered Mungo.

“It would be just like that footering numptie to be sitting in a French tavern quenching his thirst with wine while he makes sweet eyes at the lasses,” said Murtagh.

Mungo stopped his pacing. “Aye, And all the while we are worrying about him. I tell ye – if I find out that he’s been enjoying himself while we’ve been riding across half of France…”

“And not to mention that foul sea crossing we had to endure to get here,” added Murtagh.

“Aye, that was a right nightmare.”

“What are ye two complaining about now?” asked Brice, approaching from his meeting with the prince.

“Da and Murtagh were just about to say what they’d do to Doogle if they caught him sitting in a tavern with a woman,” said Alick with a grin on his face.

Brice laughed. “I hope that is exactly what he is doing.”

He always appreciated Mungo and Murtagh’s ability to put an easy spin on things that were grave. It was men like them that put spirit into soldiers before any battle. And also, they kept up morale with their simplistic and positive view of life. It was left to the likes of Brice and his father to do the worrying. In many respects, Doogle was more like the two burly clansmen than his father or elder brother.

“Where do we head for first?” asked Mungo.

“I suggest we go to the place with the best inns and the most beautiful women,” said Murtagh.

“Aye, the laddie’s bound to be there,” concurred Mungo.

“The prince mentioned a village close to Poitiers.” Brice scrunched his brow. “It’s called Iteuil.”

“Mm, at least we have a destination.” Mungo patted Brice on the shoulder. “Dinnae worry, laddie. We will find yer brother – I ken it.”

“Aye. I ken. Let’s try and enjoy the festivities tonight,” said Brice with little enthusiasm.

“That will be easy. From what I have seen, it is going to be quite a bash,” said Murtagh.

“Enough food and wine for all of us,” concurred Mungo.

“Try not to overindulge, laddies. We need to be well rested for tomorrow’s long ride,” said Brice.

The others grunted their agreement.

“I have never seen the likes before,” said Alick, his mouth agape.

“Aye, the prince certainly lives up to his reputation,” responded Bruce.

It was well known throughout Europe that the Black Prince held a lavish court in Bordeaux. The procession of food emerging from the kitchen was endless. So far, the great feast was meticulously color-coordinated to the last detail. The first course had been in gold and green; produced by saffron, egg yolk, green vegetables, herbs and gold serving dishes.

The second course of ‘bruets’, or almond milk stews, was white, while the third – lampreys in beef gravy – was red. This was followed by a course of German stews cooked with onions and fish in batter in a green sauce, which had to be carefully judged to come out as a bright and festive green, not a sombre dark green.

Decorative pies had supplemented this lavish offering. And still, the gluttonous pageant continued. Roasted boar, poultry of all sorts, kid, lamb, beef, and fish were carried into the hall on huge silver salvers. All of it was doused in rich sauces made in myriad colors. Wine flowed by the barrel and was drunk in copious amounts. Music serenaded the guests throughout.

Between courses, there were dramatic interludes, full of elaborate symbolism, with musicians and members of the party taking part. Everywhere, the tables had been festooned with sumptuous table designs containing stuffed peacocks showing off their fanned plumage. Flowers of all sorts hung from the banister belonging to the gallery up above the hall. Hundreds of candles gave their light, making the space so bright that it seemed that it was daylight.

“Look at that,” said Alick, pointing.

The final course appeared. It was a spectacular four-colored blancmange, in which the colors were sharply defined by cooking the four sections separately. And still, more wine flowed.

“I dinnae think I can move,” said Murtagh, looking slightly ill at ease. He had attacked the lucullan offering with his customary gusto. But even he had his limits.

“I dinnae think I will be able to mount my horse on the morrow. I feel like a stuffed boar,” said Mungo who had been equally as enthusiastic regarding the food and wine.

“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.