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Château Le Blanc, Kingdom of France, December 1356

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“Doogle, why must you do this? We have just been reunited, and now you want to put your life at risk,” complained Louise.

Doogle stroked her cheek. They were in a tent set up outside of the castle. The Prince of Wales had ordered the establishment of a camp for the night. The duel between Jean Philippe and Doogle would take place before the onset of dusk.

It would be a fight to the death.

“Ye ken why, lassie. That man cannot go unpunished. He dishonored ye and me,” said Doogle.

“He is a coward. He will do everything in his power to cheat. What if something happens to you?” wailed Louise.

She looked frightened, and Doogle understood why. Although he was a formidable fighter, sneaky rats like Jean Philippe had an innate penchant for survival.

“I will be all right, lass. Mungo and Murtagh taught me how to fight since I was but a wee laddie.”

Louise was still not convinced. “I have seen firsthand how Jean Philippe operates. It wouldn’t surprise me if he reverted to adding poison to his blade or having Gaston stick it to you from behind when you’re not paying attention. Men like Jean Philippe do not care about honor. Survival is the only primal instinct that governs such men and they will do anything for it.”

She paused before continuing on.

“I know that you can beat him, my love. I just don’t want to see you hurt.”

“It’s time, laddie,” said Mungo, stepping into the spacious tent that the Black Prince had put at the young couple’s disposal.

Murtagh whistled when he entered shortly afterward.

“The two of ye are living like royalty. Ye should see my tent; it’s as small as a hat.” He took in his sumptuous surroundings that had everything from ornate furniture to two campaign cots. He walked up to a table and poured himself a hearty dram of wine. He raised the silver goblet. “To ye giving that sneaky bastard a right thrashing.”

“Aye,” Mungo chimed in.

He too poured himself some wine and held up the drinking vessel.

“Can the two of you at least look a little concerned about my betrothed’s well-being,” chided Louise.

Mungo shrugged as he swilled his wine and smacked his lips contently. “What is there to worry aboot, lassie?”

“Aye, we trained him ourselves. He learned what not to do from Mungo’s inferior fighting style and what to do from me,” said Murtagh, chuckling when he received a slap to the back from Mungo.

“That numptie couldn’t organize a bucket of piss in a tannery let alone train the lad. Everything the laddie kens is thanks to me,” said Mungo.

Mungo and Murtagh continued exchanging insults.

Louise was visibly infuriated by how they could be so cavalier about the entire situation.

“Doogle is about to face the man who has been my nemesis, for as long as I can remember, in open combat with the sword. The man I love could die,” she shouted.

The two Highlanders stopped their good-hearted banter and turned to face her.

“Ye must never say that, Louise,” said Mungo sternly.

“Aye, it puts the pox on a fight,” agreed Murtagh.

“Doogle will win because he is fighting for the woman who is to be his wife. And when he is done, we will all return to Diabaig. It is aboot time ye met the laird and lady,” said Mungo.

“What about Maman and Papa?” asked Louise.

“They can come with us. We have need of such people back home,” replied Mungo.

Aye,” concurred Murtagh.

Doogle started laughing. “Well done, brothers. Ye have taken the heat out of the situation. Now, before we continue discussing domestic arrangements, can I go and stick it to that French walloper?”

“What is keeping ye, Brother?” asked Brice, stepping into the tent.

“My beloved betrothed just had her first disagreement with those two,” replied Doogle, pointing at Mungo and Murtagh.

Brice hacked out a laugh. “It was bound to happen. Those two are always interfering. But enough aboot that. The king and the prince are waiting.” He lifted the flap at the front of the tent, indicating that it was time to leave.

Doogle gave Louise a fond look before following Mungo and Murtagh out of the tent.

“Ye must not worry, Louise. I have fought alongside my brother on many occasions. He is a great warrior. And in many respects, he is better than the men who trained him,” said Brice.

Louise just nodded.

“Come or would you rather not attend the duel?”

“Non! I will be there. Doogle needs all the support he can get. I would never let him face death alone,” said Louise with conviction.

“Spoken like a true lass from the Highlands. Now, come. We do not want to keep a king and a prince waiting,” said Brice who still held the flap.

Brice gave Louise confidence. He would one day make a fine laird of the clan. He had such authority over older men like Mungo and Murtagh.

“You know, Brice, the more time I spend with Doogle’s people, the more I want to meet the women. I am certain that they are strong ladies to be able to deal with such headstrong men.”

“Aye, that they are,” Brice concurred.

---

“I thought you weren’t going to show up,” said the Prince of Wales when they reached the royal enclosure that had been set up for the purpose of the duel.

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world, Your Royal Highness,” said Doogle.

He cast a look to the other side of the fighting ground that was enclosed by hundreds of the prince’s and Jean Philippe’s men. His gaze immediately found his opponent – he stood with Gaston who had regained consciousness. Searing hatred was evident in Brice’s eyes. The sentiment would hold him in good stead when the time came for the fight.

“Good! I suggest we get this thing started.” The prince turned his head to face Louise. “Mademoiselle, you would do me a great honor if you sat with me,” he said in French.

Louise curtseyed. It was how Father Mortimer had taught her to behave in the presence of royalty. She just never thought that the day would come when she would actually stand in the presence of the son of a king “Thank you, Your Royal Highness. That would give me great comfort.”

The prince dipped his head. “I will look after your very charming betrothed until the fight is over, Doogle. But before we go, I suggest you, Louise, give your man your colors.”

Louise frowned. “My colors, Your Highness?”

The prince pointed to the green silk scarf that hung about her neck. “That would do nicely.”

Louise finally understood his meaning. She took a few steps and tied the scarf around Doogle’s arm. “Come back to me, mon amour.”

“I will, lassie. I promise,” said Doogle, kissing her.

“Doogle, please join the king and me,” said the prince.

When Louise made to follow, the prince shook his head.

“You must remain here.” He did not wait for a response. He walked off with the King of France and Doogle following in his wake. A troop of ten soldiers accompanied them.

Louise watched them reach the center of the fighting area. Jean Philippe also converged on the other men with Gaston walking beside him. A surge of relief coursed through her when one of the prince’s men-at-arms removed the sword and knife on Jean Philippe’s person. The two antagonists were handed swords and knives that had been approved by the prince.

“This fight is to the death…” announced the King of France.

A loud murmur eddied over the assembled men. The sound gave the proceedings an eerie feel. Louise felt a shiver of trepidation slide down her spine. Soon, the man she loved would be engaged in a fight for his life. A part of her wished that Alianor was with her just in case he was wounded. Having the old crone’s healing skills close at hand would’ve made her feel a lot more at ease.

“This man’s honor was besmirched when the baron took his betrothed from him in an attempt to make her his own,” continued the king.

Louise barely heard the words. Her heart hammered in her chest like a piston bellows. To her chagrin, the king’s opening speech did not last long – the fight was about to begin.

She watched the king and the prince in the company of their escort take a few steps back until they were a safe distance from Doogle and Jean Philippe. The king lifted his arm. He held a white silk cloth in his hand. It fluttered in the wind for a few moments.

Then without another word, the king dropped it.

While Jean Philippe was slim and wiry, his adversary was a mountain of steel and muscle. Not a gram of fat bedecked his body despite his bulk. He had wily blue eyes that darted from left to right. The Highlander was already casing the area for possible avenues into which he could trap him.

Jean Philippe immediately knew that he was in the presence of a seasoned fighter. He had trained for such a moment all of his life since becoming his father’s squire. He had seen men face off in combat. He had the skill. His only weakness was that he was a coward. Men who feared for their lives did not have the same chances because they could not channel that fear.

Men like Doogle also experienced fear, but instead of trying to assuage it, they rode it like a wave. They used the sentiment to their advantage. Fear was a fighter’s greatest asset. Men who did not fear for their lives invariably succumbed to death because they made mistakes. A man who could control his fear and use it as a weapon almost always came out on top.

However, the spineless had one thing up their sleeve. They were unpredictable. And like a cornered animal, they could surprise even when death looked them in the eye. But Doogle had the measure of Jean Philippe. He had seen his way back at the Duroc farm when he had kidnapped Louise. All he had to do was pressure him enough until he broke.

Doogle took a step forward. His antagonist sneered back at him. What he saw was lethal determination in the other man’s eyes. There was no emotion, just intent and the will to win.

Jean Philippe grinned a crooked smile, hiding his fear like a trained coward. He nodded curtly, indicating that the bout was about to begin. Opposite him, Doogle pressed his lips tighter as he sought out a way to get past the impenetrable wall that was his opponent.

“So, let us get this over with. I want to enjoy my betrothed’s naked body some more,” said Jean Philippe, sneering.

Doogle bit down on his lip. The jibe almost worked. It took all of his efforts not to charge the other man. It was what Jean Philippe wanted.

The two men continued to circle each other for a while longer, neither one of them wanting to make the first move. Then, without warning, Jean Philippe came at Doogle with lightning speed. It surprised him. He never expected that the Frenchman had the courage to start things off.

Doogle’s riposte was perfect, just like Mungo and Murtagh had taught him. But the force of the French aristocrat’s first strike jarred his arm all the way up to his shoulder. Jean Philippe’s strength was extraordinary. He attacked four more times before taking a few steps back.

Jean Philippe smiled evilly. His dark eyes felt like they were boring into the clansman’s like daggers.

“Had enough, you Scottish dog?”

“I haven’t even started.” Doogle grunted. By now, his arm had recovered from the Frenchman’s surprise attack.

The baron sneered back at him. “The night I had Gaston rip off Louise’s clothing, I realized why you are so infatuated with her. She is like a ripe peach. Her flesh is soft and the secret place between her legs…”

The crude invitation worked. This time Doogle was the one who attacked first. However, the skill in which the baron defended himself made him swallow deeply. His opponent was not even out of breath. He danced on his feet like a prancing dryad. He fought well and with confidence for a coward. Doogle started to doubt whether Jean Philippe was in fact craven. Maybe he had underestimated him.

There was a loud, hissing intake of air from both Mungo and Murtagh.

“Crivens, the laddie bleeds; he’s finished if he can’t end it soon,” muttered Mungo with concern etched on his features.

He looked guilty when he saw the worried expression on Louise’s face. She stared right at him. She had heard every word.

In his fighting fever, Doogle had not noticed that the baron’s sword had sliced a deep gash across his torso.

“You are bleeding,” said Jean Philippe, smiling. His brownish teeth glinted at Doogle in the weakening sunlight.

Seeing the blood soak his plaid, Doogle at last felt stinging pain. He had to force back the pain that threatened to overwhelm him. He looked in the direction of his fellow clansmen and saw the pleading in their eyes.

His gaze then rested on Louise. Her lower lip was trembling.

When he saw the fierce determination in Mungo and Murtagh’s eyes, he steeled himself, drawing strength from the Highlanders’ formidable force of will. But it was the look of fortitude reflected on his brother’s face that convinced him that he was fighting for a good cause.

Love was the most powerful emotion known to man and woman. He had seen its force work its magic when he watched how his parents interacted. He had seen the same thing with Skye and Brice. Also, Callum and Effemy displayed that force of love, which he shared with Louise. He had to win this fight if he ever wanted to experience the full power of a woman’s love.

“This is not over yet. This’ll only be another scratch. A small reminder of the day I killed the man who hurt the woman I love. You won’t be so haughty when I have ye lying on yer back with my sword in yer gut.” Doogle hissed.

“You have to win first.” But Jean Philippe could not conceal a flicker of fear from materializing on his face.

It was all Doogle needed.

In a flash, it happened. Fast as a mamba, Doogle threw all he had at the baron without showing any sign that the loss of blood had weakened him. Jean Philippe could barely see his blade as it clashed with his opponent’s. He reacted instinctively, time seemed to slow down, and suddenly as if in slow motion, he saw an opening and butted the other man on the head.

Surprised and dazed, Doogle cried out in pain, instinctively taking a step back. But he left the baron no time to recover; he moved forward with speed and youthful agility. Stunned, all Jean Philippe could do was trust his instincts. His defense, although uncoordinated, was efficient and the bout ended with yet another gash. This one too on Doogle’s person.

He grinned when he saw the flow of blood sliding down Doogle’s arm, dropping onto the grass. He realized that although the Highlander outmatched him when it came to brute strength, he was faster. He had to use his superior speed to his advantage.

“As a noble of the realm, I will ask the king for Louise’s hand in marriage. He will grant my request because he will see your death as a sign from God that she is mine,” said Jean Philippe, circling and always making sure that the distance between him and the Scotsman was maintained.

Time seemed to come to a standstill for Doogle. He saw everything clearly on his enemy’s face – each pore, hair, and scar. The sound of the murmuring soldiers all around him was blotted out. His entire focus was on Jean Philippe. However, the Frenchman left nothing to chance. His poise and the manner in which he held his weapon was perfect – the result of countless hours of training.

Jean Philippe came again in a blur of steel and flesh, as he hammered onto Doogle’s sword, attempting to break him. This onslaught forced him back a few paces until he halted the attack with his superior strength. Their swords were locked together in a deathly grip; the lover’s dance, twirling in circles when swordsmen clashed.

“Go on, laddie. Ye can beat that sneaky bastard,” shouted Mungo from the stands.

“Aye. Ye ‘ave what it takes. There’s a tankard of wine waiting for ye when ye are done with him,” yelled Murtagh, adding his support.

Brice did not say a word. He saw that his brother was weakening. His movements were becoming less coordinated. If the fight lasted for much longer, his brother might lose his life. For a heartbeat, he closed his eyes and whispered a silent prayer.

“The salvation of the righteous is from the Lord; he is their refuge in the time of trouble.”

Brice repeated the words again and again. When he opened his eyes, he saw the Highlander and the French baron circling each other again like predators.

Jean Philippe had never felt more confident about a fight in his life. He could see the strain on Doogle’s face, betraying the younger man’s fatigue. He also assumed that he had none of the endurance of a hardened veteran – he was wrong; Doogle had fought in many battles.

With his eyes fixed like rapiers, he launched his next attack. One, two and three large steps were all he needed. In moments, he was upon the Highlander with the full force of his momentum.

“You are going down now.” Jean Philippe snarled, slamming his blade onto Doogle’s.

He forced the clansman to the limits of the fighting ground. The soldiers lining the boundary pushed Doogle back, forcing him to stumble and fall to the ground. He immediately rolled onto his back.

The baron immediately stopped his attack and gloated, “Say your prayers, boy. Tonight, I will be in the arms of the woman I love. And tomorrow she will be my wife.”

Jean Philippe moved his blade toward Doogle’s neck in an attempt to make his point. He was so certain in his victory that he, for a heartbeat, let his gaze wander around the fighting ground to the disappointed faces all around him.

It was all Doogle needed.

With athletic agility, he jumped onto his feet, and in a crouching motion, sliced his blade into his baron’s thigh. The man yelled in consternated pain as blood seeped through the rip in his breeches and down his leg. Doogle gave him no respite as he came at him with whirlwind ferocity, forcing the upstart knight back the entire length of the space he’d only recently gained.

With one last thrust of his blade, Doogle forced him onto his back. A loud shout of jubilation erupted from the men. Thinking he’d won, he beamed at Murtagh and Mungo. His gaze then quickly sought out Louise who held her hand to her mouth.

Doogle frowned when he saw more worry appear on her face. He turned his head, but he was not quick enough.

Jean Philippe kicked the exhausted young man’s legs from under him, knocking him onto the ground. Within moments, he was on top of him and pressing his sword onto his neck.

Doogle barely managed to roll away in time. He quickly stumbled to his feet and took a few steps back. The pain in his abdomen and arm pulsed. He felt dizzy because of the loss of blood. He knew the baron had no such ailments. The gash he had given him was superficial. Not enough to slow him down.

“Yield!” Jean Philippe hissed. “It is over. There is no shame in dying at the hand of a superior swordsman.”

Doogle struggled; he looked to the left and right but his opponent left no opening for him to take advantage of. His vision was clouded by his mortal enemy’s feral visage. He had to gather what was left of his strength and make one final effort. He could not die now. He had only recently gotten Louise back.

Thoughts of what might happen if he died tried to usurp his concentration – he did not have time. Jean Philippe’s sword came at him in a blur of shining steel.

Doogle’s great speed and agility saved him from the first and the three hacks that followed that might have severed the limbs of a lesser combatant. Jean Philippe’s blade slithered forth like an attacking snake. He still had the upper hand because his wounds were superficial.

However, all it would take was one telling stroke on Doogle’s part, and it would all be over. But the longer the fight lasted played more and more into the baron’s hands. He knew exactly what he was doing. A few scratches would not slow him down, especially when he was fighting for his life.

Doogle’s fear had entered into that place where it could be tapped for acuity and skill but contained all of its weaker emotions that made a man’s belly and legs turn to water. He saw everything clearly: the baron’s every scar, the hair follicles on his face, and beyond, the serious expression on his brother’s face and the worry etched onto Louise’s features.

The sword hissed past Doogle’s ear, nearly slicing it off in the process. He moved forward, drawing his opponent into the fighter’s dance, the place and time when swords became locked as one and faces almost joined like in a lover’s embrace.

“Ye are going to pay for what ye did to Louise.” Doogle growled.

The baron guffawed. “You overestimate your position, boy. It is you who will pay with your life and the knowledge that I will be plowing your woman.”

Doogle did not respond. The swordsmen’s dance continued as they pirouetted with their blades held in a vice. Doogle felt the baron’s resolve weakening.

“I will kill you now.” The baron hissed.

But Doogle just smiled back at him with feral intent. He saw that his opponent was weakening – fear had crept onto his face.

“Ye talk too much. Time to end this with yer arse on the ground.”

It was what Doogle had been taught to do. Heap negativity on your opponent to sap his energy and courage – all great fighters did it; the trick was not to fall for it yourself

With a savage cry, Doogle pushed his arm forward, bringing the swords closer to the baron’s person. At the same time, he punched him in the face with his free hand. Doogle heard the baron’s nose crunch. He yelled in pain, staggering away from the Highlander while he held his nose with his left hand.

Blood streamed down Jean Philippe’s face and dropped from his chin. Doogle gave him no chance to recompose himself. He attacked once more. However, the baron’s ripostes were lackluster and weak.

With a vicious blow, Doogle knocked the baron’s sword from his hand and kicked him in the belly. The air hissed out of Jean Philippe’s mouth as he fell. In seconds, the Highlander pressed the tip of his sword to his enemy’s exposed throat.

To his surprise, Jean Philippe started crying. He started to beg for his life. It surprised Doogle that the men that were the least deserving of clemency were always the men that begged for it the hardest. He hesitated. Due to exhaustion, his sword arm began to shake.

“It is time, Doogle. You fought well and have saved your honor and that of your betrothed,” said the Black Prince who had walked up to where the fighters were.

“Finish him, Brother,” said Brice who stood next to the prince.

“Aye, the tallywasher deserves to die,” said Mungo.

Doogle did not hear any of the words. He just glowered at the sniveling wretch lying at his feet. When he felt a hand slip into his, he looked to the left. It was Louise. She appeared as frail as a newborn babe. Her complexion was deathly white and her expression serious as she looked at her former tormentor.

It was then that Doogle knew what he had to do. He had survived the Battle of Poitiers, he was reunited with his brother and his friends, and he had the woman of his dreams standing next to him. Soon, he would return home to the Highlands – Doogle would not besmirch his honor by killing a helpless man, no matter how vile and deceitful he was.

“The wretch shall live in shame for the rest of his life. I will not dishonor my clan and my betrothed by murdering a helpless man,” he announced.

He pulled back the sword and stuck it into the grass next to Jean Philippe’s head, making him wail even louder in fright. He turned his head to look Louise in the eye.

“Your colors, my love,” Doogle said, untying the scarf she had given him before the fight.

Louise took it. She stroked the silky fabric for a few moments as if reliving each excruciating second of the bout. The dried blood on the cloth retold the story of how her man had nearly died. “Merci, Dieu!”

She thanked God and let Doogle guide her in the direction of the encampment.

They walked in silence, each of them grateful for the other.