May 1617
The Forest of Wirth was a bustling place, if you knew where to look. Luckily for the supposed "Rebels of Coimbra", very few people did know where to look. For most of the world, in fact, Wirth was an inhospitable place, impossible to navigate. For the rebels intent on reclaiming their land for the Goddess and their own royal bloodline, it was home. They'd lasted out the winter well enough, and as spring rose, had begun to lay out plans to take certain positions that would not have occurred to them, had it not been for the arrival of Malcolm Anderson in their midst. A man out of time, a gift from the Goddess, and now a knight of the King's own making, his knowledge of the ways their rebellion had failed in his own past was an advantage they could not afford to ignore.
Yet in the midst of all this war-making, there were softer moments to enjoy. The news that King Tralin Nairn's son, Dugan, was expecting his first child with his new wife, Morwen; a heartening missive sent in secret from the inner council of Pomerania, tacitly confirming the High King's support when the time was right. And perhaps most pertinently of all for Malcolm Anderson, the quiet encouragement from Brodie Adair that his little sister, Rosemary, would not object to his attentions if he would only give them to her, and that the elder brother, Duncan, would not do more than black his eye if he discovered canoodling before marriage.
Two months was hardly enough time to court a woman, both in his own time and that of the past in which he now found himself, and yet Malcolm could think of little else. There was the conflict with Coimbra, of course. Until there was peace, there would always be that, and Malcolm had made himself indispensable with his knowledge of their future, as well as other things. He'd made friends among the rebels, and among the true king and his family, but peace had not come to Coimbra yet, and Malcolm was losing his patience in more ways than one.
It did not help that everything seemed to be moving so slowly, either. He wasn't the only one impatient for something to happen. Caerell Adair had taken his eldest son and most of their clan forces north a week ago, splitting them up to avoid detection as they began to work on encircling Castle Imbre, in the mid-point of the country. Others were also gone, doing similar things across the country. But still Malcolm remained here, with Brodie and Rosemary Adair, with Dugan the prince, and with the king himself, still planning and coordinating, until finally the word came that he was to make his way to Imbre and join Caerell and his forces. Rosemary was incandescent with rage.
"No!" she insisted forcefully. "You'll not go, not without me! You don't know the terrain, the land, you'll be caught and killed, and I'll not have it, Malcolm Anderson, I'll not!"
Malcolm had not wanted a fight, at least not with her. Though a scholar by trade, he was no stranger to sword and bow and had been training these past few months with the rebels in preparation for the inevitable. Neither he nor Rosemary could have predicted the inevitable would have come so soon. As soon as she'd heard, she'd gone in search of him and found him sitting on a log, sharpening his blade, as if he hadn't a care in the world, when nothing could be farther from the truth. He wished she'd had the news from him, but that, it seemed, couldn't have been helped, as news spread quickly amidst the rebel camp.
She hadn't actually bothered to begin the conversation, simply launching straight into her rant at him. Her rage did nothing to counteract the fact that it was a tiny woman in ragged pants and tunic, hands on her hips, snapping at him - it would have been comical if he hadn't known that she was mainly angry because no one had told her she was allowed to go with him.
She glared at him. "Well?" she demanded. "Nothing to say for yourself?"
"You speak as if it was my decision to leave for Imbre and not the King's," Malcolm pointed out, doing his best to keep his temper, lest they start shouting at one another. Of the two of them, she was the hot-headed one, and everyone knew it was cooler heads that prevailed. He continued to work at sharpening his blade, without so much as looking at her for fear she would be his undoing.
Rose's glare sharpened when he didn't turn to look at her, more hurt than angry, though he wouldn't know that if he didn't meet her eyes. "Aye, well, the king doesn't know the land, either," she said robustly. "Nor will he, not the way you need to know it to pass safe through the heretic mercenary lines. You've no scout in your party. You should've fought for one, the best we've got!"
"I didn't think it necessary to ask for a scout when I knew you'd want to go along," he told her, again without looking at her, in good part because he didn't want her to see the smirk playing about his mouth. If she had only approached him differently and not attacked him and assumed the worst, there would have been no need for an argument. "There is a condition, however," he started, waiting for her response before going on.
"You're not bloody stopping me from going, if that's what you think," she flared back at him, throwing up her hands. "You're my miracle, Malcolm Anderson, I'll do what I want with you or without, thank you very much!" Except he wasn't her miracle - he was theirs. Mal was living proof that the Goddess had not abandoned the faithful, even if he had been presented in answer to Rosemary's prayer.
Now the whetstone fell silent in his hand as he turned a slow gaze upon her, eyes narrowed slightly at her angry retort. "You're nae hearing me, Rosemary. And as much as I'd like to believe it, I'm nae only here because of you," he told her, his brogue getting the better of him.
Her eyes narrowed. "Layin' conditions on me without a word in my ear before time is not good enough," she informed him, proving that she had heard him well enough. "What do you mean, much as you'd like to believe it?" A vaguely suspicious note entered her voice as she eyed him for that comment.
He set the sword aside for now, with the intent of finishing the chore later. There were a lot of preparations that needed to be made before they left for Imbre, and this was only one of them. "I wish you had heard the news from me first, but it cannae be helped now," he told her, patting a spot on the log beside him, urging her to sit.
"Aye, well, sentries chat," she conceded, knowing it would have been better to have heard he was marching headfirst into danger without her from him. With a huff, she thumped down onto the log beside him without much grace. Truth was, she was angry because she was worried for him, and hurt that she'd been left out.
"Do you really think I'd run off without you?" he asked, turning to face her once she had settled herself beside him and cooled off a little. He couldn't help it if the sentries' tongues wagged, but he could set her straight on the truth.
"Everyone else has," she pointed out a little bitterly. "We got caught once, and yes, it was my fault, but that's no reason to suddenly treat me like I'm breakable. I've as much experience in fighting as anyone has; more in scouting, too."
He sighed, frowning a little as she placed the blame on herself for an event that had been the catalyst in bringing him here. "And if you had nae been caught' What then" I do nae think I would be sitting here beside you," he pointed out, logically, though there was very little that was logical about his arrival there.
"That is not the point I'm making, Mal," she pointed out sternly, looking up at him. "I'm being ferried off with the old and the bairns, and there's no call for it. I'm capable; more capable than Brodie. Have you seen him with that sword lately?"
"This is nae about Brodie. 'Tis about you ....and me," he said, adding the last part a little belatedly and a little more quietly. "I am to lead a party to Imbre, aye, 'tis true. 'Tis also true we will need a scout, and I cannae think of a better scout than you, but there is a condition."
Her dark eyes turned toward his, a little wary of what he might be about to say. You and me. They'd become close over the past two months or so, close enough that she was comfortable to simply yell at him with no preamble, but never yet quite reached that moment where either one would state outright what they wanted. "What's your condition, Mal?" she asked uncertainly.
"What did you mean, I'm your miracle?" he countered, though what he really wanted to know was what she'd meant by her claim that she'd do what she wanted with or without him.
For the first time since he'd met her, Rose hesitated. Her eyes widened, surprised to be challenged on her unthinking accusation. "I, I ..." She shook her head, looking away to hide her expression. "I ....Well, I was the one praying when you arrived." It wasn't the whole truth, but would he accept it?
The Forest of Wirth was a bustling place, if you knew where to look. Luckily for the supposed "Rebels of Coimbra", very few people did know where to look. For most of the world, in fact, Wirth was an inhospitable place, impossible to navigate. For the rebels intent on reclaiming their land for the Goddess and their own royal bloodline, it was home. They'd lasted out the winter well enough, and as spring rose, had begun to lay out plans to take certain positions that would not have occurred to them, had it not been for the arrival of Malcolm Anderson in their midst. A man out of time, a gift from the Goddess, and now a knight of the King's own making, his knowledge of the ways their rebellion had failed in his own past was an advantage they could not afford to ignore.
Yet in the midst of all this war-making, there were softer moments to enjoy. The news that King Tralin Nairn's son, Dugan, was expecting his first child with his new wife, Morwen; a heartening missive sent in secret from the inner council of Pomerania, tacitly confirming the High King's support when the time was right. And perhaps most pertinently of all for Malcolm Anderson, the quiet encouragement from Brodie Adair that his little sister, Rosemary, would not object to his attentions if he would only give them to her, and that the elder brother, Duncan, would not do more than black his eye if he discovered canoodling before marriage.
Two months was hardly enough time to court a woman, both in his own time and that of the past in which he now found himself, and yet Malcolm could think of little else. There was the conflict with Coimbra, of course. Until there was peace, there would always be that, and Malcolm had made himself indispensable with his knowledge of their future, as well as other things. He'd made friends among the rebels, and among the true king and his family, but peace had not come to Coimbra yet, and Malcolm was losing his patience in more ways than one.
It did not help that everything seemed to be moving so slowly, either. He wasn't the only one impatient for something to happen. Caerell Adair had taken his eldest son and most of their clan forces north a week ago, splitting them up to avoid detection as they began to work on encircling Castle Imbre, in the mid-point of the country. Others were also gone, doing similar things across the country. But still Malcolm remained here, with Brodie and Rosemary Adair, with Dugan the prince, and with the king himself, still planning and coordinating, until finally the word came that he was to make his way to Imbre and join Caerell and his forces. Rosemary was incandescent with rage.
"No!" she insisted forcefully. "You'll not go, not without me! You don't know the terrain, the land, you'll be caught and killed, and I'll not have it, Malcolm Anderson, I'll not!"
Malcolm had not wanted a fight, at least not with her. Though a scholar by trade, he was no stranger to sword and bow and had been training these past few months with the rebels in preparation for the inevitable. Neither he nor Rosemary could have predicted the inevitable would have come so soon. As soon as she'd heard, she'd gone in search of him and found him sitting on a log, sharpening his blade, as if he hadn't a care in the world, when nothing could be farther from the truth. He wished she'd had the news from him, but that, it seemed, couldn't have been helped, as news spread quickly amidst the rebel camp.
She hadn't actually bothered to begin the conversation, simply launching straight into her rant at him. Her rage did nothing to counteract the fact that it was a tiny woman in ragged pants and tunic, hands on her hips, snapping at him - it would have been comical if he hadn't known that she was mainly angry because no one had told her she was allowed to go with him.
She glared at him. "Well?" she demanded. "Nothing to say for yourself?"
"You speak as if it was my decision to leave for Imbre and not the King's," Malcolm pointed out, doing his best to keep his temper, lest they start shouting at one another. Of the two of them, she was the hot-headed one, and everyone knew it was cooler heads that prevailed. He continued to work at sharpening his blade, without so much as looking at her for fear she would be his undoing.
Rose's glare sharpened when he didn't turn to look at her, more hurt than angry, though he wouldn't know that if he didn't meet her eyes. "Aye, well, the king doesn't know the land, either," she said robustly. "Nor will he, not the way you need to know it to pass safe through the heretic mercenary lines. You've no scout in your party. You should've fought for one, the best we've got!"
"I didn't think it necessary to ask for a scout when I knew you'd want to go along," he told her, again without looking at her, in good part because he didn't want her to see the smirk playing about his mouth. If she had only approached him differently and not attacked him and assumed the worst, there would have been no need for an argument. "There is a condition, however," he started, waiting for her response before going on.
"You're not bloody stopping me from going, if that's what you think," she flared back at him, throwing up her hands. "You're my miracle, Malcolm Anderson, I'll do what I want with you or without, thank you very much!" Except he wasn't her miracle - he was theirs. Mal was living proof that the Goddess had not abandoned the faithful, even if he had been presented in answer to Rosemary's prayer.
Now the whetstone fell silent in his hand as he turned a slow gaze upon her, eyes narrowed slightly at her angry retort. "You're nae hearing me, Rosemary. And as much as I'd like to believe it, I'm nae only here because of you," he told her, his brogue getting the better of him.
Her eyes narrowed. "Layin' conditions on me without a word in my ear before time is not good enough," she informed him, proving that she had heard him well enough. "What do you mean, much as you'd like to believe it?" A vaguely suspicious note entered her voice as she eyed him for that comment.
He set the sword aside for now, with the intent of finishing the chore later. There were a lot of preparations that needed to be made before they left for Imbre, and this was only one of them. "I wish you had heard the news from me first, but it cannae be helped now," he told her, patting a spot on the log beside him, urging her to sit.
"Aye, well, sentries chat," she conceded, knowing it would have been better to have heard he was marching headfirst into danger without her from him. With a huff, she thumped down onto the log beside him without much grace. Truth was, she was angry because she was worried for him, and hurt that she'd been left out.
"Do you really think I'd run off without you?" he asked, turning to face her once she had settled herself beside him and cooled off a little. He couldn't help it if the sentries' tongues wagged, but he could set her straight on the truth.
"Everyone else has," she pointed out a little bitterly. "We got caught once, and yes, it was my fault, but that's no reason to suddenly treat me like I'm breakable. I've as much experience in fighting as anyone has; more in scouting, too."
He sighed, frowning a little as she placed the blame on herself for an event that had been the catalyst in bringing him here. "And if you had nae been caught' What then" I do nae think I would be sitting here beside you," he pointed out, logically, though there was very little that was logical about his arrival there.
"That is not the point I'm making, Mal," she pointed out sternly, looking up at him. "I'm being ferried off with the old and the bairns, and there's no call for it. I'm capable; more capable than Brodie. Have you seen him with that sword lately?"
"This is nae about Brodie. 'Tis about you ....and me," he said, adding the last part a little belatedly and a little more quietly. "I am to lead a party to Imbre, aye, 'tis true. 'Tis also true we will need a scout, and I cannae think of a better scout than you, but there is a condition."
Her dark eyes turned toward his, a little wary of what he might be about to say. You and me. They'd become close over the past two months or so, close enough that she was comfortable to simply yell at him with no preamble, but never yet quite reached that moment where either one would state outright what they wanted. "What's your condition, Mal?" she asked uncertainly.
"What did you mean, I'm your miracle?" he countered, though what he really wanted to know was what she'd meant by her claim that she'd do what she wanted with or without him.
For the first time since he'd met her, Rose hesitated. Her eyes widened, surprised to be challenged on her unthinking accusation. "I, I ..." She shook her head, looking away to hide her expression. "I ....Well, I was the one praying when you arrived." It wasn't the whole truth, but would he accept it?