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Nouallie, south of Poitiers, September 1356

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“Here we are facing our old foe again,” said Doogle.

The son of Laird Alastair Macleod looked at the neatly arrayed English army across the plain. “Yer father would go all doo-lally if he knew how many of the blighters we are facing today.”

Bruce and his brother, Alick, who stood close by, snorted their agreement.

“Aye, he would pop an eyeball. He wouldn’t miss something like this for the world,” said Bruce, the younger of Mungo’s two stepsons.

Mungo was one of the fiercest clansmen in the Clan Macleod. Along with Murtagh, another warrior and his best friend, he was Doogle’s father’s most trusted advisor. He was a lion in battle, and like the others, a legend in the Highlands.

Mungo had adopted Bruce and Alick when he had married their mother, Freya, many years ago when they were still young lads. Their real father had died a prisoner at Chillingham Castle in Northern England. However, the two men, now in their thirties, regarded Mungo as their father. He had molded them in his image, making them true clansmen of the Clan Macleod.

Doogle, too, was like a son to Mungo and his friend Murtagh. They had fought side by side at the Battle of Neville’s Cross against the English ten years earlier. It was Doogle’s induction into battle. He had fought bravely, and like both Alick and Bruce, he had earned the respect of the elder clansmen.

“I think Da is past it though,” said Bruce with a frown.

He promptly received a thwack to the back of his head from his brother.

“Do ye think at close to sixty that our father could not give those Sassenachs a good hiding, eh? He is still as strong as an oak.” Alick sniggered. “If I remember correctly, Da threw ye into the loch back at Diabaig when ye last sparred – said ye were a right dobber for lowering yer guard.”

Doogle and Alick hooted out laughter when they saw the chastened expression on Bruce’s face. It was true. Only Alastair, possibly Murtagh, and as of late, Doogle, could best the aging Mungo – and that was only if the stars were aligned the right way.

“Aye, who has not heard of the great Mungo and Murtagh and Laird Alastair for that matter. I wish I’d had the chance to fight alongside such men,” said another man.

It was William Douglas, 1^st Earl of Douglas, the man in charge of the Scottish contingent in the French army. The slightly older man was as tall as Doogle but not nearly as beefy in stature. A true patriot and a warrior, he showed such loyalty to the Scottish king that he had arranged safe conduct through English lands to visit him in exile before coming to France to fight in this war. Since the capture of the Scottish King David, the only way to keep the war against the English going was to join forces with their French allies.

“My Laird, ye do us great honor with yer words,” said Doogle.

“They are well deserved.” Douglas inclined his head slightly to Doogle. He had a big liking for the young Scot who was a few years shy of thirty. The man was like an oak, thickset and unyielding. He wished he had more such men in his host.

“So, laddies! What do ye think?” he asked, pointing at the English lines.

“The stupid tally-washers have the forest to their back. There is no escape for them when their army routs,” said Alick, with confidence fortifying his voice.

“Aye. And we outnumber them almost two to one. Also, they have only four thousand infantry to our eleven,” added Bruce. He was the softer looking of the two brothers. Instead of hard chisel, his face was smoother and more youthful in appearance.

“Laddies, ye have forgotten their bastard longbowmen. Ye must still remember what the blighters did to us at the battles of Halidon Hill and to the French at Crécy.”

“I was but a wee laddie back then, and I was not about at Crécy,” said Alick.

“Don’t be a walloper. Ye ken exactly what I mean. The English can annihilate entire armies with their arrows. They have done so on numerous occasions,” said Doogle. By now the expression on his face was a feral scowl. It somehow pronounced his fiery red hair.

“Doogle is right,” intervened Douglas. “But where are they?” His gaze scanned the slight elevation where the English army stood in readiness.

“I’d wager that the Black Prince has them hidden behind that big hedge right behind his infantry,” said Bruce.

Douglas frowned as he continued to scan the lay of the land. “What do ye think, Doogle?”

“I agree with Bruce. It is the best place to conceal them. Edward wants us to feel at ease when we attack.”

“Mm – I see what you are implying. Would ye recommend I tell the king that we remain here so as to lure the English to our side of the battleground?”

“No, my Laird. Their bowmen would only advance and harry us like they did at Neville’s Cross. King David ordered a hasty charge that lost us the battle once their arrows started whittling away our men.”

“That and when those two vile traitors, the Earl of March and Robert Stewart, did not send their troops in support and fled the field instead – those two cost us the victory.” Alick snarled. He brushed his golden blond hair from his face. It was the same color as his mother’s and younger brother.

“Aye,” said the other three men in unison.

It was a harsh day for Scotland. Doogle’s father and his oldest brother, Brice, had been captured that day and taken to England as prisoners. However, fortune had smiled on these two members of the Clan Macleod. King Edward the Third and his son had grown fond of Alastair and Brice. After a joust, Brice had won their freedom, allowing for them to return to Scotland.

“I am going to recommend to King John that we leave the horses and advance on foot,” said Douglas with conviction.

“That is wise, my Laird. English arrows would only kill and maim the animals,” said Doogle.

“It is decided then, laddies. Now all that remains is to find out if the King of France is willing to do battle today,” said Douglas, twirling on his heels and marching off in the direction of the command post.

“Aye, I hope he is no dithering fool. Our allies have not been doing particularly well since the English started this war,” whispered Doogle. He scanned the neatly arrayed Frenchmen behind him.

They were a fine sight. Almost every nobleman in the kingdom had joined his king’s army. Their accouterments and armor shone like jewels in the weak sunlight. The banners belonging to their houses flapped in the light breeze. In terms of appearance, they outshone the English with their mere presence. But was it enough?

The English army was made up of true veterans from the Battle of Crécy. Also, the feared longbowmen were not of aristocratic stock. They had obtained their position due to only their skill, which could take more than ten years to acquire. Doogle knew that it took great strength and training to pull the string of a bow. It was something that the English and Welshmen learned from a young age, inuring the muscles in their neck, back and arms until they could release at a rate of six arrows a minute (this was the pace that did not overly tire the man).

“That Black Prince is a clever one,” said Alick.

“Aye. I just wish King Jean had not left nearly twenty thousand of his soldiers back at Chartres. We could use them to be certain of victory,” said Bruce.

“But they were of lesser quality. And besides, with such a large army we would never have caught up with the English,” said Doogle. “Now we got them before they could fortify their position in Bordeaux.”

The two others grunted their agreement.

“I still do not like it. The Black Prince is waiting for us like a spider,” added Doogle, stroking his long red beard.

“Look! They approach,” shouted a Scotsman further down the line.

“They aim to negotiate,” said Doogle.

“Aye, maybe they do not feel so confident after all,” said Alick.

“What do ye think the King of France will do?” asked Bruce.

“He will see it as weakness on the English’s part. There is to be a battle, that’s for sure, laddies,” said Doogle.