22nd January, 1617
The dawn will come.
It was a promise that had been shared among the dispossessed and downtrodden of Coimbra for the last hundred years, used as a password, an assurance that they, at least, had not broken faith with the Goddess and the true Church of Meringia. Despite the fact that their king had been dispossessed, that their country was ruled by a puppet king in turn ruled by a heretic council, there were many who had never stopped fighting that regime. With the Coimbrans defeat on the battlefield of Berynsford in Francia, hope had begun to rise in the common people that their true king might be able to reclaim his land and his rights. And as that hope rose, so the rebel army that had lingered in the forests and mountains of Coimbra for three generations had become more bold.
Strikes hit castles known to be held by new nobility, and many of those castles fell. Those that did not were infiltrated by spies, and soon fell in other ways. But there were also victories on the side of the usurping council, and one of those victories had managed to capture not only one of the rebel king's finest generals, but also his eldest son and only daughter, too. Caerell Adair, who should have been the highest ranking noble in the land, knelt with his children in the dank cell they had been pressed into, aware that their deaths could come swiftly. What he regretted most was the death of his daughter, a girl he had never coddled, named for the mother who had died birthing her. Rosemary should not have been here, and yet here she was, as capable to spy and fight as her brothers ever were. She had evaded capture too many times for it to be mere luck, and yet at this crucial moment, she had been caught. It had been her capture that had brought both he and her elder brother out of hiding, the new noble of this castle reneging on his word and keeping her imprisoned with them.
Outside, they could hear the clash of weapons as their army fought to take the castle and free them. It would take a miracle, they all knew. Yet of the three of them, only Rosemary was on her knees, praying to the Goddess to deliver them from the fate that seemed to be their destiny.
It seemed the Goddess had a strange way of answering prayers. Malcolm Anderson wasn't a noble or a knight or even a soldier. He was a simple historian from a peaceful time in Coimbra's history. He was familiar with the war that had taken place nearly a hundred years ago, but only because he had studied it. As it happened, he was something of an expert on this period of history, over a hundred years in his own past. It was during a crucial period in that history that the Goddess answered a prayer and drew him from his time into theirs.
"Will you not at least plead for her, Father?" Duncan was saying in a low voice, trying to get his father to somehow spare his sister's life. He knew his was forfeit, as was Caerell's, but Rosemary might come out of this alive, if not the way she would have liked.
Caerell frowned, considering his youngest child as she prayed. She was a capable young woman, though she should have been married years ago. What man would have her now, he reflected, with her knowledge of daggers and death? Any man who wed her would have to be very sure she wanted to be in his bed. Still, Duncan made a fair point. She should not have been here, he should not have used her as his spy. If he could save her, he should try.
Unaware of the whispers behind her, Rose knelt in the middle of the cell, her clasped hands touching her forehead, her eyes closed. She was a devout follower of the Goddess, raised in the true faith and believing in it with a ferocity that put some clerics to shame. If there was anyone in this castle the Goddess might hear, it was her. And it seemed She had heard.
Without any warning, there was a thunderous crack of sound within the small cell, a flash of light that blinded all three of them, and Caerell heard his daughter yelp, the scramble of her body over mold-ridden rushes and dank stone as something else landed heavily against the flagstone floor. Duncan reached out to pull his little sister to her feet, blinking against the purple flowers that bloomed over his vision as outside the door to their cell, footsteps could be heard approaching. Whatever had happened, it had not gone unnoticed by their captors.
Upon further examination, what it was that had landed heavily on the floor of their cell was a man - crumpled on the floor, dazed and disoriented and groaning as if in pain. He was dressed in the tartan of the Clan Anderson, though the style of his clothing was a bit strange. His face couldn't yet be seen, as he'd arrived face down, a thick head of wavy brown hair on his head.
The three captives did not have much time to absorb what had just happened, however. The heavy door to their cell burst open; two guards charged inside, against all orders to the contrary from their master. Without needing to even glance at one another, the three members of the Adair family sprang into action, and for a few minutes, the air rang with the sound of pain and the crash of metal against stone.
When all was quiet once again, the guards lay dead, their weapons distributed among the three Adairs.
"Father ....what about him?" Rose asked, nodding toward their unexpected guest. "Couldn't be witchcraft, I was praying."
"Aye, and he's wearing Anderson colors," Duncan added. "They've been true."
Caerell frowned, glancing between his children. His priority was to get out of this castle ....but he wouldn't have had the opportunity to do that without this stranger's unexpected arrival. "Bring him," he ordered in a harsh tone. "Kill him if he gives us up."
Duncan rolled his eyes, reaching down to pull the stranger up onto his feet, pressing a spare sword into his hand. "Keep close and keep quiet," he told the Anderson. "You're dead if you squeak."
The stranger groaned again as he was pulled to his feet, the cell swaying around him dizzily for an instant before it righted itself. He found a sword thrust into his hand, and looking around, a couple of bleeding bodies on the floor. "Where ..." he murmured, in a language which matched their own, his face going pale at the threat of death, and yet, the man had put a sword in his hand, as though he was might need it, but for what? He quickly took in his surroundings, realizing they were in a prison of some sort or another, but that didn't explain how he'd arrived there.
Caerell looked out into the passage beyond the door, glancing back. "Rose," he ordered, and the young woman slipped past them all, hurrying on silent feet to the far end of the passage to peer about the corner. She nodded back to them, and Caerell set off after her.
Duncan grasped a handful of the newcomer's shirt and pushed him after his father. "Silence or death," he reminded him, hefting the sword in his own hand.
The man might have argued, had he not been threatened with death, though none of it made any sense. Why give a sword to someone you were threatening to kill? And yet, he was quick enough to realize that his captors - whoever they were - had just killed two guards in an attempt to escape from a prison cell. But who were they and why were they here, and more importantly, why was he here with them, and where the bloody hell were they' The last thing he remembered was being at church, praying alone as he did from time to time for the soul of his dear late sister.
The dawn will come.
It was a promise that had been shared among the dispossessed and downtrodden of Coimbra for the last hundred years, used as a password, an assurance that they, at least, had not broken faith with the Goddess and the true Church of Meringia. Despite the fact that their king had been dispossessed, that their country was ruled by a puppet king in turn ruled by a heretic council, there were many who had never stopped fighting that regime. With the Coimbrans defeat on the battlefield of Berynsford in Francia, hope had begun to rise in the common people that their true king might be able to reclaim his land and his rights. And as that hope rose, so the rebel army that had lingered in the forests and mountains of Coimbra for three generations had become more bold.
Strikes hit castles known to be held by new nobility, and many of those castles fell. Those that did not were infiltrated by spies, and soon fell in other ways. But there were also victories on the side of the usurping council, and one of those victories had managed to capture not only one of the rebel king's finest generals, but also his eldest son and only daughter, too. Caerell Adair, who should have been the highest ranking noble in the land, knelt with his children in the dank cell they had been pressed into, aware that their deaths could come swiftly. What he regretted most was the death of his daughter, a girl he had never coddled, named for the mother who had died birthing her. Rosemary should not have been here, and yet here she was, as capable to spy and fight as her brothers ever were. She had evaded capture too many times for it to be mere luck, and yet at this crucial moment, she had been caught. It had been her capture that had brought both he and her elder brother out of hiding, the new noble of this castle reneging on his word and keeping her imprisoned with them.
Outside, they could hear the clash of weapons as their army fought to take the castle and free them. It would take a miracle, they all knew. Yet of the three of them, only Rosemary was on her knees, praying to the Goddess to deliver them from the fate that seemed to be their destiny.
It seemed the Goddess had a strange way of answering prayers. Malcolm Anderson wasn't a noble or a knight or even a soldier. He was a simple historian from a peaceful time in Coimbra's history. He was familiar with the war that had taken place nearly a hundred years ago, but only because he had studied it. As it happened, he was something of an expert on this period of history, over a hundred years in his own past. It was during a crucial period in that history that the Goddess answered a prayer and drew him from his time into theirs.
"Will you not at least plead for her, Father?" Duncan was saying in a low voice, trying to get his father to somehow spare his sister's life. He knew his was forfeit, as was Caerell's, but Rosemary might come out of this alive, if not the way she would have liked.
Caerell frowned, considering his youngest child as she prayed. She was a capable young woman, though she should have been married years ago. What man would have her now, he reflected, with her knowledge of daggers and death? Any man who wed her would have to be very sure she wanted to be in his bed. Still, Duncan made a fair point. She should not have been here, he should not have used her as his spy. If he could save her, he should try.
Unaware of the whispers behind her, Rose knelt in the middle of the cell, her clasped hands touching her forehead, her eyes closed. She was a devout follower of the Goddess, raised in the true faith and believing in it with a ferocity that put some clerics to shame. If there was anyone in this castle the Goddess might hear, it was her. And it seemed She had heard.
Without any warning, there was a thunderous crack of sound within the small cell, a flash of light that blinded all three of them, and Caerell heard his daughter yelp, the scramble of her body over mold-ridden rushes and dank stone as something else landed heavily against the flagstone floor. Duncan reached out to pull his little sister to her feet, blinking against the purple flowers that bloomed over his vision as outside the door to their cell, footsteps could be heard approaching. Whatever had happened, it had not gone unnoticed by their captors.
Upon further examination, what it was that had landed heavily on the floor of their cell was a man - crumpled on the floor, dazed and disoriented and groaning as if in pain. He was dressed in the tartan of the Clan Anderson, though the style of his clothing was a bit strange. His face couldn't yet be seen, as he'd arrived face down, a thick head of wavy brown hair on his head.
The three captives did not have much time to absorb what had just happened, however. The heavy door to their cell burst open; two guards charged inside, against all orders to the contrary from their master. Without needing to even glance at one another, the three members of the Adair family sprang into action, and for a few minutes, the air rang with the sound of pain and the crash of metal against stone.
When all was quiet once again, the guards lay dead, their weapons distributed among the three Adairs.
"Father ....what about him?" Rose asked, nodding toward their unexpected guest. "Couldn't be witchcraft, I was praying."
"Aye, and he's wearing Anderson colors," Duncan added. "They've been true."
Caerell frowned, glancing between his children. His priority was to get out of this castle ....but he wouldn't have had the opportunity to do that without this stranger's unexpected arrival. "Bring him," he ordered in a harsh tone. "Kill him if he gives us up."
Duncan rolled his eyes, reaching down to pull the stranger up onto his feet, pressing a spare sword into his hand. "Keep close and keep quiet," he told the Anderson. "You're dead if you squeak."
The stranger groaned again as he was pulled to his feet, the cell swaying around him dizzily for an instant before it righted itself. He found a sword thrust into his hand, and looking around, a couple of bleeding bodies on the floor. "Where ..." he murmured, in a language which matched their own, his face going pale at the threat of death, and yet, the man had put a sword in his hand, as though he was might need it, but for what? He quickly took in his surroundings, realizing they were in a prison of some sort or another, but that didn't explain how he'd arrived there.
Caerell looked out into the passage beyond the door, glancing back. "Rose," he ordered, and the young woman slipped past them all, hurrying on silent feet to the far end of the passage to peer about the corner. She nodded back to them, and Caerell set off after her.
Duncan grasped a handful of the newcomer's shirt and pushed him after his father. "Silence or death," he reminded him, hefting the sword in his own hand.
The man might have argued, had he not been threatened with death, though none of it made any sense. Why give a sword to someone you were threatening to kill? And yet, he was quick enough to realize that his captors - whoever they were - had just killed two guards in an attempt to escape from a prison cell. But who were they and why were they here, and more importantly, why was he here with them, and where the bloody hell were they' The last thing he remembered was being at church, praying alone as he did from time to time for the soul of his dear late sister.