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Aquitaine, December 1356

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“Laddie, not so fast. There may be sentries here aboots,” said Mungo to Bruce.

“Sorry, Da. I am just eager to get revenge for what they did to Louise.”

“Ye will, laddie. But there is no need for ye to alert the entire camp while ye are doing so.” Mungo grinned into his beard. His stepson’s enthusiasm was a tonic to his fatherly pride.

A force of about twenty Highlanders moved past the trees and other foliage that surrounded Jean Philippe’s campsite. They could already see the fires burning. The enemy was completely unaware that they were being watched. They ate and drank contently.

Doogle was in the rear with Louise. Gaston was still out cold, but they had gagged him just in case he came to – presently, his limp body hung over Doogle’s shoulder. It was as if he didn’t weigh a thing.

“I still think that your brother should’ve waited for more men from the prince,” said Louise.

“No! That would’ve given them too much time to escape. It has to be now,” said Doogle.

“But they will stay the night here.”

“Aye, that’s what it looks like. But if they leave at daybreak on the morrow, we would have trouble keeping up with them. And also they would be prepared for us.”

“Could the two of ye discuss the merits of our strategy when this is all over,” chided Brice.

Doogle did not respond. He shook his head at Louise who wanted to protest. She pressed her lips together. Brice was the undisputed leader of the group. In essence, he was his father’s mouthpiece when he wasn’t around.

“All right, laddies. Mungo, I want ye to go with yer sons to the other side of the camp. Take three men with ye,” ordered Brice in a tempered tone.

“Aye.” Mungo nodded at his sons and indicated to the three clansmen closest to him that they follow.

The small group moved without a sound. They were like wraiths as the night swallowed them whole.

“Murtagh, ye go round the other flank. Take five men with ye,” said Brice.

“What are ye going to do?” asked Murtagh.

“I will lead the frontal assault with the rest of the men,” responded Brice.

“So, all the glory for ye.” Murtagh chuckled.

Murtagh picked the warriors for his party and disappeared into the night in the same manner his comrade had.

Brice waited until he was certain that both Mungo and Murtagh had reached their staging positions. It was deathly silent apart from the low murmur of men’s voices and the crackling of fires beyond the concealment of the tree line. The enemy would not know what hit them until it was too late – that was the plan at least.

“We go now,” commanded Brice.

In a low crouch, he jogged toward the camp. The remainder of the clansmen followed him. They had removed any items on their person that may make a sound. They resembled ghostly shadows moving past the trees. Only the crunch of their feet on the hoary ground could be heard as they advanced.

Doogle and Louise came last. He did not want his bride to be in the thick of things. He felt Louise tighten her grip on his hand. It warmed his heart that she sought such comfort in his presence. He knew that it was time to rid her of the curse of which Alianor had warned them. After tonight, it would be over no matter the outcome.

Brice was the first to change his pace from a steady jog into a run, and ultimately breaking out into a sprint. He was the fastest man in the clan. Also, his speed and ability with the sword were unsurpassed by any man except maybe his father.

His brother, Callum, was not a fighter – he was the scholar and the brainy one in the clan. Doogle was like Mungo and Murtagh – sheer brute force, deadly, barbaric and brutal when their blood was up.

In the vanguard, Brice was upon the first French mercenary in moments. The men facing the blackness beyond the camp had no time to utter a sound – one moment they faced darkness, and the very next, a Highlander armed with a claymore was upon them.

Brice dispatched the first man with a lightning-fast hack to the neck, almost severing the head from the body. In moments, Brice spun on his feet and stabbed into the next man. His blade slid out of the gurgling soldier’s chest without much suction. The remaining two mercenaries received the same efficient treatment – their bodies slumping forward onto the burning fire. Brice had already taken care of four men in a shorter time than it takes a person to blink an eye.

A feral shout erupted from the other side of the campsite. It was Mungo who ran along with his sons and the other Highlanders in a wedge formation. With Mungo at the tip, they plowed into the unsuspecting mercenaries by another fire. The fight was won before it had even started.

By now, the enemy started to organize themselves. Murtagh encountered more resistance thanks to Mungo’s savage announcement. He muttered under his beard that he would give his comrade a right thrashing for being so brash. Mungo was never one to attack silently. He had acted the same at the Battle of Stanhope Park when the Scots attacked the English during the night. He’d yelled all the way until he was in the thick of things – it was how he had gotten his scar.

“Jean Philippe is an arrogant bastard for not posting any sentries,” said Brice, breathing heavily. The hubris astounded him. Not even Gaston’s absence had alerted the arrogant former baron that something was amiss.

“Aye, had he done so, we would have had a little more trouble,” said Mungo.

The elderly clansman had joined up with Brice. Any man that had stood in his way lay on the ground. His stepsons were still busy fighting their opponents. All in all, only one Highlander had lost his life in Mungo’s party due to a lucky shot with an arrow. The man who had claimed the target had disappeared into the night after that.

“Where’s the baron?” asked Mungo.

Brice swept his gaze over the camp. Murtagh and his men were still fighting tough resistance to the left. The men in his party faced opposition from a steadfast group of mercenaries to the front that held their own with savage aplomb. From what he could see, the fight was nearly over – they had succeeded in using the element of surprise to their advantage. All that remained was finding the main target of their mission – Jean Philippe.

“There!” shouted Doogle, pointing.

He had dumped Gaston’s body by his feet. Louise still held his hand in a tight grip. He felt her shudder when she too laid eyes on her former tormentor.

Brice darted forward and crashed through the cordon of men before him. He ran like the wind in pursuit of Jean Philippe who attempted to make a break for the horses that were tied on the other side of the campsite. It would be a close call. The former baron had a head start.

Jean Philippe was still fumbling with the reigns of a horse when Brice reached him. His sword was sheathed in the scabbard. He continued pulling on the reigns. The man was petrified.

“Turn around and face me like a man,” said Brice. He could’ve just knocked his enemy on the head from behind, but that would’ve been too easy.

Jean Philippe spun around. At the same time his sword left the sheath with a rasping sound. The expression on his face betrayed his fear. But Brice instinctively knew that his antagonist was not beaten yet. The coward always found a way to slither out of his predicament given the chance.

Brice took three large paces, his blade slicing down in a diagonal motion. Sparks erupted – they looked like shooting stars on the canopy of the night. He then pirouetted on the spot, adding velocity to his next strike, but Jean Philippe had anticipated this – again his riposte was exemplary.

The men fought it out like demons. Brice recognized the same ferocious dexterity he had witnessed when the baron had fought his brother. Only this time, his opponent was a lot faster and agiler than the unwieldy Doogle. Brice fended off every attempt on the former baron’s part to gain an advantage. He was fast weakening, his terror growing with each passing moment.

“No!” said Mungo when Alick wanted to intervene.

“We must not interfere – this is between Brice and that bastard,” concurred Murtagh.

“Why don’t you help him?” asked Louise.

She did not know of the clan code of honor. When two men fought it out in a battle, no other clan member should interfere. Even men like the vile Jean Philippe were accorded that righteousness.

“The fight is almost won. Brice must end it by defeating him. However, if Jean Philippe wins, he goes free,” said Doogle, answering her question.

“You can’t let that happen after all he has done. When does honor stop? When will that man get what he deserves?” complained Louise.

“Just aboot now,” said Mungo.

Brice forced Jean Philippe back at a continuous pace. His blade slithered forth and retracted with incredible speed. Jean Philippe could barely keep up with the Highlander’s unbelievable skill with the sword. He had already received two slashes to his arm and the side of his trunk. He knew that, had Brice so wanted, he would’ve been lying on the ground by now, dying.

Staggering back, Jean Philippe held up his blade – it trembled – and the weakness in his arms burned. He could not last much longer. He looked to the faces belonging to the Highlanders surrounding him. They were like a hungry pack of wolves watching their alpha toying with his prey.

His blade scrapped against Brice’s as the clansman spun the metal in a circular motion. The force and skill were too much – Jean Philippe’s weapon soared into the air. Brice caught it by the hilt as if he was merely partaking in some leisurely sword practice with a novice.

“Ye are beaten, Monsieur,” he said, bringing the tip of his claymore to Jean Philippe’s neck. “Do ye yield?”

Jean Philippe’s eyes darted to the left and right, seeking out any avenue of escape. He had never expected that the Highlander would let him live. Instead, now, he was faced with the option of captivity. He knew that if he were returned to Bordeaux, the Black Prince would order his execution for breaking into his palace.

He had no choice. He would make a run for it no matter the consequences. The clansman would have to kill him. In a heartbeat, Jean Philippe turned on his heel.

The next thing he saw was blackness.