---

Château Le Blanc, Kingdom of France, December 1356

---

“That bleedin’ place is nigh impregnable,” said Mungo.

He, Brice, Murtagh, and Doogle hid in the shrubbery close to Château Le Blanc. They had left Alick and Bruce in charge of the rest of the men back at the Duroc farm.

The four men watched in silence, the air from their hot breaths mingled with the cold winter air, creating spiraling white plumes above their heads. No one answered Mungo immediately. Each Highlander was lost in his thoughts. Nothing could be heard apart from the occasional rustle of greenery when a Scotsman moved or Murtagh’s heavy breathing until…

“We would need a small army to get into that place,” said Brice at last.

“Aye, that bastard has sure gotten himself a safe bastion,” concurred Murtagh. He shifted his weight, inviting a slight crunching sound from the frozen foliage beneath him.

He and the others eyed the rectangular castle with four towers that were surrounded by a wide moat. Judging by the activity in and about the structure, it was evident that it was well garrisoned. From a first estimate, Murtagh decided that at least one hundred men formed a part of Jean Philippe’s small army.

They had passed a little village that belonged to the liege lord of these domains during the ride over from Iteuil. It was picturesque, but it was clear that the travails of war and the resulting tax burden had hit the inhabitants hard. Poverty and hardship were everywhere the eye could see. Brice had done his utmost to provide alms to the poor they encountered en route. However, even the son of a laird had limits to the amount of coin he could part with.

“What are we going to do?” asked Doogle. Worry laced his voice.

He could feel Louise’s presence close by; it was painful to know that she was inside the château that was only a short ride away. The helplessness of his predicament burned inside of him like a virus. The mere notion of having her so close to him and yet so far away tore at his insides.

It was the fourth day since the incursion at the Duroc farmstead, and he had not gotten a single night’s sleep since. His mind was plagued by images of Louise and Jean Philippe. He prayed that Murtagh was right and that Jean Philippe, as a coward, would not attempt to have his way with Louise just yet.

But it was such flimsy faith upon which to pin all of his hopes. What if Jean Philippe married Louise the very moment he returned to his château? For all Doogle knew, she was already his wife and the marriage consummated with the union of the flesh.

Would Louise come back to him after that? Would she be able to look Doogle in the eye and still claim that she loved him? He knew that Louise was honorable and God-fearing. He feared that she might accept her destiny and put up with being Jean Philippe’s wife just because it was what God had ordained. He had to know.

“Don’t ye worry, laddie. We will find a way. We always do,” said Mungo, who noticed the worry playing on Doogle’s face.

“The more I think about it, the more I think that Louise is gone for good,” said Doogle.

“Don’t haver, laddie,” added Mungo, meaning that he should not talk nonsense. “We will find a way. Won’t we, Brice?”

Brice looked serious. He did not hold much hope. However, he was not a man to give up easily. “We need to find out as much as we can with regard to Louise. We need to ken whether she is well. Also, we must find out exactly how many soldiers guard that place.”

“Aye. But from what I can see, we will have to deal with more than a hundred men,” said Murtagh.

“We have had worse odds than that before,” said Mungo, shrugging nonchalantly.

His remark prompted the first smile onto Doogle’s face since Louise was forcefully taken from him. Mungo always had a penchant for seeing things with a positive eye.

“All right then. We have seen enough here. I suggest we go back to the village. We might find one of the soldiers from the castle in the tavern. If we ply him with drink, we are sure to find out what we need to ken,” said Brice.

Murtagh and Mungo nodded their approval and started to slither backward through the undergrowth. Doogle remained frozen on the spot. Something told him to wait for a moment longer. He willed his vision to make out anything about the castle that might tell him that the woman he loved was well.

“Doogle, we must go. They might have patrols combing the environ,” said Brice, softly. He placed his hand on his brother’s arm and squeezed it.

“Just a little longer.” Not once did Doogle look away from the château. “Crivens!” he blurted.

“What?” asked Brice.

“It’s Louise – up there, on the battlements,” said Doogle, pointing ahead.

“By God, ye are right.”

Doogle almost cried out in pain. She looked like a lone figure captured in a dark portrait. She did not move a muscle. She just stood there with her hand resting on the crenellation that marked the top of the castle’s walls. Her gaze was for the surrounding land.

She remained still for a little while longer. Then she turned her head and looked right in the direction where Brice and Doogle were hidden. It was as if she sensed their presence. The silk scarf around her neck fluttered in the breeze. Louise was like a beacon of hope for Doogle. Her burgundy red dress that befitted a lady of high rank shone like a jewel in the sunlight that occasionally broke past the steely embrace of the scudding clouds.

“She kens that I am here, Brother;” said Doogle through clenched teeth. “She’s all right – I can feel it. Jean Philippe has not had his way with her. Murtagh was right. But we dinnae have much time. We need to act now.”

“And we will, Doogle. I promise ye. Let’s go back to the village and see what we can find out. After that, we will determine what to do,” said Brice.

Fresh hope and strength washed through Doogle’s person. The mere glimpse of his ladylove infused him with renewed resolve and faith. Even at a distance and parted, Louise gave him what he needed to continue to believe in the good of God. She was what any woman should be to her man, and now it was time for Doogle to step up and be the man she deserved.

Doogle took a final glimpse in the direction of the castle before joining Brice in the scrub. While he crawled, he swore that he would never let despair overtake him again. It was his duty to Louise to fight for as long as possible, to the death even.

A short while later, the four men were mounted on their horses and galloping in the direction of the small village of Le Blanc. As was the case in Iteuil, the inhabitants looked at the newcomers with trepidation and suspicion.

“There it is, laddies,” said Murtagh, indicating to the tavern.

They tethered their horses to the stabling that belonged to the inn and entered the establishment. It was dark inside, and the air was thick with the odor of cooking and wine. A hearth provided warmth against the cold of winter. Brice could not help but notice that the place was far nicer than ‘Le Petit Cochon’ where they had lodged in Paris.

“Quite pleasant this,” said Mungo, looking around.

In the corner of his eye, he saw exactly the man they were looking for. A lone man-at-arms sat at a table. He looked as if he was well into his cups. Mungo furtively flicked his index finger in his direction.

Brice immediately picked up the signal and nodded at his companion. He walked over to the bar and ordered some pitchers of wine and some food. To his surprise, they were serving fresh boar stew. The poverty of the village dwellers did not implicate that they could afford such luxury. Finally, he assumed that it was the coin coming from Jean Philippe’s men that oiled the tavern’s finances.

“Bonjour, ami. Do ye mind if me and my friends sit with ye and offer ye some cups of wine and some food?” asked Brice. “We are new to these parts and far from home.”

The sole patron in the inn grunted something through his beard. He did not seem to care what they did. But the promise of more wine and some food was more than enough incentive to convince him that the company would be appreciated. He slapped his hand on the stool next to him and snorted his acceptance.

Brice and the others sat down. Murtagh poured the wine into the individual cups. The five men sat in silence for a while, nursing their beverages. The drunken man-at-arms was quick to replenish his goblet and continued his drinking without uttering a single word.

It was a complicated situation because Brice did not want to give away their Scottish identity because most probably the news had spread that men from the Highlands were looking for Louise. They had donned French peasant’s clothing for this occasion. Also, Murtagh and Mungo had to remain silent because they did not speak French. Only Doogle and Brice were proficient enough to appear French, and even with their accents – if that raised suspicion, they could always claim to be from another part of the country – very few people traveled far from home in this period.

When the food arrived a short while later, the stranger attacked the bowl with relish, dipping his spoon and the bread into it with the gusto of a man who had not eaten a meal in days. The Highlanders were equally as enthusiastic – the food was excellent.

“C’est bon, eh?” asked Brice of their new companion.

“Oui, c’est bon.” The stranger grunted and did not offer any opening for the conversation to continue. Instead, he redirected his full attention to his meal, alternating his eating with large swigs of the wine.

Brice watched the man-at-arms. He was a bulky person with broad shoulders. He was a short, stout man who almost appeared as tall as he was wide. His hair was dark and graying in places. Brice estimated that he was in his late thirties.

“Were ye at the Battle of Poitiers?” asked Brice in French.

For the first time, the man looked away from his food. He studied Brice for a moment. He picked his teeth, ridding them of the flesh that had gotten caught between them.

“Oui, I was there.”

“So was I. It was a bloodbath,” lied Brice. He knew what there was to know about the battle from his brother and Mungo’s sons.

“Oui – c’est vrai. The bastard English hid behind the archers like they always do. But they fought like demons from hell when we met them in close combat.” The man-at-arms took another hearty slug from his goblet and released a cavernous burp.

“Ye were in the front line?” asked Brice.

The man shook his head and grunted in disgust, almost spitting the contents in his mouth onto the table. “I never had the chance because I was ordered to retreat by the present baron.”

Brice pleated his brow. “Ye mean Jean Philippe?”

The man looked surprised. “You know him?”

“No, not personally.”

“But you call him by his first name. To most, he is the Baron Le Blanc. The bastard recently inherited the title from his father who died along with his sons during the battle.” The soldier drained his cup. “I should have been there and died with them. I live in shame now.”

Something dawned on Brice. This man did not appreciate his new liege lord. He needed to know more. It was quite possible that he may be the key they were looking for to get into the castle.

“Why did the present baron not join the battle with his father?” he asked.

The soldier regarded Brice closely. “What is it to you?”

Brice shrugged. “I have heard some bad things about him, that is all. I thought that ye might be able to shed some light on the situation.”

“Oui, I can do that if you arrange for another jug of wine. I need something to dull my shame. I live while my comrades and the true baron are dead. And now I have to genuflect to a coward who abducts women at Château Le Blanc.” The last words were almost vomited from his mouth.

Brice raised the pitcher. Mungo and Murtagh immediately picked up on the cue and got up and walked over to the bar. Doogle could not believe his ears. The man just admitted that a captured woman was held in the castle and he did not like it one bit. It took all of his self-control not to break his cover.

The moment more wine was presented to the Frenchman, he refilled his cup and drained it in one, immediately refilling it again and repeating the process. Brice needed to act fast before he was too well past it to continue the conversation.

“That day, the true Baron Le Blanc advanced with the king and his son. Jean Philippe was in the back of the troop with his most trusted cronies. They did their utmost not to move quickly – the cowards,” said the Frenchman at last. It was obvious that he had harbored the shame alone for too long; he needed to put voice to his infamy.

“What happened next?” asked Doogle, speaking for the first time since entering the tavern.

“The moment the first men fled, Jean Philippe retreated with them. I did my best to try and persuade him that it was our duty to protect the baron, but he just said that he would not die that day and that the battle was already lost.”

“What did ye do?” asked Brice.

“I attempted to move forward. It was impossible. Then, Jean Philippe gave me the order to withdraw and his henchman, Gaston, made his point with the tip of his sword. I should have fought back, but it was hopeless. The French army was already routing by then, and there were rumors that the king had been captured.”

“I am sorry for ye. Ye are not to blame. Ye tried to do the honorable thing,” said Brice.

“Hah, trying is not succeeding. As you can see, I am still alive when I should be a rotting corpse.” His ignominy forced him to refill his goblet yet again.

“What is yer name, friend?” Brice placed his hand on the other man’s arm.

“Why would you want to know the name of a coward?”

“Because I have a way for ye to redeem yer honor,” replied Brice. He had played his card. All that was needed was for the man-at-arms to take the bait.

“Antoine.” He held out his hand, looking hopeful. But the air of suspicion still lingered on his face.

“I am Brice.”

Antoine frowned. “That is a peculiar name.”

“Not where I am from.” Brice took a deep breath. “I am from Scotland, and we are looking for someone – a woman to be exact.”

His comment piqued Antoine’s interest. “So, you are the ones he stole her from I presume?”

Brice nodded. “Aye. This man is my brother, Doogle. He is her betrothed.”

Antoine slapped his hand on the table in disgust. “Now, he has gone too far. First, he shirks his duty to save his own skin, and then he takes another man’s woman. Is there no end to his disgrace?”

“There will be if ye help us free Louise,” said Doogle.

“Aye,” concurred Mungo. He had picked up enough of the discussion to understand that the Frenchman was on the hook.

“What do you need me to do?” asked Antoine after a few heartbeats.

“We need to ken whether the lassie is all right,” replied Brice.

“He treats her well. She is dressed like a lady. But he keeps her locked up in her chambers for most of the day. Rumor has it that the baron plans to marry her before Christmas.”

Doogle’s heart almost stopped beating. “Do ye ken when exactly?”

Antoine shook his head. “Non. But I can get a message to her. The woman that looks after her needs is my wife. She will do what I ask.”

“Tell her that I am coming for her soon.” Doogle snarled.

“How many men do you have? Château Le Blanc is well guarded. The coward has hired more men since he became the baron,” said Antoine.

For the first time since they had met him, Antoine was not drinking. It seemed as if the haze of his stupor had lifted at the mere mention of crossing his liege lord.

“There are close to twenty of us,” said Brice.

Antoine hacked out a laugh. “That is not enough. Even if you do manage to get past the sentries and into the château, you will never get out alive. The baron has the woman constantly under watch.”

Brice smiled. “I think I have an idea, but we have to act now. Antoine, from what I hear, you share no love for this baron…”

“Oui, that is so,” spat Antoine.

“Are ye willing to help us free the woman and reunite her with her betrothed?” asked Brice.

Antoine thought for a moment before he dipped his head. “Oui – I would do that. I have lost my self-respect because of that craven scum. But you have to promise me one thing.”

“What’s that?”

“That you will kill the baron,” replied Antoine with venom in his voice.

Doogle grinned at him. “I like the sound of that. It appears we share a common goal, mon ami.”

Antoine lifted his cup. “To the death of the Baron,” he whispered.

“I’ll drink to that,” said Doogle.

“So will I,” concurred both Mungo and Murtagh, their understanding of French improving by the minute.

“All we need now is for my plan to work,” said Brice, bringing his goblet to the center of the table.

“Tell me all aboot it, laddie,” said Mungo after they had drunk.