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Paris, France, November 1356

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“The last time we were here was with Da,” said Brice.

He rode at the head of the procession of clansmen that had left Diabaig a few weeks ago. They had only recently landed in France from Scotland and were on their way to the French capital. They had left the British Isles by ship to avoid the English. Frontier skirmishes were still prevalent between the two countries, making it dangerous for any Scot south of the border.

“Aye, but this time the air of defeat hangs over the country. You can bloody well smell it as if it were a wet fart inside of Murtagh’s kilt.” Mungo growled.

“It’s the stink of an old man that ye can smell, Mungo. Ye are rotting away more and more as the days go by. I am surprised yer wife has not thrown ye into the loch to be rid of yer festering carcass,” said Murtagh with a smile on his face. Like Mungo, he loved their humorous and insulting banter.

“If I am old, then ye are an ancient welly. The reason ye are with us despite yer advancing years is because yer ugly mug might scare away any brigands we might encounter along the way,” retorted Mungo, not able to help himself from chuckling at his friend’s offensive remark.

“Ancient am I?” Murtagh slapped his fellow clansman on the back. “As ye very well ken, I am two years younger than ye are.”

“No, ye are not. And ye ken why I ken that?”

Murtagh shrugged.

“Because ye are too stupid to count past fifty. So ye will have to live with the fact that if one of us is a festering turd, it is ye,” said Mungo, slapping him back.

Murtagh sniggered. “Ye do have a way with words, my friend. But putting age aside, it is ye who is the ugly one out of the two of us. That hideous scar ye got running across yer face makes all the difference. It’s like ye have an arse crack smack bang on yer heid.”

“Do I now? Freya thinks it makes me look more masculine. It reminds her what a warrior I am.” A small frown appeared on his face when he thought of his wife. She had been opposed to him leaving with his two stepsons, Brice, and Murtagh, claiming that he was too old for such adventures. Even the laird had tried to dissuade him and also Murtagh, but the two veterans had refused. They both loved Doogle as if he were their own boy.

“Yer woman’s as blind as a bat. Gotta to be if she married ye,” intoned Murtagh.

“I will show ye.” In one fell swoop, Mungo launched onto the other man from his horse. The two of them landed on the frosty ground with a thump, the air venting past Murtagh’s lips upon impact.

“Ye always were a sneaky bastard.” Murtagh growled between gasps for air.

“It’s not sneaky. Ye call it stratagem.”

It was a word the laird’s youngest son, Callum, had taught them before the Battle of Neville’s Cross. Back then he was on the way to Rome. He never got there. Instead, the young man had ended up getting married and becoming an English lord like his grandfather before him.

The two clansmen continued to roll around on the ground. The upper hand in the struggle changed hands every other moment. The two veteran warriors were evenly matched. If nothing stopped them, the bout could last a very long time.

“Will they ever grow up?” asked Brice of Bruce and Alick.

Alick looked down at his father who was presently slamming Murtagh’s head against the ground. “Na, I dinnae think so. The two of them will be doing that well into the coffin.”

Bruce chuckled. “I am just happy it’s not me Da’s trying to teach a lesson to.”

His brother nodded knowingly beside him. He thought of how their father and Murtagh had reprimanded them after their audience with the laird. It had taken all of Freya’s and Caitlin’s, Murtagh’s wife, persuasion to stop them from hurling verbal abuse and changing to pummeling the lads.

“Who do ye think will win?” asked Brice matter-of-factly.

“Da looks like he has the upper hand,” said Alick.

With those words, Murtagh was hurled against a tree.

“Argh, I will get ye for that, ye scabby tally-washer.” Murtagh howled and promptly freed himself from Mungo’s vice-like grip.

“Oh, no ye won’t.” With a swoop of his leg, Mungo kicked Murtagh’s from under him. “How do ye like it with yer arse on the ground, ye great big Jessie? Ye fight like a lass; yer ma had bigger balls than ye do and yer da loved it.”

The color on Murtagh’s face turned bright red as he bellowed out his mirth. He couldn’t resist two more punches before Mungo slumped to the ground and joined in the hilarity. The others watched on in confused silence as the two bears of men laughed it out.

“One might think that one of us should have grown out of this,” said Mungo, trying to catch his breath from all the exertion and hilarity.

“Aye, but it’s a darn great bit of fun. But saying that about my ma tipped me over the edge. How do ye come up with that tripe, Mungo?” Murtagh started laughing again because of the well-timed insult in the middle of the fight.

“Haud yer wheesht. You’ll have me going again,” said Mungo, tears of mirth streaming down his cheeks. It made the burly Scotsman look comical. His usually fearful face scrunched up into a wet rictus of jollity.

“Are ye two quite finished? I would like to get to Paris before nightfall,” said Brice who was in charge of the expedition.

“Aye, I dinnae want to sleep out in the cold tonight,” said Bruce.

“Nice warm inn would do me just fine,” concurred Alick.

Mungo and Murtagh exchanged glances and nodded. In a flash, they were on their feet. Mungo pulled Alick off of his horse and Murtagh did the same with Bruce. They then maneuvered them in chokeholds to the nearby water of the River Seine and threw them in.

“Ye find sleeping outdoors too cold for yer liking, ye wee Jessie. Spoken like a winging Lowlander.” Murtagh hissed as he ogled a sputtering and cursing Bruce.

“And ye – inn would do ye just fine, would it? Ye can ride the rest of the way to Paris in a nice wet plaid. Hope ye enjoy the ride, laddie. Now stop footering about and get yer arse out of the water. We have a long road ahead of us.”

Mungo turned and left the two splashing lads behind him. Murtagh soon followed. Moments later, they sat astride their horses next to Brice who could not wipe the grin off of his face.

“Are ye coming, ye winging galoots?” yelled Mungo, heeling the flanks of his mount.

“Ye better get cracking if ye don’t want to sleep outdoors,” chimed in Murtagh, imitating his friend of many years.

Brice was the last to leave. He waited a moment longer for the others to vacate the river and approach their horses.

“Ye two should know better than to speak like spoiled women in front of those two,” he said.

The two chastened brothers nodded.

“They’re like children,” said Bruce.

“Aye, at close to sixty ye might expect them to have grown wiser and more balanced, but oh no – they’re worse than ever,” said Alick, lifting himself onto the chestnut-colored mare.

Brice chuckled. “No use complaining about it. Now come on. Otherwise, we really will be sleeping out in the open tonight. YA! YA!”

Brice galloped off after the two clansmen and the city of Paris.

“Big place this,” said Murtagh, eyeing the massive city walls in the distance that circumvallated the town of Paris.

“Do any of ye ken anything about the place?” asked Mungo.

The others shook their heads.

“Fat lot of use the four of ye are. If Callum were here, he could tell us all there is to ken about the place.” Snorting his disgust at their ignorance, Mungo spurred his horse forward toward the sprawling city.

Brice shook his head. “Come on. It will be dark soon, and if this town is anything like what we have back home, there will be a curfew in a few hours, and they will shut the main gate.”

He followed the older clansman.

The closer they got to the city, the more people clogged the road. There seemed to be a great rush to enter the capital before nightfall. All manner of animals were herded along to feed the vast population that fluctuated between one hundred and two hundred thousand inhabitants. Presently, it was at the lower end of the spectrum because of the plague that had ravaged the land not so long ago.

“What’s that foul smell? It’s getting worse the closer we get?” asked Bruce, holding a hand to his nose.

“Oh, don’t worry; it’s only Murtagh. Surprised ye didn’t notice it earlier. He’s been with us all the way from Scotland,” said Mungo, grinning at his friend.

“Don’t listen to yer da. He always says that when he’s trying to hide the fact that he broke wind,” countered Murtagh, an equally large smile splitting his face.

“Don’t the two of ye start again. I can’t have ye fighting it out in front of Paris. You will get us arrested,” said Brice.

“Don’t worry, laddie. There’ll be none of that here,” said Mungo, looking down at the street as they passed the massive main gate. It was covered in all manner of grime; most of which was of an indiscernible and seedy nature.

In moments, the narrow medieval streets of Paris engulfed the small group of men. The buildings rose up all around them, boasting colorful signs heralding the occupant’s identity.

“It’s definitely noisier than back home,” said Bruce, looking about. The awe of being in a conurbation of this size was written straight across his face.

“That’s because it’s a hundred times the size, ye dozy walloper,” said Murtagh, rolling his eyes.

It was extremely noisy as crowds of people and animals moved along between the three and four-story-high houses. All manner of vendors shouted in an attempt to peddle their wares. No matter how closely dusk approached, it did not deter them from endeavoring to make a few more sous before the commencement of curfew.

These merchants went door-to-door selling fish, fruits, vegetables, cheese, milk, chickens, garlic, onions, clothing, and countless other products. Competing with these men were mendicants begging for alms. More flocks of sheep, pigs, and cows were being urged along by their often rebarbative handlers.

“Oi, ye there, watch where ye chuck the contents of that thing.” Mungo grumbled when he saw a woman leaning out of a window, holding a large wooden bucket. All she did was shout a few curses in French at him before she tipped the insalubrious bounty onto the street below. The contents landed with a loud splatter on the stone-paved ground.

“Disgusting these city-dwellers.” Mungo spat.

“Aye, they take a shit and then throw it onto the street. No wonder the stench is so unbearable here. Does the wind never rise up,” complained Murtagh. By now, he imitated Bruce and covered his nose with his hand.

“It’s sure different to back home,” said Brice.

He was equally as amazed and disgusted by the Parisians’ way of life. He was only grateful that it was not the summer – for he imagined it to be far worse in the heat. However, the overwhelming odor of burning wood and charcoal used for heating and cooking dominated the airwaves. In certain parts, it got so bad that he thought he would suffocate.

Everywhere, the streets smelled strongly of unwashed persons, animals, and human and animal waste. Chamber pots of urine were routinely emptied out of windows onto the street as they further entered the sprawling conurbation.

“Where do ye have a mind for us to sleep tonight, Brice?” asked Mungo.

“I dinnae ken. There must be a tavern somewhere around here,” replied Brice.

“Then why don’t ye use some of that French the tutor taught ye when ye was a wee laddie and ask. The same goes for ye, ye dozy wallopers.” Mungo also directed his query at his two stepsons who had received the same level of education as the laird’s sons.

The three young men exchanged embarrassed glances.

“Why didn’t I think of that?” said Brice, blushing lightly at his obvious lack of foresight. He promptly urged his horse forward until he found the most respectable person he could find.

After a brief exchange, they were directed to a tavern called ‘Le Petit Cochon’ or ‘The Little Pig’. It was situated close to the Grand-Rue Saint-Martin that bisected the city from north to south.

It took them much longer than expected to navigate their way past the hundreds of people walking the same way. There was simply no alternative than to go with the flow of humanity. Murtagh and Mungo pushed and shoved as much as they could. Occasionally, a braver sort attempted to complain, but one look at the brawny clansmen invariably shied the aggrieved person away.

At some point, they passed the massive fortress of the Louvre, originally designed to protect the Right Bank of the Seine against an English attack from Normandy. The fortress was a great rectangle surrounded by four towers and a moat. In the center was a circular tower thirty meters high. It was the anchor on the Right Bank of the new wall King Philip II had built around the city. Presently, it was used as a castle for recreation and also for ceremonial functions rather than a bastion; the vassals of the king took their oath of loyalty at the Louvre rather than the city palace.

“Well, that’s a castle if ye ask me,” said Murtagh, looking up at the large fortifications.

“Aye, the English will have trouble storming that should they ever get here,” added Mungo.

“Let’s hope it doesn’t come to that,” said Brice. “Now, stop gawking. We have a tavern to find.”

They arrived just in time – for the churches had started to ring their bells in announcement of the onset of curfew.

“This looks like a right dump.” Murtagh grumbled as he looked up at a sign of a pig painted on a wooden board that hung so loosely that the next gust of wind might knock it off the hinges.

“Well, there’s nothing for it. It’s either this or sleep on the streets.” Mungo handed the reigns of his horse to Alick. “And remembering what that French lass threw from her window earlier, I am going in.”

He pushed open the door and vanished inside of the tavern.

A gust of warm air assaulted his face the moment he stepped in. The dense waft that came at him was like a moving wall made up of a comingling of cooking aroma, sweat, and an overall putrid odor. It was dingy and dark inside. A fire in a hearth and a few sconces with flickering flames provided the only lighting. The others, except for Bruce who looked after the horses, followed Mungo across the straw-strewn floor up to a counter where a short, bald man with a frowzy appearance stood. With him, a buxom woman in a grimy dress and no older than nineteen reclined behind the bar.

“We’ll have five of yer pottages and five jugs of ale,” ordered Mungo, speaking English. He slapped a coin onto the bar to make his point.

The landlord just gawped at him. He obviously had never seen a clansman before, and not to mention a man of Mungo’s size.

“Well, how about it then? This one looks a right bampot,” said Mungo, staring down the innkeeper.

“Aye, not to mention the unspeakable establishment he keeps,” added Murtagh.

“Laddies, allow me,” said Brice, stepping forward. He began to address the Frenchman in his language.

“Sorry, friend, but we’re closing the doors for the night. The curfew has begun,” said the tavern owner in French.

“I forgot to mention, we’ll also be needing chambers for the night and stabling for the horses,” said Brice.

The short man studied him for a moment. He couldn’t help his worried scrutiny alternating between Mungo and Murtagh who stood there glowering at him.

“Now, ye listen here, Frenchie. The laird’s son just asked ye politely in yer miserable language that he requires rooms, stabling, and food.” Murtagh snarled. He pulled the landlord toward him with his beefy hand.

“Aye, and lest ye want me to chop yer welly off with this, I suggest ye do his bidding,” intoned Mungo, moving forward until his head was right next to Murtagh’s.

The landlord scrutinized them with his nervous, ferrety eyes. Mungo’s threat was obvious to him when he saw his hand come to a rest on the pommel of his claymore that hung off of his belt.

Finally, having decided that the strangely dressed men meant business, he said, “Il vous coûtera.”

“How much?” asked Brice.

The tavern keeper shrugged and blinked with avaricious eyes. “A few coins of silver…” he said, wanting his prospective patron to take the initiative and hopefully give more than he would have asked for.

Brice took his leathern money pouch from inside his plaid. He removed a few coins and thwacked too many of them onto the counter. The innkeeper arched his eyebrows in surprise. He then hastily ferreted away the money on the wooden worktop quicker than it had materialized and before Brice could even think about changing his mind. Snorting, he walked down the length of the area behind the counter, picking up a few pewter pitchers on the way, which he then dipped into a large barrel, removing them brimming with wine.

“Vous pouvez vous s’asseoir là-bas,” he said, pointing at a table in the corner of the establishment. “I have three rooms available.” His tone and manner had changed considerably since seeing the moneybag. “One of my lads will take care of your horses. It’ll cost you a few more of those coins though,” he added, squinting.

Brice removed some more money from the purse and socked the silver onto the counter for the second time. Without another word, he stomped across the low ceilinged room that was nearly empty because of the curfew. Only one other man sat at a table close to the fire eating his stew. He produced occasional feral grunts as he wolfed down the brew. He took no notice of the newcomers.

“Ye be nice now and make sure the food is good.” Mungo growled before he followed Brice to the table.

“Aye, none of that shite ye have in those chanties,” added Murtagh, referring to the chamber pots that he had seen routinely emptied onto the streets.

He too left. Instead of heading straight for the table, he went to fetch Bruce who still waited outside.

“This is just what I needed,” said Mungo, pouring the contents of the jug into the individual tankards.

When he was done, he picked up his and drained it in one. He promptly refilled it and again assaulted the drinking vessel with the same vigorous flourish, ending his swilling with a cacophonous burp.

Brice chuckled. “Aye, traveling makes ye thirsty.”

He sipped down the beverage with far more restraint than his companion. The wine was better than he had expected. It tasted deep and full, adding pleasant warmth to his belly after the cold of the fields he had traversed that day.

“This sure beats sleeping outdoors,” said Bruce, joining the others along with Murtagh.

Promptly the second belch of the evening rounded off Murtagh’s first hearty gulps of the wine. “Ah, that was good. Now that my thrapple is wetted, we need a toast.” He turned to Brice. “Ye got a good one, laddie?”

“Aye, I do.” Brice lifted his goblet. “To finding Doogle. May he be well and in good hands.”

“Aye, I will certainly drink to that,” said Mungo, raising his cup

“And may that be very soon,” added Alick, bringing his tankard to the others.

“To Doogle and may he be shagging the first bonnie French lass he meets,” intoned Murtagh.

They all laughed as they clinked their cups, each of them following suit with hearty draughts of the wine. They sat in silence for a while. Only the enthusiastic gulps coming from Mungo and Murtagh’s drinking and the audible grunts and slurps from the only other patron in the tavern could be heard.

“Votre dîner,” said the curvaceous serving woman.

She slapped three wooden bowls onto the table. She left at a snail's pace only to return with two more and some bread, all of which she deposited in front of them with the same brash un-courteousness.

With hesitation, Bruce dipped his spoon into the brownish, congealed liquid. No matter how distasteful it looked, the aroma fanning out of the bowl reminded him just how hungry he was.

In the meantime, Mungo pulled on the crust of bread, grimacing at how hard it was. “This ruddy bannock is as hard as a brick. Trust that ne'er-do-well to serve stale bread. I just hope it is not full of weevils to boot.” With a grunt, he freed some of it, which he then proceeded to dip into the pottage. “Never ask what is in it,” he said with his mouth half full. “It can contain all manner of things lying about the kitchen and environ. Sometimes, they chuck in an old draft horse that was well passed it. You got just about anything – blood, entrails, if yer lucky carrots…” he continued, ridding his mouth of a piece of gristle with his finger.

“I thought ye said not to talk about it,” said Bruce.

Murtagh guffawed. “Well, I couldn’t resist… Now, eat up, laddie, while it’s still hot. It won’t kill ye.” He too ate with equal gusto, rivaling that of his fellow clansman.

The five men ate in silence until their bowls were scraped clean with the bread that had fortunately softened when it was left in the stew.

To Bruce’s surprise, it had been surprisingly savory.

Brice too was content. He felt a warm glow in his belly that made him drowsy. He was exhausted from the road. Every limb on his body ached. The food and wine had added to his tiredness.

It was the same for the others. Only Mungo and Murtagh seemed as if they had not ridden a single league that day. With loud burps and shouts for more wine, they looked as if they might turn the evening into a drinking bout.

“It’s time we all got to bed, laddies.” Brice stood up to make his point.

Mungo and Murtagh exchanged glances before Murtagh’s meaty paw forced Brice back to his seat. “Now, ye listen here. I have just ordered some more wine, and we are going to drink it. And when that’s done, we’ll have some more.”

“Aye,” said Mungo, nodding his agreement. “After being cooped up on a bloody boat and riding the countryside, this is the best I’ve felt in days. And the wine sure beats the ale we drink.”

Brice had no choice but to acquiesce to the elder men’s suggestion. To his chagrin, the evening would last a bit longer. The older men’s stamina was exhausting at times, but he was grateful that they were with him. Their presence could make all the difference if they ever faced a foe.

It did not take as long as Brice, Alick and Bruce had feared until they mounted the stairs to the first floor where they found a narrow corridor with three doors leading from it. Mungo and Murtagh had decided to remain for some more wine. Brice directed them to the furthest one at the end of the hallway. He opened the door with a heavy key, provided to him by the owner and entered the chamber.

“As the laird’s son and all, I suggest ye take this room, and my brother and I will sleep in the other one,” said Bruce.

Brice smiled. “Thank ye, Bruce. I only dread to imagine what those two great big clods downstairs are going to do when they find out that they have to share a room.”

The three of them laughed.

“It will be a night to remember,” said Alick. “Goodnight, Brice. See ye tomorrow.”

As the brothers stepped into their room, Brice did the same. The wood beamed ceiling hung so low that he had to bend over. The building was so constructed because the limited height provided more warmth during the colder months of the year. There was also a fire burning in a small hearth. For this he was grateful. No matter the mugginess of the room below him, he still felt the after-effects of the long, cold ride throughout the day.

He did not bother to disrobe. Instead, he lowered himself onto the bed and closed his eyes.

Images of Skye promptly filled his mind. He thought of the way she had looked when he left Diabaig. Her golden blonde hair had shimmered in the sunlight whenever it managed to peek its head past the clouds. Her blue eyes were slightly moist. It did not matter that he had traveled often. Being parted from her and she from him always tore at their hearts.

Before he drifted off, he swore that he would return home to her with his brother, Doogle.