Chapter 6

I sabelle’s question came out as a shriek and Magnus could see from her pale skin and wide eyes that she was frightened. Very frightened. It made his insides churn to know he was the cause of it. He didn’t want her to be scared—especially not of him. Yet he couldn’t blame her for it, as most of it was his doing. If she hadn’t met him, no doubt she’d be safely ensconced in her manor house with her husband and servants right now, not out here on the moors in the gathering dark.

And yet, even as he thought about her manor house and her husband and all the other things he’d assumed she had, he began to question his assumptions. An eccentric English noblewoman? He wasn’t so sure. It was the way she spoke. The way she dressed. The things she’d mentioned that he didn’t understand. A car. The police. That...mobile phone thing. No, he was no longer sure Isabelle Ross was what he’d assumed she was.

In fact, a very different suspicion was beginning to grow on him, one he didn’t like one bit.

He squatted next to the dog, using the action as a means to gather his thoughts. Snaffles nudged his hand with a wet nose, seeking attention. Magnus absently scratched the beast’s enormous head as his gaze flickered back to Isabelle.

Her raven hair was disheveled from their wild ride and her hazel eyes were vibrant in the gloom as she watched him, displaying not just fear but anger and frustration, too.

“Magnus?” she said, arms crossed. “I’m waiting. ”

He sighed and scratched at the stubble that covered his chin. Truth was, he wasn’t entirely sure where to start.

“All right. Ye want the truth? Here it is then and make of it what ye will. I’ve been tracking a group of people who have been terrorizing villages all across this area: the people we have just run from. They are outlaws, living beyond the king’s justice, beholden to no law but that of the fist and the sword. That’s why they’re dangerous. That’s why I had to get ye away from them.”

She didn’t blink, didn’t speak, but the set of her mouth shifted from anger and frustration to incredulous disbelief.

“You’re telling me there are actual outlaws running around here?” she said, her skepticism evident in the tone of her voice. “This isn’t Robin Hood’s era, you know? There’s no such thing as outlaws anymore!”

He narrowed his eyes. “Why would ye say that? Outlaws and bandits are always a threat in these remote places. Perhaps it’s different in England—”

“It’s different right here! Criminals do not hide out on the moors! The police would find them with sniffer dogs and helicopters and heat-seeking equipment, and drones and God-knows what else!”

There she went again, saying things he didn’t understand. That dark suspicion in the back of his mind began to grow, but he pushed it aside, not ready to face it yet. There had to be a simpler explanation. “Where do ye live, lass? It’s time we got ye home.”

Relief flashed across her face, making her eyes light up in a way that made Magnus’s chest tighten. “You’ll take me home? ”

“Aye, it’s the least I can do. Where do ye make yer home?”

She waved a hand into the darkness. “Alness.”

“Alness? Is that the name of a manor house?”

“A manor house?” she asked, scrunching up her nose. “It’s a town about ten miles that way. I have an apartment in that new development next to the shopping center.”

“Shopping center? What’s that? A keep of some kind?”

“Eh? It’s exactly what I said. You know: shops, restaurants, cinema. I work in the bank there, so my apartment is pretty convenient.”

Now she had really lost him. He was a man of the world, but these expressions were entirely outside his understanding. Unless...unless...No. He would not go there.

“Are you seriously telling me you don’t know what a shopping center is?” she asked, her tone full of disbelief.

He shook his head. “I do not.”

She rolled her eyes and muttered something about being stuck with a madman. Magnus chewed the inside of his cheek. Shopping center. Restaurant. Cinema. He knew none of these words. Could she really be... No, he couldn’t even think it.

“Magnus?”

He blinked, coming out of his thoughts. “Aye?”

“Why are you staring at me like that?”

“My apologies, lass,” he said. “I...It’s just that...”

He looked at her, really looked at her. The fabric of her clothes was unfamiliar, and so was the cut. Her hair was loose and wild, not elaborately styled as a noblewoman’s would be. Her speech was so odd he sometimes had difficulty understanding her—and it wasn’t just because she was English.

“Ye are not from here, are ye?” he asked slowly.

She huffed. “I told you, I’m from Alness.”

“No,” he said quietly. That dark suspicion reared its head again, and this time it would not be ignored. “Ye are not from Alness. Not from Scotland. Not from this time.”

“Eh? What does that mean?”

“I mean...” He hesitated, unsure of how to phrase it. This was all new territory for him, too. “I think ye might have...traveled through time, lass. I think ye may have come from the future.”

Isabelle stared at him for a second and then threw her head back and laughed. “Oh, is that what’s happened? Silly me. That explains everything!”

“I know it sounds incredible,” he said. “In fact, I can hardly believe it myself. But nothing else makes any sense. I dinna know what a shopping center is, or a cinema, or the police, or some of the other outlandish things ye’ve mentioned because they dinna exist here, in my time.”

Her laughter died away and she stared at him, her eyes wide and full of confusion. “Your time?” she echoed.

“Aye. This time. The Year of Our Lord 1478.”

The silence that followed was deafening.

“I...I don’t...” Isabelle stuttered, her face paling. “This must be a joke!”

Snaffles, sensing her distress, trotted over to his mistress and leaned reassuringly against her, almost knocking her over in the process .

Isabelle looked at Magnus, then at their surroundings—the rolling moors and jagged ridges, the quiet solitude of the landscape, the absence of civilization. She seemed to crumble in upon herself. “That’s impossible...This is the twenty-first century, not the fifteenth. I can’t have traveled back in time.”

“Impossible or not, it is the truth,” Magnus replied gently.

Something that had been nagging at him all day suddenly came into focus. Something she had said earlier.

“Lass,” he began. “Earlier, when ye accused me of stealing yer carriage—”

“Did you have to bring that up? I’m sorry about that. I shouldn’t have accused you. I was...a little overwhelmed.”

He shook his head. “It doesnae matter. Ye said I was working with an old woman. What old woman did ye mean?”

Isabelle shrugged. “I met an old woman right before I met you. She was looking for her cat. Her name was Irene MacAskill.”

Magnus exhaled sharply, his worst fears confirmed. “Did she tell ye who she was? Or what she wanted?”

“No, not really. She told me her name, prattled on a bit, then left looking for her cat. You and her were the only people I met all day, so I kind of jumped to conclusions when my car was gone. Sorry about that. Again.”

Magnus closed his eyes and took a slow breath. She prattled on a bit, then left looking for her cat . Of course she did.

His gaze drifted into the distance, searching the horizon for answers. “I had a strange encounter with an old woman named Irene MacAskill today too,” he said. “She spoke in riddles and prophecies.” He picked up a stone and tossed it into a nearby stream. The soft plop echoed in the quiet. “And I suspect she’s the reason ye are here.” He rubbed his forehead to soothe a growing tension behind his eyes. “Irene MacAskill is more than just an old woman looking for her cat. She’s a Fae. She meddles with the threads of time.”

Isabelle pressed her lips together and said nothing. She reached down to stroke Snaffles who was lying beside her with his head on his paws.

“Let me get this straight. You’re telling me that I am here,” she gestured vaguely around her. “I’m in the past because an old woman named Irene, who is not a woman but actually a fairy, decided to meddle with time?”

“Aye, lass.”

Isabelle shook her head. “Nope. No way. I don’t know what is going on, but I have not traveled to the fifteenth century.”

“I know this must be difficult, but—”

He fell silent as something caught his attention—an acrid smell that carried on the wind. It took only a second for him to recognize it.

Burning.

He spun and saw on the horizon to the west where the sky still held a faint blush of light, a column of smoke rising into the sky. His stomach knotted with dread and he strode over to the horse.

“Sorry,” he said to the beast. “But I need ye to carry me again. It isnae far this time, I promise.”

“What are you doing?” Isabelle asked. “What’s wrong? ”

“See that?” he said tersely, nodding in the direction of the smoke.

“The smoke?” Isabelle asked, peering in the direction he indicated. “Looks like a campfire or someone’s chimney.”

“That’s no chimney or campfire. That’s a village burning.”

Isabelle started in shock. “What? How do you know that?”

Because I’ve seen enough of them , he thought. Too many .

Holding onto the horse’s reins, he swung onto the beast’s back. “Come,” he said to Isabelle, holding out his hand. “They may need help.”

She hesitated. He could see her weighing up her options—to stay with a madman or strike out on her own across the rapidly darkening moors. Perhaps deciding that sticking with a madman was the lesser of two evils, she took his hand and allowed him to pull her up behind him.

“Hold on to me,” he instructed before nudging the horse into a canter towards the rising smoke.

Isabelle put her arms around his waist. Damn him if he didn’t enjoy the sensation a little too much. She leaned against him and he felt her body trembling although he didn’t know whether it was from fear or cold. He wished he could reassure her, tell her that everything was going to be alright. But the truth was, he didn’t know if it would be. Where the Fae were concerned, all bets were off.

It didn’t take long to reach the village, a tiny settlement of around ten houses, nestled in a sheltered dip in the landscape where too small burns met. Magnus reined in the horse and looked down. In the encroaching gloom, he made out stacked blocks of drying peat laid out along the village edge, which was how they survived out here. In fact, it was these peat blocks, along with several houses, that were burning, sending up a thick black smoke and lighting the village in a lurid light.

Several of the houses had been reduced to charred ruins, still smoking and softly glowing in the semi-darkness. An unsettling quietness had fallen over the place, punctuated only by the occasional crash of a falling beam. Magnus slid off the horse, then helped Isabelle down. She said not a word, but stared at the destruction with horror-filled eyes.

“Stay close,” he murmured, leading her towards the center of the village.

The flickering glow from the ruins made eerie shadows dance on Isabelle’s face. Snaffles whimpered and clung closer to her side. “What happened?” she asked in a soft voice.

“A raid,” he replied. “Now we know where those outlaws had been, and why they had all that coin and food.”

Only a handful of people were abroad in the village, those picking through the wreckage of the buildings, or trying to douse the last of the smoldering ashes. They took no notice of him and Isabelle, too shocked by what had befallen them.

Magnus spotted a woman in tattered clothes who was sitting against a charred wall, cradling a small boy in her arms. His body was still and limp against her chest, although he seemed to be breathing. The woman looked up as Magnus and Isabelle approached, her face streaked with tears.

Magnus crouched in front of her and extended his hand towards the boy, looking to the woman for permission. She nodded slowly, her grip on the boy loosening. Gently, Magnus brushed back the boy’s blond hair, revealing an ugly gash on his forehead. It was a cruel wound, deep and angry-looking, but not beyond mending if there was any healing to be had nearby. But from the look of the village, that seemed unlikely.

“That needs cleaning,” Isabelle said, crouching by the boy. “And maybe stitching. Here, I can help.”

To Magnus’s surprise, she shrugged the pack from her back and rooted around inside it, coming out with a small green box with a white cross on the outside. She shrugged and gave a sheepish smile.

“My first aid kit. I was always told I was being over-cautious by bringing it out on a hike. I always replied with, ‘you never know when it might be needed’.” She gave a nervous little laugh. “Never thought this was how I’d be proven right.”

She opened the box and Magnus saw it was filled with lots of odd-looking paraphernalia, much of which was instantly recognizable as not belonging to this time. Magnus looked at the boy’s mother, gauging her reaction, but the woman barely seemed to notice what was going on around her, shock and exhaustion turning her gaze vacant.

Isabelle opened a small packet of white squares and gently began cleaning the boy’s cut with one. “Antiseptic wipes,” she said to Magnus. “I don’t have anything to stitch the cut, but I can put some salve on it and then bandage his head.”

Magnus nodded, glancing around to check nobody was watching this thoroughly un-fifteenth century treatment. “Do it.”

The boy began to stir as Isabelle treated his injury, muttering and crying out for his mama. Magnus took this as a good sign. Finally, Isabelle wrapped a clean white bandage around the boy’s head and then rocked back on her heels.

“That’s the best I can do. I’m no doctor, but I think he’ll be okay.” She began packing up her kit, but the boy’s mother suddenly caught her arm.

“Thank ye,” she whispered.

Isabelle started for an instant, but then relaxed and placed her hand over the woman’s. Compassion shone in her hazel eyes. “You’re welcome. Glad I could help.” Giving the woman’s hand a final pat, she began repacking her box and put it back in her pack.

“Yer lad’s skull isnae cracked,” Magnus said to the boy’s mother. “Keep the wound clean with honey and it should heal just fine.”

He turned to Isabelle. “That was well done, lass,” he breathed. “But dinna show that kit of yers to anyone else, aye? There’s no telling how they might react.”

With a sigh, he looked around, his guts clenching with a mixture of guilt and anger at the sight of the half-destroyed village. Too late. He’d been too late.

“What happened here?” he said, fixing his gaze on the boy’s mother. “Tell me everything.”

IZZY WANDERED OFF A few steps as Magnus talked to the woman. She took in the half-burned village, struggling to comprehend what she was seeing. The place looked like the kind of war-zone you would expect to see on the evening news. People were calling to each other, enquiring after neighbors and friends and beginning to organize the clean-up. Nobody approached her or made any effort to speak to her. Perhaps they were wary of the enormous dog at her side, or perhaps they were just too shocked to bother with another stranger.

She took her phone out of her pocket and dialed the number for the emergency services. But the call didn’t connect and Izzy glared at the screen, willing it to work. It didn’t, of course. There were no phone networks in 1478.

1478. That was the year Magnus claimed this was. And he also claimed that Irene MacAskill had brought her here.

That couldn’t be true. It just couldn’t. Yet the village around her was made of timber-and-thatch houses and the people staggering around the ruins of their home wore clothing similar to Magnus’s.

Ye have traveled through time, lass.

She sank to her knees in the middle of the muddy, ash-covered street. “No, I haven’t,” she whispered, trying to deny what her eyes were telling her. It was surreal, impossible. Yet, here she was amidst the smoky ruins of a 15th-century Scottish village, surrounded by men and women whose horrified faces bore testimony to the reality of their plight.

Snaffles whined, nuzzling into her side. She wrapped her arms around the dog, burying her face into his fur. “It’s not real,” she whispered. “It can’t be...”

“Are ye hurt, lass?” said a female voice.

Izzy blinked and looked up to find a middle-aged couple standing over her. Both looked soot-stained but uninjured, the man ruddy-cheeked and balding, the woman with wild black hair pinned up around her face.

“W...what?”

“Are ye hurt, lass?” the woman asked. “Did the raiders injure ye? Or maybe the fire? Do ye need help?”

“I...I...don’t know,” Izzy stammered. “This...it’s all...wrong.”

The couple shared a look. “Come, lass,” the man said gently, holding out a hand. “Able and Morwenna Dunnock at yer service. What’s yer name?”

“Um...Izzy. Isabelle. I’m Isabelle.”

“Well, Isabelle, we’ve got some soup on the stove back at our place. Ye look like ye need it.”

Izzy stared stupidly at the hand he held out to her. She wiped her forehead on her sleeve nervously, only managing to smear ash across her face. She took the man’s hand and allowed him to pull her up.

The woman, Morwenna, gave a small smile, reaching out to gently wipe some of the ash from Izzy’s cheek. “This way, my dear, let’s get ye somewhere warm.”

Izzy allowed herself to be led away, Snaffles trotting along at her side. They lead her to a house on the edge of the village, remarkably untouched by the raid. It was larger than most, made of timber with a thatched roof and a barn and stables out the back. As Izzy stepped inside, a wave of warmth hit her from the hearth in one corner where a pot hung over a crackling fire. An inviting aroma rose from that pot, making Izzy’s stomach churn with hunger.

The couple led her to a bench near the fire, where Morwenna pushed a bowl of steaming soup into her hands. Able, with furrowed brows and a look of concern in his eyes, went out again, possibly to check on the other villagers.

Izzy looked around at the interior of the house. It was simple, a stark opposite to her modern-day apartment. The walls were made of wood and mud, built up over years of careful workmanship. The furniture was sparse: a table in the middle of the room, a chest against one wall that perhaps held the couple’s belongings, and a few benches scattered around. The floor was rough stone, covered with faded woven rugs.

She was not the only one the couple had brought to their home. Other villagers sat on the crude benches along the walls, some soot-stained, some injured, all subdued with shock. Even as she watched, Able brought more in through the door and Morwenna busied herself handing out soup to the newcomers.

The room smelled strongly of wood smoke as well as the tangy aroma of her soup. Izzy tasted it cautiously and found it comforting, filling her with warmth that had little to do with its temperature. In seconds, she’d finished the lot.

On impulse, she got up and walked over to Morwenna. “Can I help?”

Morwenna looked up from where she was kneeling by an elderly man, whispering words of comfort as he stared at nothing. “Aye, I would be grateful,” she replied. “Can ye hand out soup and blankets while I sort old Remy here?”

So Izzy did. As more villagers were brought in, she put blankets around their shoulders, told them everything was going to be all right, and pressed bowls of soup into their hands. As she worked, she listened, and gradually began to piece together what had happened.

The raiders, it seemed, had attacked with no warning. She heard tales of children hidden in secret cellars, elderly couples who shielded each other from the flames, families who saved their heirlooms by burying them in the ground.

“And where are the king’s men?” the old man, Remy, asked, his voice trembling. “Why hasnae he put a stop to this?”

“Because these raider bastards are running rings around them, that’s why,” another man with a bandage covering one eye answered. “Never thought I’d see the day when we had to be frightened in our own homes! There was a time when the king’s men or the Order of the Osprey, or both, would have put this disorder down before it even started!”

There were rumbles of agreement at this.

Izzy listened as she worked, trying to take all this in. This strange time into which she’d been thrust seemed brutal and unforgiving. From what she’d heard, these villagers had no protection other than that provided by the king or this Order of the Osprey they spoke of, and that protection seemed sporadic at best. There were no police to bring order, no courts to bring justice, no doctors to bring healing. If she hadn’t seen to that young boy’s injury, what would have happened to him? She hated to think about it.

Time travel. It was impossible. And yet it wasn’t. She was living proof of that.

“He’s a fine beast,” said a voice suddenly. “Looks like he could take down a wolf if he had a mind to. ”

She snapped out of her thoughts to see Snaffles sitting in front of a grizzled old man, ears alert, tail sweeping the floor. His eyes were fixed with laser precision on the bowl of soup and hunk of bread in the man’s hand.

The man chuckled. “Dinna ye worry, boy, I’ll share,” he promised, before ripping off a bit of bread and holding it out to Snaffles.

The dog lived up to his name and snaffled it out of the man’s hand in a heartbeat, much to everyone’s amusement.

“Ye’ve got quite a companion there, lass,” Morwenna said with a smile.

“I have, haven’t I?” Izzy replied, realizing it was true. He might not be her dog, technically, but he was as loyal a companion as she could ask for. And no matter how far from home she might be, she was not alone. She had Snaffles.

And Magnus , the thought flared in the back of her mind. You have Magnus too.

“Does he have a name?” Morwenna asked.

“He does. Snaffles.”

“What kind of name is that?” the grizzled old man asked, his bushy eyebrows rising.

Izzy laughed despite herself. “One I didn’t choose! But as you can see from the way he took that bread, it suits him. Snaffling food is his favorite pastime.”

There was quiet laughter and Izzy felt her heart lighten. It felt good to hear people laugh. It was so...normal.

Izzy thought suddenly of Magnus. She’d left him outside. She excused herself quietly, then she and Snaffles slipped through the sea of tired and injured people, and out into the evening air.