Late June, 1617 ...

One week can make a world of difference to the political make up of a country. With the successful taking of Imbre and Nanairna, the rebels now controlled much of Coimbra once more, with the Pomeran army providing support in dealing with pockets of mercenary resistance against the changing regime. The heretic council and their puppet king were holed up in Torlidris, surrounded by enemies and unable to secure safe passage through Pasai or Kediri in order to escape. It was an opportunity to pause, to breathe deeply, and to grow accustomed to the way the world would soon be.

Imbre Castle and the surrounding fief had been officially given to Malcolm Anderson, now styled as Lord Anderson, by King Tralin Nairn, newly crowned on his ancestor's throne. Mal and Rose had set themselves to making the fief and the people within it secure and well treated, and though it would take time for their efforts to bear fruit, they were confident that they would be better masters than Dalgleish had ever been.

Malcolm had sworn to not only be a better master than the one before him, but fairer. He knew it would take time to win the people's loyalty, not to mention their love, but one way or another, he was determined to do it.

"Rose," he started, as the two of them waded through a table full of letters and documents. "What do you think we should do first to earn the people's trust?" he asked of his wife. He had his own thoughts on the matter, but was curious what she might suggest.

Scratching her head with the blunt end of a fork, Rosemary considered this. She was still in male clothing, albeit better tailored and not so ragged as it had been, her hair in a heavy plait that hung over her shoulder.

"Let them wear their clan names with pride again," was her first comment. "They've been forced to be Dalgleish for a whole generation - there'll be plenty who will want to be themselves again. And those who have no clan ....I'd offer to make them Andersons, but you've no authority to do that without talking with your own clan chief."

"Hmm," Malcolm considered this. It was good advice, but he had not yet met his clan chief - not in this time period, anyway. As a historian, he knew who the man was, but the two were not yet acquainted. Perhaps it was time to remedy that. "I will write him and ask. In the meantime, that is a good start."

"We can lower the tithe back to what it was, too," Rose said, rubbing her temple. "That bastard raised it tenfold in the last twenty years - that's why we've a stockpile of grain we're never going to be able to use in the stores. I say we distribute half of it back to the people, and use the rest to keep the army fed until Coimbra's back under the Goddess' hand again."

"That's a good point," Malcolm murmured thoughtfully, rubbing a thumb and forefinger against the scruff of beard on his chin while he considered. "The greedy bastard was robbing the people blind."

"But being robbed blind his own self by the council he served," Rose pointed out. She sighed, standing to stretch out her back with an audible crack of bones snapping back into place. "Is there any more on what?s planned to do to the puppet king?"

Malcolm shrugged. He no longer had any way of knowing what the future might hold, now that they had changed what he knew of the past. "They will probably make an example of him," he guessed, though in his opinion, the Heretic Council was far more guilty than the king, puppet or otherwise.

"Aye," she said with a sigh. "It's doubtful Clan Callender will exist past the retaking of Torlidris, either, so there'll be no safe haven for his queen, either. She will not be welcome in Coimbra."

"I am nae sure what the king will want to do about the traitors," Malcolm remarked with a frown. Would Tralin want to execute them all, or would he be merciful and spare those he thought were less guilty than the ring leaders" Malcolm could only speak to what had happened in his own past, not what might happen in the future.

"Aye, well, we've not the country yet," his wife pointed out quietly. "Until the council and the puppet king have been routed, this is still a war. We'll lose friends before the end. That is just how it is."

"So long as I do nae lose you," he whispered, feeling just a little guilty about that. He had made some good friends since his arrival in this time, but it was Rosemary who held his heart in her hands, and it was Rosemary who he did not want to live without.

Her expression softened as she looked over at him, reaching out to touch his shoulder. "D'you really think She'd part us now?" she asked softly. "After bringing us together, guiding us to this point ....the Goddess is not known for punishing love, sweetheart."

Malcolm smiled at his wife's faith in the Goddess and in him. "Nae, I do nae think She will part us now, and I hope She will nae part us ever," he said, reaching for her hand and tangling his fingers with hers. He, too, had put his faith in the Goddess; after all, it was nothing short of a miracle that had brought him here.

She smiled, her expression warm as he took her hand in his. A commotion by the door caught her attention, lifting her gaze from her husband.

"M'lord," one of the guards spoke from the doorway. "There's a man claiming he's the prince of Pomerania here."

Malcolm got lost in Rosemary's smile a moment, leaning close to brush a kiss against her lips just as they were interrupted and she turned to see who was at the door. He sighed, a little annoyed at the interruption.

"Well, send him in!" he told the guard, as if he should know that already.

Rosemary's smile was tolerant of her husband's lack of wariness as he ordered the man's entrance. She stroked Mal's cheek gently, stepping around the desk to stand between him and the door, one hand on the hilt of her dagger. The man who stepped in was tall and a little disheveled, but certainly better dressed than anyone else Rosemary had ever met. He offered up a somewhat roguish smile.

"Ah. And would I have the honor of being threatened by Lady Rosemary Anderson?"

Rosemary's presumed attempt to protect him only annoyed Malcolm further, and he stepped around the desk to take his place at her side.

"In times like these, one can nae be too careful," he told the man, making no move to lift Rosemary's hand away from her dagger.

"Well, that's interesting," Malcolm said, once he'd finished reading the missive. Everything he'd known was changing, but at least, it seemed to be changing for the better. "It seems our guest will be here for a while."

"You're going to make me play nice with him, aren't you?" his wife asked, not wholly enthused by the idea of having Prince Maksim as a close guest for a good few weeks.

Malcolm chuckled. "On the contrary, lass ....I don't want you to play with him at all. But he is a Prince of Pomerania, and we can nae disobey the king," he pointed out. "Besides, his reputation is somewhat inflated."

"What, so I'm allowed to make his life hell so long as I'm not playing at it?" she asked innocently, rolling her eyes as he defended the prince. "Would this be your foreknowledge again? What was that about a marriage proposal?"

Malcolm sighed, a faint, almost sad frown on his face. "I'm afraid his future is nae such a bright one, but perhaps that, too, will change," he said, unsure if he wanted to reveal more than that. It felt strange sometimes to know things that had not yet happened, but now that they were close to defeating the heretics, he wasn't sure he could still trust that knowledge.

She frowned with him - as much as she was not inclined to like the Pomeran prince, she wouldn't wish him dead. "P'raps we should pick a bride for him while he's here," she suggested with a faint smirk. "I could name a few."

"Now that I've told him to decline the first marriage proposal he receives, he might be suspicious of any matches we might arrange for him," Malcolm remarked, his frown deepening. "Perhaps I should have been more specific."

"Well, if it's true that he knows within the hour when the Dalai takes a shit, love, then he knows about you," Rose told her husband gently. "Maybe you should talk to him in private about it. After all, you've no reason to lie."

"Perhaps," Malcolm considered, a thoughtful - even worried - expression on his face. "But now that we've retaken Imbre, things have changed. I can no longer trust my knowledge of the future."

"Mal ....why would his future marriage be affected by our taking control of our own country again?" she asked him gently. "He's a Pomeran prince, not a Coimbran one."

"Because he was murdered on his wedding night as part of a plot. Now that we've retaken Imbre, it changes things," he explained, still worried. Presumably, they'd changed things for the better, but there were bound to be consequences.

To her credit, Rosemary didn't immediately respond, allowing herself to absorb this information slowly before collecting herself to answer. "Love ....who gave the order for him to be killed?" she asked quietly. "Do you know?"

"It wasn't political. It was only made to look political," Malcolm said, obviously hesitant to name names for some reason. It wasn't because he didn't trust Rosemary, so much as that he wasn't sure he should share the prince's secrets.

"Then you should talk to him," she said again. "Mal, it's his business, and wouldn't you want to know who to be wary of? We cannae afford to have Pomerania in mourning for a prince."

"I suppose I should," Malcolm replied, deciding then and there that he would find the time to have a word with the prince, and sooner rather than later. Having decided that, he pushed those worries temporarily aside. "Who did you have in mind?"

She looked a little shifty for a moment, a bright smile breaking across her face as her eyes sparkled with mischievous confidence. "We do have this convenient Crown Princess," she commented innocently. "And he is a son of the High King and all ..."

"That would bind our two nations together," Malcolm said, stating the obvious. "But I'm nae sure he'd agree to such an arrangement." At least, nae unless the prince found the princess desirable, especially considering his reputation as a rogue.

Rosemary snorted with laughter. "Ellie'll be at Nanairna by now," she pointed out. "We'll be going with the Pomeran army to Nanairna to make plans for the taking of Torlidris. I think we should see if they'll ....hit it off."

"Hm, are you sure you aren't a matchmaker disguised as my wife?" he teased, a glimmer of amusement in his grey-green eyes.

"I match-made us, didn't I?" she grinned, leaning toward him affectionately. "You wouldn't have pressed your luck if I hadn't stuck to you like flies on honey from the moment you arrived."

"And just how do you know I wouldn't have pressed my luck, as you say?" he asked, sounding just a wee bit defensive, though he still had that gleam of amusement in his eyes.

"Brodie told me," she told him, snickering quietly. Her closeness with her brothers was almost legendary, but this was likely the first Mal had heard that his new brothers-in-law had probably had a hand in prodding their little sister to get her claws into him.

Malcolm smiled, tangling his fingers with hers. "You know, I think I fell in love with you before I met you," he confessed. He'd certainly already known about her from his knowledge of her history and had always wished he could have changed her fate. Little had he known then how that wish would be granted.

"Oh, aye?" She chuckled, leaning into his side as her fingers toyed with his. "Sounds like a romantic legend - the Battling Lady of Lanwirth and all." She snorted with laughter, knowing from his stories that her own fate had already been changed for the better thanks to him.

"Aye, something like that," he admitted with a sly grin. "You do nae seem to mind how things have turned out," he said, nudging her shoulder with his own, that gleam still in his eyes.

"Obviously you've bewitched me," she said matter-of-factly, smirking brightly as she did so. "I'm not the owner of my heart anymore. You've got it tucked up here, next to yours." Her free hand reached over to tap gently against his chest.

He covered her hand with his and pressed it tight against his chest, close to his heart. "I think you have that the other way around, lass. It's you who owns my heart," he told her, leaning close to brush a tender kiss to her lips.