7th February, 1617
Two weeks' travel on foot does not sound like much on paper. In practice, in an era where anyone wearing the wrong colors was a target for those men who believed themselves to hold the power in the land, it was a harrowing experience.
Despite the skill of Duncan and Rosemary Adair, there was no way to avoid a few scuffles on their trail east, though this, at least, gave Malcolm an opportunity to prove his worth with a bow when it came to something more than hunting. The last week, however, had been uneventful, occurring as it did beneath the boughs of the Forest of Wirth, a vast expanse of woodland in the far east of Coimbra, so dense and unmapped that no one willingly ventured too far within its borders. No one, that is, except those who were loyal to the house of Nairn and had been dispossessed because of it.
Duncan and Rosemary had lived their whole lives beneath these trees; they knew the path like an old friend, however many twists and turns it made. And once within the Forest, they had relaxed, drawing out of themselves to begin forging a friendship with Malcolm Anderson that was not wholly unexpected. They were not the distant nobles he had read of in books; they were flesh and blood and bone, and far more earthy than he might ever have expected.
The most important thing he had learned was that they were not only legends but living, breathing people who were just as human as he was. They were not perfect but full of faults and foibles, and while he had once admired them as the legends they'd become, he was coming to care for them as the people they were.
Around noon on the sixteenth day of their journey, their path suddenly opened up, and Malcolm was brought into one of the great secrets of the Forest of Wirth. Travel deep enough, trust the valleys, and you would be rewarded. A new valley opened up before him, speckled with clearings, and dotted with what were clearly houses built from the natural materials to be found all over the Forest. This was the rebel camp, and only those who knew the path had ever found it.
As they rested at the crest of the mountain path that led down, they were spotted by sentinels, and the sound of horns blowing announced their arrival long before they ever reached the valley floor. They were greeted with cheerful waves and shouts, the two siblings shouting back answers to the questions called and receiving answers of their own. Their father was already here, as were most of the men who had been engaged in battle at Imbre. It seemed as though they were the last to return, watched for with concern until the sight of them brought relief to those watchers.
As they passed further into the valley, between the houses and clearings and streams, it became more of a green city than a camp, people going about their everyday business with calm purpose, until suddenly a bearded man came hurtling out of the group ahead of them, slamming headlong into Duncan and knocking him to the ground in a yelling, fond display of roughhousing.
Rosemary stood back, a wry smile on her face. "Master Anderson," she said to Malcolm in amusement. "That would be the crown prince, losing to my brother in the time-honored display of wrestling he's not supposed to still engage in."
As a native of Coimbra, Malcolm had heard of the legendary Forest of Wirth, though little enough of it was left in his time. Most of it had been burned well before his time, the rebels who'd called it home killed or captured. It was all part of history to him, but it was a part of history that had not yet happened in the past, and he could not hide the look of awe and wonder on his face as they traveled deeper into those woods, revealing their secrets.
Out of instinct, Malcolm pulled Rosemary aside as the two men collided and were knocked to the ground, safely out of harm's way. It was obvious to him that the men were friends and that this was their way of greeting each other, but he did not realize that the bearded stranger was the crown prince until she told him as much. This, too, was a part of history he'd never known - these personal stories of the people who'd lived and died beneath these trees, and it struck him not for the first time that Rosemary and her brother were not supposed to be there, and yet, somehow they were because of him.
Apparently overhearing Rosemary's introduction, the prince coughed in feigned embarrassment, pushing himself up onto his feet to give Duncan a hand up as well. "Lady Rosemary," the prince inclined his head to her with a grin, laughing when the young woman threw her arms around him in a warm embrace. "Och, it's good to see you both," he declared. "We feared the worst."
"We had a miracle," Duncan told him. "Master Malcolm Anderson, may I present Prince Dugan of Clan Nairn. When he puts my sister down."
Laughing, Dugan lowered Rose back onto her feet, offering Malcolm a warm hand to clasp. "You're the miracle, aye?" he said, warm pleasure in his voice. "Then glad I am to meet you, Master Anderson. We'd be lost without our friends back home again."
"No miracle, Your Highness. Just a man hoping to right a few wrongs," Malcolm insisted, finding his voice at last as he clasped hands with the Crown Prince - a man whose fate Malcolm knew, but hoped to change, just as he'd changed that of Rosemary and her family.
"Aye, well, start by teaching this one not to go poking her nose in where she knows it'll be trouble," Dugan chuckled, nodding to Rosemary as he released Malcolm's hand. "Father'll want to meet you. Why don't you -"
"- let us wash and change before we embarrass the man by showing him off to more royalty?" Duncan suggested with a grin.
Dugan rolled his eyes. "Of course, I'm forgetting you've only just arrived," he admitted. "You're to wear a dress, Rose, I'm getting married tonight."
"Did you think I'd forgotten?" she replied with an arch of her brow.
"Just checking," Dugan chuckled. "Go on, all of you. I'll let Father know he's a guest to meet. You may be lucky and find him fully dressed for once."
Malcolm silently observed while the threesome, who were obviously close friends, chatted amicably among themselves. He was a stranger here, a newcomer, and yet, he had been welcomed as a friend and ally, but what was he going to say when he met the Crown Prince's father" To say Tralin Nairn was a legendary figure in Coimbra's history was a gross understatement. He was the hero of every child who'd ever hoped for a free Coimbra, even if he had been defeated in battle. He represented what Coimbra could have been, if she had not been torn apart from within and without. And yet, once again, Malcolm realized that there was still a chance to change history, if only he could somehow convince them to listen to him.
"Wait, did you say Anderson?" Dugan said suddenly, his eyes finding Malcolm with disconcerting interest. "Clan Anderson?"
Two weeks' travel on foot does not sound like much on paper. In practice, in an era where anyone wearing the wrong colors was a target for those men who believed themselves to hold the power in the land, it was a harrowing experience.
Despite the skill of Duncan and Rosemary Adair, there was no way to avoid a few scuffles on their trail east, though this, at least, gave Malcolm an opportunity to prove his worth with a bow when it came to something more than hunting. The last week, however, had been uneventful, occurring as it did beneath the boughs of the Forest of Wirth, a vast expanse of woodland in the far east of Coimbra, so dense and unmapped that no one willingly ventured too far within its borders. No one, that is, except those who were loyal to the house of Nairn and had been dispossessed because of it.
Duncan and Rosemary had lived their whole lives beneath these trees; they knew the path like an old friend, however many twists and turns it made. And once within the Forest, they had relaxed, drawing out of themselves to begin forging a friendship with Malcolm Anderson that was not wholly unexpected. They were not the distant nobles he had read of in books; they were flesh and blood and bone, and far more earthy than he might ever have expected.
The most important thing he had learned was that they were not only legends but living, breathing people who were just as human as he was. They were not perfect but full of faults and foibles, and while he had once admired them as the legends they'd become, he was coming to care for them as the people they were.
Around noon on the sixteenth day of their journey, their path suddenly opened up, and Malcolm was brought into one of the great secrets of the Forest of Wirth. Travel deep enough, trust the valleys, and you would be rewarded. A new valley opened up before him, speckled with clearings, and dotted with what were clearly houses built from the natural materials to be found all over the Forest. This was the rebel camp, and only those who knew the path had ever found it.
As they rested at the crest of the mountain path that led down, they were spotted by sentinels, and the sound of horns blowing announced their arrival long before they ever reached the valley floor. They were greeted with cheerful waves and shouts, the two siblings shouting back answers to the questions called and receiving answers of their own. Their father was already here, as were most of the men who had been engaged in battle at Imbre. It seemed as though they were the last to return, watched for with concern until the sight of them brought relief to those watchers.
As they passed further into the valley, between the houses and clearings and streams, it became more of a green city than a camp, people going about their everyday business with calm purpose, until suddenly a bearded man came hurtling out of the group ahead of them, slamming headlong into Duncan and knocking him to the ground in a yelling, fond display of roughhousing.
Rosemary stood back, a wry smile on her face. "Master Anderson," she said to Malcolm in amusement. "That would be the crown prince, losing to my brother in the time-honored display of wrestling he's not supposed to still engage in."
As a native of Coimbra, Malcolm had heard of the legendary Forest of Wirth, though little enough of it was left in his time. Most of it had been burned well before his time, the rebels who'd called it home killed or captured. It was all part of history to him, but it was a part of history that had not yet happened in the past, and he could not hide the look of awe and wonder on his face as they traveled deeper into those woods, revealing their secrets.
Out of instinct, Malcolm pulled Rosemary aside as the two men collided and were knocked to the ground, safely out of harm's way. It was obvious to him that the men were friends and that this was their way of greeting each other, but he did not realize that the bearded stranger was the crown prince until she told him as much. This, too, was a part of history he'd never known - these personal stories of the people who'd lived and died beneath these trees, and it struck him not for the first time that Rosemary and her brother were not supposed to be there, and yet, somehow they were because of him.
Apparently overhearing Rosemary's introduction, the prince coughed in feigned embarrassment, pushing himself up onto his feet to give Duncan a hand up as well. "Lady Rosemary," the prince inclined his head to her with a grin, laughing when the young woman threw her arms around him in a warm embrace. "Och, it's good to see you both," he declared. "We feared the worst."
"We had a miracle," Duncan told him. "Master Malcolm Anderson, may I present Prince Dugan of Clan Nairn. When he puts my sister down."
Laughing, Dugan lowered Rose back onto her feet, offering Malcolm a warm hand to clasp. "You're the miracle, aye?" he said, warm pleasure in his voice. "Then glad I am to meet you, Master Anderson. We'd be lost without our friends back home again."
"No miracle, Your Highness. Just a man hoping to right a few wrongs," Malcolm insisted, finding his voice at last as he clasped hands with the Crown Prince - a man whose fate Malcolm knew, but hoped to change, just as he'd changed that of Rosemary and her family.
"Aye, well, start by teaching this one not to go poking her nose in where she knows it'll be trouble," Dugan chuckled, nodding to Rosemary as he released Malcolm's hand. "Father'll want to meet you. Why don't you -"
"- let us wash and change before we embarrass the man by showing him off to more royalty?" Duncan suggested with a grin.
Dugan rolled his eyes. "Of course, I'm forgetting you've only just arrived," he admitted. "You're to wear a dress, Rose, I'm getting married tonight."
"Did you think I'd forgotten?" she replied with an arch of her brow.
"Just checking," Dugan chuckled. "Go on, all of you. I'll let Father know he's a guest to meet. You may be lucky and find him fully dressed for once."
Malcolm silently observed while the threesome, who were obviously close friends, chatted amicably among themselves. He was a stranger here, a newcomer, and yet, he had been welcomed as a friend and ally, but what was he going to say when he met the Crown Prince's father" To say Tralin Nairn was a legendary figure in Coimbra's history was a gross understatement. He was the hero of every child who'd ever hoped for a free Coimbra, even if he had been defeated in battle. He represented what Coimbra could have been, if she had not been torn apart from within and without. And yet, once again, Malcolm realized that there was still a chance to change history, if only he could somehow convince them to listen to him.
"Wait, did you say Anderson?" Dugan said suddenly, his eyes finding Malcolm with disconcerting interest. "Clan Anderson?"