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.

"Not a word," Caerell told the cook, who actually blushed when he kissed her hand. Evidently Laird Caerell Adair had something of a reputation, as well as charm when it suited him. He turned to his children. "Go on ....Rose, you're first."

The young woman discarded her dagger, heaving herself into the chute to slither down slimy stone with barely a sound.

Duncan took the sword from the stranger's hand. "You're next," he told him.

The man scowled, slightly annoyed that he hadn't thought of charming the cook, but then he wasn't a laird and charming women - young or old - had never been his strong point. He wasn't entirely sure if he trusted the younger Adair, but he had no choice but to do as he was told. It had been his idea, after all. He knew it was going to be cold, but it was better than the alternative option of facing imprisonment or execution, and so, he, too, climbed into the chute and slithered downward, his stomach turning at the stench.

It was just as well the sword had been taken from him - the thought of what could happen to a man hitting water from thirty feet up with a sharp weapon in his hand didn't bear considering. That water, however, was a relatively swift river that served as moat to the castle itself, and it was icy cold. Indeed, he may only have had a moment to acknowledge that there was snow on the ground before he hit that water.

The water was cold enough to take his breath away, but thankfully, he knew how to swim and knew he and his companions had to get to land quickly or they'd freeze. Even so, there was the danger of freezing if they couldn't find shelter and get dry and warm very soon. Fortunately, he knew a little something about their surroundings and knew that there should be a rebel encampment nearby. He gulped a breath as he surfaced, his breath turning to vapor in the cold, and searched for any sign of the girl.

She was slower in surfacing, or perhaps his heavier form had caught up to hers in the falling, but either way, she popped up from the water with a shocked gasp almost the moment his eyes turned to find her. Flailing arms and a robust grasp of unladylike language saw her striking for the bank, eager to get out of the water as fast as she could, even as two successive splashes declared that her brother and father had joined them in freedom.

Relieved to find her surfacing nearby, and hearing the two splashes that announced her brother and father had joined them, he struck out for the bank, as eager as her to get out of the cold water before his arms and legs were so cold they refused to obey him. It wasn't far to shore, but climbing out of the water with heavy, water-laden clothing and nearly frozen limbs proved a challenge, even for a man of his size. Somehow he managed to stumble onto the shore, shivering and soaked to the skin.

Huffing out belabored breaths as she dragged herself up onto her feet, each breath misting in the frozen air, Rose reached out to pull him up onto his feet, glancing back to see her father and brother crawling from the water. The woods encroached on this bank, a helpful offer of cover from careless glances over the battlements, and with luck, their people were camped within. Shivering, Caerell pushed them all toward the trees. He needed to find his men and call a retreat.

Why she was helping him when he should be helping her, he wasn't sure. Maybe they were helping each other, but there was no time to think about any of that now, not when their lives were in danger. There was no time for questions or explanations, and the stranger whose name they still did not know hurried toward the cover of trees along with them.

"Where now, Da?" Duncan asked as they ducked out of sight of the battlements, each of them struggling as the cold air turned their clothing to ice against their skin.

Caerell huffed on his hands, warming his already numb fingers, scanning the wood. "Deeper in," he said, nodding to the west. "We need to find the forward camp." With barely a glance to the others, he headed in that direction, marching with a smart step to try and counteract the cold.

It was all they could do to keep moving when they were slowly freezing to death, but it was better than standing still. The stranger who was wearing Clan Anderson tartan turned quiet, all of his attention focused on keeping one foot moving in front of the other.

It seemed as though Laird Adair knew how his people would have set their lines, though. Within a few minutes, they came upon a patrol of pikemen, who were only too happy to part with their cloaks to warm the quartet's backs and escort them into the forward camp. There, Caerell left them, giving orders to have their guest treated well before disappearing to take charge of his army. Now he was out, he needed to pull them back before he lost too many good people. Rose was quickly out of sight, but the stranger was taken into the tent set aside for Duncan and his father. The brazier was lit already, hot wine in a jug set nearby, and dry clothing easily found. Duncan sacrificed some of his own clothing to get their stranger dressed and warm, if not entirely comfortable.

The stranger made no complaints, but he had turned sullenly quiet now that they were free of the castle. It wasn't so much the cold that held his tongue, though as he huddled in front of the fire, his teeth stopped chattering and he started to feel the blood flowing to his arms and legs again. He was feeling bewildered and confused, though strangely at home here. None of it made any sense, but if this truly was some miracle, then he wondered what his part was in it.

"So, you're an Anderson," Duncan said finally, handing him a cup of spiced wine and joining him in that huddle by the fire. "Have to get you measured for boots - those slipper things were ruined by the fall. You've a name, have you?"

"Malcolm," the man replied, looking away from the fire to meet the other man's gaze and take the cup of spice wine in his hand with a murmur of thanks. "Malcolm Anderson. And you're Duncan Adair, the son of Caerell Adair and brother to Rosemary," he said, having gleaned most of this on his own.

"Aye, I am," Duncan nodded. "You forgot Brodie - he's between me and Rose. Most people forget him, though, seems to be how he likes it." He eyed Malcolm thoughtfully. "How'd you get in there? Magic doesn't exist, there's got to be a how to what happened to drop you in Rose's lap."

"I dunnae know," Malcolm replied with a brogue that matched Duncan's so closely, it seemed he must be from roughly the same area, if not the same time period. "You will think me mad when I tell you."

"Aye, it's like as not that I will," Duncan agreed with a chuckle, glancing up as a shadow passed over the flap of the tent. "Get your skinny backside in here, Rosie. Keep warm while you're dropping your eaves."

Obligingly, the flap of the tent opened to admit Rosemary Adair, clean and cloaked, her wet hair braided back from her face. She still didn't look much like a laird's daughter, foregoing skirts for sturdy leather breeches and a thick padded jerkin over a shirt, but she was infinitely less a ragamuffin now than she had been in the cell.

"Rose, this is Malcolm Anderson," her brother introduced them. "Malcolm, this is my wee sister, Rosemary. He was about to explain how he dropped on us."

"Aye, that'd be a good start," Rose smiled, tucking herself onto the bench beside her brother. Her dark eyes rested on Malcolm curiously. "I've never known the Goddess to answer prayers like that before."

"A quill," he echoed, frowning further. He was not about to admit that he was probably one of those men, determined to do his part while he was here, for however long he was here, realizing suddenly that he had no idea how to go home, and yet, this was a historian's dream. "I'm better with a bow than a sword," he admitted at last, though he was at least adequate with both.

"Good, then we'll have some decent game to eat on our way," Duncan grinned at him. "Don't look so glum, Malcolm. You've saved our lives - saved the Laird from a bad death. That's proof enough you're of our mind, even without the display you made with your entrance. Rose believes in you, that's good enough for me."

"Display I made?" Malcolm echoed again, moving to his feet, his face flushed, not from anger but excitement. "Do you have any idea who I am or where I'm from' Do you have any bloody idea how I got here?" he asked further, his voice rising and tinged with a hint of panic. "If I told you, you'd think me mad. I am nae sure myself. I was in church, praying for my sister, and suddenly I'm here ....over one hundred years in the past."

To his credit, Duncan took all this in with relative calm, eyeing Malcolm for a long moment. "Well, I didn't say you weren't a wee bit touched in the head," he pointed out, handing over one of the packs. "Settle that on you; let me see about a bow."

"You are not hearing me, man. I know what happened here ....What was supposed to happen. I know what happens in the days and years to come. But if anyone knows that I know, they'll either think me mad or a servant of the devil. I cannae explain how I came to be here, miracle or no, but I am no kin of the devil," Malcolm told the man, with a hint of panic in his voice.

"Now listen here ..." Duncan turned to him suddenly, grasping him by the collar to pull him close, a fierceness about his expression that did not bear arguing with. "You're a miracle, a gift from the Goddess. Without you, we'd be dead or worse. My wee sister believes in you, believes the Goddess sent you here in answer to her prayers, and I'll not have you even mentioning demons and devils to her, you understand me" Talking of past and future and knowledge you couldn't have - I'll not stand for it. She trusts you, and for her sake, so do I. But you put yourself out in front of the common man spouting that nonsense, and not even the king can save you from a burning, you ken?"

"That's what I'm trying to tell you," Malcolm said, shoving the man off, bristling a little at his lecture, though he knew he was only trying to help. He didn't know who to trust here and knowing the past didn't help. "You should know, there is no Coimbra in the future," he warned him, dropping his voice to not much more than a whisper. "If by some miracle, the Goddess truly did bring me here, then I will do everything in my power to make sure the rightful king is restored to his throne."

"No Coi -" Shut your mouth!" Duncan jerked back from him, fierce and angry now. "I don't know what you think you're doing, but saying stuff like that's not going to make you any friends, man. Get that pack on your back, pick up that bow. Not another word of this, or I'll black your eye."

From outside the tent came the sound of a feminine chuckle. "Playing nicely, are we, boys?" Rosemary asked, opening the flap to peer inside.

Malcolm might have taken offense to that, if Rosemary had not intervened. He realized pretty quickly that Duncan was not the one to whom he should be confiding. Whether the man believed him or not, there didn't seem much point in arguing about something that couldn't be proven. He shouldered the pack with a scowl and a grumble. "Believe me or not, I just saved your hide, and I'll likely do so again in the future."

"Did I say you didn't?" Duncan countered incredulously, but wasn't allowed to say anything else.

Rosemary threw a heavy bundle at him, distracting him from hasty words as he fumbled to catch it. "Come away out here, Master Anderson," she invited Malcolm. "Let's set a quiver for that bow to you."

It was just as well before the two men wound up giving each other black eyes. Malcolm was no coward, nor was he incapable of defending himself, even if he wasn't a soldier by trade. He eyed Duncan a moment longer before pushing out of the tent with another muttered grumble.

Rosemary stepped back to the tent once he was out, pausing to meet her brother's eyes with a warning before she followed Malcolm. "Well, there's a fine start to a journey," she commented in mild amusement, drawing him out of the way of the bustle as around them tents were struck. She paused to take up a quiver, eyeing his waist thoughtfully. "Aye, that belt should fit. Get it on you."

"Is it true?" Malcolm asked, once he and Rosemary were out of earshot of her brother. He took hold of the belt and fit it around his waist. Weapons hadn't really changed all that much in a hundred years, though other things had. He was asking specifically about the Goddess, but she might not know what it was he was asking about.

She frowned curiously, tilting her head up at him as she gathered a handful of arrows to tuck into the quiver he was adjusting as they spoke. "Is what true?" she asked him. After all, she hadn't overheard much, if any, of his conversation with her brother.

"That I'm a miracle from the Goddess," he replied, relaxing a little now that he wasn't arguing with her brother. Maybe Duncan was right; maybe it was better if he kept the truth to himself, but if it was Rosemary's prayer that had brought him here, he thought she at least deserved to know.

"How can you not be?" she asked gently. "No one but I knows the content of my prayer, and yet here you are. And no, I'm not telling you exactly what I was praying for." She broke off with a low laugh, a fresh blush on her cheeks as she tucked the last of the arrows into his quiver and checked him over.

"I'm nae soldier, lass," he warned her. "But I swear I will do whatever I can for the good of Coimbra, her king, and her people." Hadn't he always thought he'd been born too late" Too late to change history, too late to save the king, too late to fight for the land he so loved; but now, it seemed the Goddess was giving him a chance to do just that, and who was he to question it"

"Which king?" The question wasn't the accusation it might have been; Rosemary believed he had been sent to them in their hour of need, after all. She was actually teasing the man, a sparkle in her dark eyes not really needing the grin on her lips to tell him so. "I may have to cut your trews off if you answer wrongly."

"You know what king I mean," he told her, his voice softening for some reason when he spoke to her, without even realizing it. Perhaps it was because he had only recently lost his sister, or perhaps it was something else. "Tralin," he replied simply enough.

"Hold fast," she answered, the motto of Clan Nairn - the true royal house - the only confirmation he needed. "I prayed for you, and you came when I most needed you. Never mind Duncan; he's a wee bit addled with everything moving so fast. He won't hold hasty words against you if you don't hold them against him."

It was a little overwhelming to know he was actually standing in the presence of Rosemary Adair, and that he had met her father and brother and helped saved them from death. Oh, he knew he'd only played a small part in changing history, but he couldn't help but wonder what impact it might have on not only his future, but that of the entire country's. "I did nae come by choice. I dunnae know how I came to be here, but here I am, and here I will stay so long as the Goddess wills it."

Rose's smile gentled, unaccountably touched at being called special. It wasn't something she was used to. His frowning comment, however, drew her attention. "Aye, there's a few Andersons in the main camp," she said thoughtfully. "Mostly that clan keeps to the northern border. 'Tis your birthright, after all, and your laird has contacts with Pomerania that've been very useful this last year."

What would happen if they denied him or asked too many questions that he couldn't answer" He could not tell them the truth; they'd only think him a mad man. He had tried the truth with Duncan, and it had only earned him a scolding. "You should get some rest. We've a long way to go yet," he told her, tucking the blanket around her a bit tighter.

"No, you sleep," she told him, though she didn't stop him from drawing the blankets tighter about her. "You've more need of sleep than I. I'll keep this watch tonight, wake Duncan later for his turn."

"I'm nae sure I can," he admitted, though he would be sorry in the morning if he didn't at least try. He wasn't sure what to say to her suddenly, wanting to share what he'd shared with her brother, but afraid she would scold him and scorn him, as well. He wasn't mad, and he wasn't the devil's get. "Do you really believe the Goddess brought me here?"

She looked at him with clear eyes, no sign of suspicion or madness in her own gaze. "Aye, I do," she said softly. "All my life, the Goddess has watched over me. She kept me safe when no other could; She's protected my family, and given us opportunities that wouldn't have come to anyone else. She's always answered my prayers ....maybe not the way I expected, but always. Perhaps She's never been quite so blunt about it as She was with delivering you, but I believe. My faith is my shield, and you're a product of my faith, even if you don't believe that."

But if the Goddess had answered her prayer in bringing him here, what prayer had she answered of his" "You've nae asked much about me," he said, realizing, too, that she had not answered his question about why she should not trust him, though it seemed she did.

"True, I've not," she agreed. "Perhaps I'm not so naive as I seem. Perhaps I know that your words may well be guarded for this short while, until you're certain of your safety, and words cannot always be trusted. I trust your actions, and the panic you felt when you knew we were in danger. You didn't feel that panic for yourself; you felt it for us. That tells me you're a good man, a sound man, and a man I can trust, not only with my own life, but with my family's, too. What more do I need to know?"

He nodded, unable to argue with that. "I will do what I can to keep you safe, Lady," he told her solemnly, even though she might not want to hear that from him. He'd already promised to fight for the rightful king, but she was the one who had brought him here, and she was the one he thought the Goddess had sent him here to protect.

"Then you should sleep, Master Anderson," she told him gently. "There'll be time enough for you to take watch another time. I'm not tired enough to sleep yet, and you've had a busy day."

"You'll wake me if there's trouble," he said. It wasn't a question, though it was likely that if trouble found them, he'd wake on his own. He didn't think he was going to sleep very soundly until they were safe.

"I'll wake you before it gets here," she promised him, though in the back of her mind, she noted his concern. Had he ever had to sleep on the cold ground in hostile territory before this night' She couldn't be certain, but she didn't think he had. "You need to sleep. Try not to worry so much."

That was certainly advice he'd have a hard time taking. How could he not worry' He'd been thrown into one of the most dangerous, albeit, exciting times in his country's history. Not only would he have a chance to witness history, but maybe, just maybe, he'd be able to change it. "Goodnight, then, Lady," he told her, doing his best to make himself comfortable in an impossibly uncomfortable position.

She smiled at him briefly, letting him wriggle against her to get as comfortable as he could before trying to sleep, her own attention turning to the woods outside their chosen camp to keep watch for the first half of the night.

Had he thought to ask for the date, he might have realized that he had already changed the history he was so familiar with. In all the texts of his studies, the date of January 22nd, 1617, was considered one of the most critical in the second Coimbran civil war. It had been on that date that Laird Caerell Adair and his eldest son were hung in chains from the battlements of Imbre Castle, before the eyes of their loyal clansmen, breaking the spirit of the siege.

Yet there was Duncan Adair, alive and well - and snoring - freed from imprisonment by the unexpected intervention of this stranger who seemed to be a gift from an often distant deity. Perhaps the future was already looking brighter; perhaps not. But just by being in the right place at the right time, Malcolm Anderson had changed the history he knew. For good or ill, he would have a bearing on what came next, no matter his intentions.