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Iteuil, Duchy of Aquitaine, September 1356

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Louise had never been fearful as a little girl. This bravery stayed with her well into early adulthood. Despite the rumors of a fierce battle having been fought nearby, she still ventured out into the hills to the south of Iteuil. It was her favorite part of the day and a ritual she would even insist on when it was raining.

But today the sun shone brightly in the sky. There was not a cloud to be seen, allowing for the celestial orb to stroke her cheeks with warm lashes. The sensation made Louise want to jump up and skip. It was what she always did when she felt happy and warm. But something stopped her. A dark presence, a clawing feeling, held her in a vice. She froze on the spot.

Louise frowned. There was a woman in her village that claimed she had a stronger connection with God than most people. Most of the hamlet’s inhabitants feared this soothsayer or shaman because of her powers, but not Louise. Her stories always intrigued her. She spoke of such things that man and woman did not or could not understand. It was why the witch doctor lived alone in a small wooden structure in the forest across the river. Her name was Alianor.

Should I go to her and ask about this dark premonition? Alianor will know the answer – she always does.

Louise hesitated. Her legs again started to move, but they took her in the opposite direction of the hills. Instead, she walked toward the Clain River.

Am I unwittingly going to her – to Alianor?

Her pace picked up. It was not far. Then she stopped. Her hand covered her mouth. “Mon Dieu!” Dark, thick, coiling wisps of smoke rose up into the sky on the horizon to the east. They were quite some way off but unmistakably the creation of man.

Is that where the battle was fought?

Louise thought back to what Jean Philippe had said the other day. He had claimed to be a part of the King of France’s army. She also knew that the English were nearby.

What happened?

Her gaze moved away from the smolder in the direction of the meandering river below her position. It had the color of a robin’s egg. Small wavelets crested the surface as the watercourse smoothly snaked its way through the land like a subtle sweep of a painter’s brush. More hills stood silently behind it as if holding vigil in case something might disturb this tranquil display of nature.

Louise cast one more concerned look in the direction of the tendrils of smoke before starting to move again. She walked a lot faster than before. It was as if she needed to reach the river before something was taken away from her. A voice inside of her whispered – it spoke of things she did not understand. It reminded her of when she was last in Alianor’s home in the forest. It somehow spoke the shaman’s words.

‘One day you will leave Iteuil and all that you know…’ The witch had stopped speaking for a heartbeat after that remark. Her eyes had glazed over as if she had succumbed to one of her spells. Then, her rasping voice resumed, ‘It involves a man – but I cannot say whether he is good or bad.”

Louise shuddered as if evil claws stroked her body.

What did Alianor mean that day?

Louise had discounted the words as nothing too serious the moment they had been spoken; she knew that she would never leave Iteuil – Alianor must have been rambling again.

However, today, they came back to haunt her.

What man? Why evil? Why am I thinking about what she said today?

“I will never leave Papa and Maman,” she whispered, ridding herself of the bad rumors.

The closer she got to the river, the more Louise could discern what was afoot. Large branches twisted and spun on its susurrating surface, like heralds from the hills and trees from where they had once come. The riverbank was strewn with pebbles and rocks that were like gravid spectators in an audience.

All of the brisk movement had made Louise thirsty. She took the final steps to the riverbank and bent down. She scooped her hands through the water, bringing them to her mouth, repeating the process until she had drunk her fill. The water tasted fresh, almost sweet and better than anything she knew. She loved how God had made such trivial things so special. No matter how many times she had knelt before the Clain River, the taste of its bounty never bored her. It was like the nectar of life.

With a contented sigh, she leaned her back against a rock and closed her eyes, enjoying the sun’s warmth on her face. The sweet perfume of the copse nearby drifted to her nostrils as she reflected on the beauty of nature. Somehow, its magnificence had rid her mind of the strange feeling from before. Louise was happy and free again.

She did not know for how long she remained idle and drinking in the sounds of the birds and the rush of the river. Her mind had settled in that special place where the soul almost answers the question of why a person exists. It does not often happen in life, but when it does, the notion must be captured and guarded for as long as one lives. For only when one is in harmony with everything and all can a meaningful life be pursued.

“Live each day as if it were your last,” said Louise in barely a whisper. She smiled.

Her eyes opened, returning her gaze to the eddying river. The sun gave the surface a glassy clarity. It was beautiful and like a dazzling jewel on a queen’s crown.

A little further up the watercourse, Louise saw dark shapes floating on the surface. Her initial instinct was to think of them as more branches. Yet, something kept her scrutiny fixed on the objects fast approaching where she sat. The closer they got, she realized that their origins were not from the trees. This was something else.

She gulped, the air almost getting stuck in her throat. With a start, she got to her feet and walked a few paces to the river.

“Bodies!” She gasped.

Corpses were floating on the surface of the Clain River. It was confirmed. There had been a big battle. Louise could not take her eyes off of the gruesome scene. She was so transfixed by the horror that she, at first, did not hear a groan and some words coming from close by.

“Lassie, give us a hand, will ye?”

Louise snapped her head in the direction of the voice. It belonged to a man. He was soaking wet. Her eyebrows arched up. She had never seen someone dressed like him before. Instead of a gambeson and chainmail, the stranger wore a thick checkered-cloth around his person. His legs were bare. She took a step back as he hobbled a few paces toward her. When he fell to the ground, she stopped.

“I will not hurt ye, lass,” he said, his face hovering above the ground.

He made a feeble attempt to get back to his feet but his strength left him, and he slumped again, muttering something in a strange tongue that sounded like curses.

Louise scrunched her brow. She had trouble understanding his accent. He spoke a language that sounded like English to her but was different. Who was this strangely dressed man that resembled a barbaric warrior of old? He was huge.

When he rolled onto his back groaning, Louise felt a pang of worry course through her; she forced away her initial trepidation.

“Vous etes blessé, Monsieur?” Feeling a little more confident because of his physical state, she took a tentative step toward the injured man.

“Blimen heck my bloody leg’s killing me… and something’s nicked me in the belly.” With effort, he writhed on the ground until he balanced his weight on his elbows. He looked up and into her eyes. “Ye are bonnie, lass – very bonnie indeed.” He cracked a wan smile that was not convincing. He soon groaned again.

Louise frowned. What was this strange man talking about? She took a few more paces in his direction.

“C’est quois ‘bonnie’?”

Another gurgle of agony passed the man’s lips. “Ye are French?” Despite his discomfort, he managed to chuckle. “It makes blimen sense I’d run into a French woman when I am actually in France.”

The man spent a moment scrutinizing her ash-black hair that shimmered like silk under the sun’s rays. Her face was like something he had never seen before. She was unlike the women he knew from back home. Instead of paleness, she had a darker complexion that drew him in all the more because of her emerald-green eyes. In a heartbeat, he recognized the strength of will in the woman whom he, at first, had decided was just pretty. But she was more than that. This woman was perfect in every sense he could imagine.

“Bonnie – it means beautiful,” he said at last, his voice croaky.

A small blush appeared on her cheeks. “Merci, Monsieur.”

As she fought with her slight embarrassment, Louise looked at the wounded man a while longer. He was strong, bigger than any man she had seen. But he had a kind face, and she found his fiery red hair alluring.

“Vous etes…” Without her even realizing it, Louise came to a halt in front of the prostate body on the ground and bent lower.

She was no longer apprehensive. From what little she had seen of his dirt covered face told her that this man was not dangerous to her.

“You are English?”

He spat on the ground. Louise was not quite sure whether this was because of the pain or his disgust at being coined an Englishman. “I am no flaming Sassenach, lassie. I kill the blighters.”

“Sassenach?”

“Oh, I am sorry – it means outlander – it’s a term we use in the Highlands to refer to the English,” he said, groaning again.

“Vous etes blessé – You are hurt. Let me help you,” repeated Louise, alternating between her mother tongue and the English she had learned from Father Mortimer.

She bent lower. When she looked into his eyes, her heartbeat almost stopped. They had the color of the sky on a pristine summer’s day. The grime and blood on his face could not diminish their power. But what Louise had noticed even before their color had registered in her mind was that this man’s eyes exuded honesty. Looking at him, she decided that there was not a deceitful bone in his body.

“Let me help you up. We must go… now,” she said, deciding that English was what they both understood best.

Louise placed her arms around his stout physique. Could it be that he was even brawnier than her father? From what she could tell, he was definitely taller. The tips of her fingers felt as if flames licked them. The man was pure muscle.

He lifted a hand to forestall her efforts. “It’s no good, lass. I cannot move. Some English bawsack nabbed me with his claymore. Got him though I did,” he said with a croak, falling back to the ground again.

“You must get up. There will be more men out here. It is not safe. I must get you to safety. I know of a place nearby. The woman who lives there is adept in the art of healing.”

The stranger nodded. He pressed his lips together. “All right, let’s try. It is not every day that a man gets to be rescued by an angel.”

His remark made Louise smile. Even though she had come to hate compliments about her looks made by the opposite sex, it sounded good to hear them from him. She moved up behind him and placed her arms under his shoulders. With a heave, she gradually pulled him up into a standing position. She had to keep holding him lest he falls back down again.

When she looked at his face, she saw that it was covered in sweat and that he was as pallid as a snow-capped mountain.

“We will have to move slowly, Monsieur.”

He moved his mouth to say something, but no sound passed his lips. He only nodded. Steeling herself for the effort, they both started moving in the direction Louise pointed them. She wanted to find the spot where the river was not as deep so that they could cross.

Going back to Iteuil would be too far. Alianor’s hovel was closer. Also, the witch doctor would know what to do about his wounds. Her healing skills had made her famous throughout these parts, and even the people’s fear of her could not keep them away when a loved one was either ill or hurt.

The Highlander and the French woman walked in silence. He fell to the ground three more times before they reached the crossing. Each time it had taken much effort to get him back up again. These tumbles had cost him a lot of energy. The blood was seeping freely through his clothing by the time they were across the river and into the thick forest on the other side.

“It is not much farther,” said Louise, breathing heavily. The warrior from the north appeared to weigh as much, if not more, than Matilda.

Where do such men live? she asked herself. And the Highlands, what place is that?

Her questions would have to wait. It was imperative she got him to the shaman. If she did not do so fast enough, she feared he would die.

After about half an hour, the stumbling couple reached a small clearing in the forest. At the end of it stood a solitary house. Smoke eddied from the stone chimney. Louise saw Alianor sitting outside in front of a small fire.

“I was expecting you, Louise,” said the crone in French when they were within earshot.

Despite feeling exhausted, Louise managed a small smile. “You know everything, Alianor.”

The woman, whose age was impossible to determine, cackled like a witch. To many, she was exactly that. And looking at her one could see why. Her face was covered in wrinkles, some of them so deep that it appeared as if they reached the bone underneath the skin. Long wispy ash-white hair sprouted from her scalp and hung down the sides of her face. Her piercing gray eyes were her most discerning attribute. Their color was as potent as steel on a sharp blade, depending on the way the light caught them

“I am not omniscient, but I am aware of most things, child.” She beckoned with a claw-like hand for them to approach. “Come! Put him down by the fire,” she ordered in a rasping voice.

Louise obeyed. By now, the Scotsman was completely silent. The pain was getting to him, and the loss of blood had sapped almost every last drop of the herculean strength he had left in him.

With a deep groan that was more like a moose’s bellow, he crashed onto the ground next to the occultist. He grinned at her crookedly.

“Well met, milady,” he said, still with a harsh croak to his voice.

Alianor crowed again. “This one has spirit,” she said in French to Louise. She frowned. “He is not from around here?”

“No,” said the man. “I am from Scotland.”

Alianor’s face lit up. “You speak French?”

“Aye.”

“I have heard of your land – it is where they birth the sons of the gods of old,” said Alianor.

The soldier managed to chuckle before he collapsed into a coughing fit.

“And your hair – it is like fire.” Alianor reached out to touch the strands of hair on his head that were long and thick and red like a ruby.

“My father has the same,” he said. The exertion of the long walk and the talking had taken its toll on him. He slowly started to lean back until he rested his body on the ground.

“Louise, we must get him into the house. I must make some potions for his wounds and a broth to give him his strength back.” Alianor got to her feet quickly. “Come – help me.” She grabbed one of his shoulders, waiting for the younger woman to do the same with his other one.

With concerted effort, they pulled the heavyset man into the hut. With one final lug, they placed him onto some furs close to the hearth.

“He will rest here.” Alianor kneeled down and lifted his kilt. There was a deep gash on his right thigh. She frowned as her gaze swept over his body. “He has been cut on his torso as well.” She bent lower and sniffed the wound. A guttural grunt passed her lips.

“What? Tell me, Alianor,” exclaimed Louise, her hand flying to her mouth.

The crone did not respond, at first. Instead, she focused on the gash on the man’s body. Then, she turned to look Louise in the eye.

“I will go and boil some water. You must get him out of these wet clothes. When I get back, you will wash him.” Alianor made to get to her feet.

“You want me to undress him?” asked Louise, incredulous.

Alianor nodded. “That is what I meant when I said get him out of his wet clothing – is there a problem?”

Louise felt the heat rise up her neck to her face. “I, I…”

“You have never seen a naked man before.” The witch cackled. “Trust me, there is nothing to it.” She did not wait for a response and left the hovel.

Louise looked down at the man lying on the fur-covered floor. He looked so peaceful with his eyes closed. His lips shuddered a little, but otherwise, he did not move a muscle. His barreled chest that rivaled her father’s in size moved up and down rhythmically. Her gaze slipped to his plaid.

She shrugged. “Here we go. I have seen Papa naked when he swims in the river. This man can not be so different.”

Louise’s hands started to work quickly and methodologically. She was so engrossed in her work that she did not even notice when he was fully unclothed. She placed his soiled garments in a tidy heap for washing.

“Oh, mon Dieu!” exclaimed Alianor.

“What?”

“The man is hung like a horse.” The crone chuckled as she moved closer. “You can wash him with this. Once he is clean, I will tend to his wounds.” She laughed when she saw Louise hesitate. The young woman could hardly turn her head to look down upon the man. “Come on, it is not going to bite you.”

“Alianor, I…”

“Just wash him,” ordered the older woman, roughly placing the cloth into Louise’s hand. “I will be right back.” With those words, she was gone again.

Where do I start? Oh God! Forgive me if I am about to sin.

Louise’s hand flew to her mouth. She could not help staring at the man’s strong physique. He was made of pure muscle. It was not a sculptured, beatific body like that of a Greek statue, but it effused such raw power and endurance instead. The Scotsman was a vessel of infinite strength, and Louise felt herself heating up all over her body.

The feelings were alien to her. Each contour, muscle, hair, and scar on his physique lured her in like a flame would a moth. She felt as if she was looking at the most perfect being. Never in her wildest dreams could she have imagined that a naked man could have such an affect on her. By the time she had dipped the cloth into the water, Louise was blushing crimson.

“Staring at him won’t get him clean and well again.” Alianor squatted down and grabbed for the cloth, but Louise pulled it away just in time.

She felt a pang of ownership surge through her. She did not want another woman to touch this man intimately. He was hers even though she did not know it yet.

“I will do it,” she snapped.

Louise slowly dipped the cloth into the cooling boiled water and delicately applied it to the Highlander’s skin.

The other woman chuckled into her hand, inviting a scowl from Louise. “I admire your fastidiousness, but at the rate you are going he will die of his wounds,” chided the older woman.

Louise swallowed deeply. Hearing the word ‘death’ in the same sentence as this man, she doubled her pace. In her mind, she repeated a prayer, asking God to spare this man.

Next to her, Alianor muttered that after she had given him the broth, applied the ointment and bound the wounds, his fate was in the hands of the very God Louise prayed to.

The Scotsman’s chances of survival were in the balance – his fate could go either way.