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Bordeaux, Aquitaine, December 1356

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“Laddie, are ye absolutely certain that this Black Prince fellow will receive us?” asked Mungo, looking ahead.

Before him, the town of Bordeaux spread out to the north, south, east and west. The La Garonne River was the last remaining obstacle in their path. Nightfall was already fast creeping up on them. Soon, it would be night and the beginning of curfew. The town was still too far away to approach before the onset of dusk, so Brice thought it prudent to enter it the following morning.

“Aye, he will remember me from my time in England. And more importantly, he will receive us.” Brice exchanged glances with the others. “We will make camp here. And tomorrow we will attempt to gain an audience with the Prince of Wales.”

There was a murmur of discontent from Mungo and Murtagh. Alick and Bruce looked a little taken aback by the laird’s son’s boast.

“Won’t the Sassenachs spit us like pigs if we get close to that town?” asked Bruce, peering into the distance. “We are their enemy after all.”

“Maybe,” replied Brice matter-of-factly as he dismounted from his horse.

Bruce swallowed deeply and peered back into the distance as if the Black Prince would appear out of the river like a specter and float to where he stood and gut him.

Beyond, the large wall of circumvallation around the town looked daunting even at this distance. Every so often, towers interspersed with the gray stone wall. They resembled cones with their pointy tops upon which fluttered pennants in various colors.

It was an impressive sight indeed. The land of France certainly was a wealthy domain – everywhere Bruce looked, there was abundance. Although, he had a short memory, for he had forgotten the abject poverty and misery he had witnessed on the route south of Paris.

The Black Prince’s chevauchée had caused much damage to the surrounding landscape and towns and villages. And the lost battle at Poitiers had cost the lives of many French nobles and soldiers. The Kingdom of France was weak. It remained in the hands of God whether this proud realm would survive the travails of war and destruction for another year.

“Ye mentioned on the ride over here that the prince has the French king as his captive?” asked Murtagh.

Brice nodded. “Aye, brother. That he does.”

Mungo spat on the ground. “It appears that those Sassenach devils are in the process of collecting foreign kings.” He released a cavernous grunt as he too dismounted from his mount.

“It is how the English get what they want. The ransom they ask for King Jean will be very large indeed,” said Brice.

Murtagh grunted something uncouth through his thick beard. He led his horse away and tethered it to a tree. In the meantime, Mungo stared at Brice with searing anger in his eyes.

“Ye want to ask for the help of this devil’s prince, eh, laddie?” He growled.

“Aye. That is exactly what I aim to do, Mungo,” Brice responded.

“If ye ask me, I think ye are aff yer heid,” said Mungo.

“Well, I did not ask yer opinion.” Brice took a step closer to the older man. “I will do anything to find out what happened to my brother. Have ye even thought that he may be a prisoner of war and held captive at Bordeaux, eh?”

The older clansman arched his eyebrows. “Naw, I dinnae think of that.”

“Did ye not. Well, then ye have discounted one of the most logical things – yer anger for the Sassenachs has clouded yer judgment, friend. Ye’d be wise to temper it when we enter the royal halls of Bordeaux.”

Mungo nodded reluctantly. “I will, young Brice.”

“Ye better. Otherwise, ye can stay out here in the countryside and wait for our return.” Brice placed his hands on Mungo’s shoulders. “I ken that ye love my brother as much as I do. But there is a time to fight and a time for talking.”

“And this would be the time for idle chatting now, would it?” The veteran warrior gave him a slit-eyed look.

“Aye, that it would be, old friend. Ye must remember that my father and I were both the king and prince’s guests at Windsor Castle after the Battle of Neville’s Cross,” said Brice.

“Aye, I ken,” responded Mungo. “More like prisoners if ye ask me.” He hissed through his teeth.

“Then ye will also ken that Da and I waited it out until we could get away. And during that time, I became better acquainted with the English prince.” Brice took a moment to think about his next words. “In a way, he is not much different to me.”

“Never say that, laddie. Ye are no murdering bastard like that savage Sassenach.” Murtagh growled, interrupting. He had already unsaddled his horse and ordered Alick and Bruce to organize some firewood and find something to eat.

“He is a man who loves his country, just as we do,” countered Brice.

“Now, jist haud on! That bastard is by no means honorable,” snapped Murtagh, inviting snorts of agreement from Mungo.

“And how would either of ye two galoots ken? Ye have never met the man. Just because he is a tactical genius, it does not mean that he is some sort of barbarian,” said Brice.

He was getting angry at the obstinacy of the two older clansmen. It was always the same. Murtagh and Mungo only saw things in shades of black and white – the English need to be killed, and that was that. To them, it was impossible that the enemy might also be fighting for their place in the world.

However, on the other hand, their hatred for the English was understandable. Edward I ‘Longshanks’, Edward the Third’s grandfather, had proven to be most brutal when it came to subjugating the kingdom to the north. Ever since the English had almost constantly held the upper hand.

“All right, we will haud our wheeshts when we get to Bordeaux,” said Mungo with deep creases on his forehead.

“Aye. But that does not mean that we cannae call him all of the names under the sun tonight,” intoned Murtagh.

Brice let the air escape his lungs. “I will let ye vent yer wrath tonight. But tomorrow, the two of ye will be the very epitome of courteousness. Do I make myself clear.”

The two other Highlanders exchanged comical looks. “Will ye look at him,” said Mungo.

“Aye, the pup has become like his sire – a grouchy old demon if ye cross him,” said Murtagh.

“Aye, he is behaving as if the contents of some bowfing chamber pot landed on his heid while we was in Paris.”

The two friends shared a laugh. Even Brice’s hardened stance started to soften at the other man’s joke.

“All right then. Let’s help Bruce and Alick with the arrangements for supper. By God, I could do with some fresh meat tonight,” said Brice.

Murtagh looked up at the sky. It was overcast and gray. He had often heard of it described as a widow’s sky. The kind one could only find in the deep of winter. High above the small party of Highlanders, the clouds appeared churlish and angry. They raced across the empyrean expanse above them with increasing speed. It was as if they needed to be somewhere in a hurry.

For most of the day, they had been one great, gray mass, blotting out the sun. He felt as if he was stuck at the bottom of a cauldron with the surface covered by a vapor of gray that gradually turned darker as twilight approached.

“It’s going to rain, laddies. We best get under those trees over there and start a fire before the wood and kindling becomes too wet,” said Murtagh, lowering his head.

Brice and Mungo nodded their agreement.

When Murtagh’s belly rumbled cacophonously, everyone vented their mirth. The party of Scots had not eaten since the morning. They would be grateful if they ensnared a rabbit or two.

“I could certainly do with something good to eat. Something we made ourselves rather than another one of those French stews,” said Mungo.

“Aye, who kens what filth they put in ‘em,” added Murtagh.

“Enough talk – it is time to gather some wood for the fire,” ordered Brice.

The two other clansmen nodded wanly before they spread out and started gathering kindling and firewood under the trees and beyond.

Brice knelt down and quickly started preparing the fireplace in the small copse. All around him, the trees’ bark was thick, scaly, and dark gray-brown on the lower trunk, and thin, flaky and orange on the upper trunk and branches. These mature trees were distinctive due to their long, bare and straight trunks topped by rounded and sometimes flat-topped masses of foliage. He only hoped that they would provide ample protection from the impending rain.

As Brice placed the kindling and other fuel on the ground, Bruce and Alick returned to the camp triumphant with a string of five rabbits held between them.

“Well done, sons,” said Mungo, licking his lips.

“Thank ye, Da,” answered Alick proudly as he slung the rabbits onto the ground close to Brice.

“The two of ye better start skinning the blighters,” ordered Mungo.

Promptly, Alick and Bruce set to work. It did not take them long to apply the correct incisions to the pelts with their knives. After, they pulled roughly on the furs, peeling them off the carcass with deft tugs.

“Pass me that branch over there. It’ll serve perfectly as a spit,” said Mungo, sitting down next to Brice, who had already started blowing into the birthing flames.

Brice chucked one in his direction and promptly continued enlivening the fire. Mungo began to sharpen one end of the branch with his knife. When this was done, he grabbed one of the skinned rabbits and pierced the carcass until it skewered the wood down the entire length. After fastening the hind legs together, he repeated the process with the remaining bounty of food.

Above the small party, the winter sky continued to be dark and vengeful. Steaming shrouds of cloud coiled and writhed, amalgamating further into a single entity. Then, an unearthly caterwauling sound filled the air. The wind picked up, shrieking and keening as it induced the flames in their small birthing fire to flicker this way and that. The clouds continued to race across the sky angrily, thrumming with charged energy, bulging them almost to bursting point.

The deluge started suddenly with big, sopping drops of moisture that were wild and indiscriminate plump missiles that splattered the ground. Soon, the topsoil turned into slushy goo. It was as if God in the heavens vented his wrath on the world below.

All around them, the rain poured down in sheets. Despite feeling the cold increase with the ferocity of the wind and deluge, the five men felt cozy, content and at ease. The entire air had something quixotic about it.

Mungo did not waste any time scrutinizing his surroundings. He continued to prepare their food. He had already fashioned supports for the spit out of twigs. The rabbits hung over the fire, beginning to roast in their own juices.

He did not mind the rain. To him, it was a part of life and the nectar of God and the serum of the sky. He was neither philosopher nor farmer, yet he understood the importance of nature’s bounty.

“If beauty is God’s mark, then the rain is his final embellishment,” he said, staring into the flames.

“Well said, Mungo,” said Murtagh. “I never knew that ye were a philosopher.”

“I am many things ye dinnae ken.”

Murtagh hacked out a laugh. “Aye, ye definitely are many things. And a manky tallywasher is one of them.”

“It’s black as the Earl of Hell’s waistcoat out there,” said Brice, interrupting the town men’s banter. He stared into the pitch-black beyond the fire. A slight shiver slid down his back. “Is there is no sun in this infernal country.”

“Ye should be used to it by now. It is not too different to home,” said Mungo.

“The sun empowers life and the rain bequests it safe passage. It is the way of the world, laddie,” added Murtagh, inviting surprised glances from the others.

“Although, I wouldn’t mind a little more sun,” said Bruce.

“Aye. But we were lucky that the rain dinnae catch us while we were still on the road. At least, here, we have some cover under the leaves. These pines should do the trick quite nicely. And besides, I have a little surprise for ye.” Murtagh rummaged in his plaid, producing a leather flask from the folds. “How about some wine, laddies. I have been saving it for a night such as this. It’ll keep us mellow.” He took a large swig and then handed the leathern flagon to Brice.

Brice took the container gratefully and slugged a wholehearted dram. Murtagh was right. It warmed him up on the spot. On cue, a pleasant heat caressed his insides. He then handed it to Mungo, who copied him, smacking his lips for extra measure.

“Just what we needed. Nothing like a dram to wet yer thrapple and warm yer bones.” Mungo lay back, resting his back against a tree. He sighed contently as he passed the flagon to one of his stepsons.

“Brice…”

“Aye, Alick.”

“What’s going to happen when we get to Bordeaux on the morrow?”

Brice turned his head to look at him. “I dinnae ken. I haven’t thought that far yet. I pray that the prince has fond memories of our walks around Windsor Castle.”

“So ye spent some time with him?” asked Bruce, joining in the conversation and handing the flask back to Murtagh who drained it.

“Aye, I did, laddie,” replied Brice.

“What is he like – I mean is he a good man?” asked Alick.

“He is honorable if that is what ye are asking,” said Brice.

“I’ll gie ye a skelpit lug, laddie.” Mungo grunted. “How can ye say that he is honorable? He wiped out the entire French and Scottish army at Poitiers.”

“A victory that was well deserved,” Brice insisted.

“A cowardly victory. He hid behind his craven longbowmen who shot from a safe distance. Where is the honor in that?” added Murtagh.

“I am sorry, Murtagh. But ye were not there. The Sassenachs fought valiantly and better than any of us did,” said Bruce.

“Ye should watch yer tongue, boy,” snapped Mungo.

“No! I for one would like to hear what Bruce has to say about that day. Despite us being on the road for such a long time, neither he nor Alick have spoken much about it,” said Brice.

They sat in silence for a while, watching the rain fall in an unending cataract from the sky. Due to its intensity, the occasional drop found its way through the foliage above them. The fire hissed and crackled in retaliation to this invasion. The down pouring had taken on the sound of one rushing cacophony, like a raging river, fighting its way across the land until its final release off a cliff, transforming the torrent into a waterfall.

It fell on every part of the dark central plain before them, on the treeless hills, falling harshly upon the blades of grass, and farther westward, softly dropping into the dark mutinous hillocks. It was so cold that the men half expected the drops to become heavy bulbous snowflakes, coating the land with a white blanket. The trees around them creaked and resisted against the wind. The branches swayed, some of them perilously, threatening to snap off the trunk.

“The English fought bravely. And the Black Prince commanded his army like a veteran general for one who is still only twenty-six,” said Bruce.

“Aye. At first, he lured us in and let his bowmen strike with a vengeance, picking us off one by one. And then, when we were fully committed, the archers fought like men-at-arms,” said Alick.

“Ye mean to tell me that they didn’t stand on the sidelines like cowards?” asked Murtagh.

Alick shook his head. “Those archers were the coup de grace. It was their action that decided the fate of the battle.”

Mungo whistled through his teeth. “So, it appears that them Sassenachs do have some mettle in them after all. It will be interesting to meet the prince on the morrow.”

“The man will impress ye,” said Brice.

He then regaled the others with his tale of the time he was held captive at Windsor. The other men sat in silence while he spoke.

“It looks like supper is ready,” said Mungo after awhile. He lifted the spit off the Y-shaped poles and studied the rabbit. “Tis cooked, laddies.” He handed the first rotisserie to Brice and then proceeded to give the remaining ones to the others. “Be careful; it is very hot.”

Brice felt the searing heat radiate off the flesh. It would not be easy, he decided. Carefully, he pulled some of the meat off with his fingers, singeing them in the process. He quickly popped the flesh into his mouth and sucked the juices off of his fingers. The meat tasted a little like chicken, but with a more potent flavor – gamey to a point.

“This is succulent; best meal I have had in ages,” said Mungo, contently.

He ripped at the flesh with his teeth and fingers, the heat not at all disheartening him from his munching.

They continued to eat in silence. It was what they did most evenings, a hard day’s riding robbing them of their words. The quietness between them was never oppressing. All of them had much on their minds, for the following day would be decisive.