Chapter Fourteen

The frigid air bit at Cole’s face as he adjusted his grip on the reins. The horse beneath him, a large bay gelding named Dùghall, he’d been told, snorted and shifted as if impatient to move. Cole leaned forward, patting its neck.

“All right, big guy. Let’s try this again,” he muttered, more to himself than the horse.

Cole was aware that across the training field, Tavis watched with crossed arms, a faint smirk playing at his lips.

“Wagers have been placed, lad,” the laird called out, “most saying ye fall again, thrice in one morning.”

Cole shot him a dismissive glance, adjusting his posture in the saddle. “ Wagers placed, lad ,” he mimicked to himself, employing a cartoonish voice to caricaturize the mighty laird.

It drove him nuts, the way Tavis called him lad . They were not only possibly the same exact age, but Cole was certain he might have a full inch and twenty pounds on the laird, but then that was only a guess since he’d yet to see Tavis without many layers of wool plaid and fur.

He really wished he’d managed to keep his riding lessons—and any semblance of progress—a secret. Roibeart, a solid guy— salt of the earth, Aunt Rosie might’ve said—had decided Cole was ready for jumps. Unfortunately, the only suitable fences were out in the training field.

This meant Cole had to endure the daily ordeal of pretending he didn’t notice the constant scrutiny of never less than a hundred nosy, big-mouthed soldiers, who were all pretty good at judging and ridiculing.

He ignored them now, nudging Dùghall into a canter. The rhythm of the horse’s gait thudded beneath him, and he focused on keeping his movements fluid, absorbing the motion rather than fighting it. He circled the field a few times before guiding Dùghall toward a low wooden barrier. His heart thudded as they approached the jump, as Tavis had not misspoken, and Cole had indeed fallen off the horse three times in the last half hour. At the last moment, he shifted his weight forward, and the horse sailed over the barrier with an ease that staggered Cole for how easy it seemed on that occasion.

“Hah!” he shouted as the horse landed cleanly, and to his relief, he stayed firmly in the saddle. He swung his gaze round to the watching Roibeart, who slowly clapped his hands, about as much congratulations as he was likely to receive from the quiet, unexcitable man.

Next, he looked to his left, where Tavis and his army were supposed to be training but were apparently otherwise occupied. betting against him if Tavis was to be believed. Feeling vindicated, Cole pumped his fist in the air. “Hah!” He called out again, louder this time.

“Dinna let it go to your head,” Tavis shouted from thirty yards away. “Ye’ve still got the grace of a three-legged deer over jumps.”

Cole curled his lip. Screw you, Tavis.

Buoyed by his first success, Cole circled back, preparing for another run at the waist-high barrier, confident he’d have his second success today

He did not.

As the horse sailed cleanly over the jump, Cole promptly went flying in the opposite direction, landing with a bone-rattling thud on the hard-packed earth. Pain shot through his body, and his head smacked against the ground with enough force to leave him dazed. Thank God for the helmet—a precaution he’d stubbornly insisted on, though he wasn’t entirely convinced of its medieval efficacy. He’d been toying with the idea of padding the inside with something softer, but so far, he hadn’t figured it out.

Groaning, he lay flat on his back, staring up at the sky, willing the earth to stop spinning. Somewhere in the distance, he heard Tavis and many others laughing.

He stayed as he was, only lifting his hand to give a thumbs up for Roibeart and just in case when the laughter died down on the other side of the field, anyone worried that he might actually be hurt since he didn’t feel like moving right now.

He heard Roibeart give a low, familiar whistle, wrangling the horse that had dumped him.

Flat on his back, Cole stared at the clear blue sky, a rarity here—either in Scotland or in this century, he hadn’t figured that out yet either—and thought again of Ailsa. He’d bet anything that her blue eyes would be even more stunning under sunlight like this.

He sighed, wishing she were here to share this little victory. Ailsa had been the one to teach him the basics, patient despite his clumsy beginnings. She had every reason to mock him back then, especially given how wary he’d been of the horse and for how slow had been his progress then. But no, she’d smiled at him—bright, generous, and full of pride—whenever he managed even the smallest accomplishment.

Cole tried to picture her reaction now. She’d have cheered his first successful jump, probably teasing him a little about his subsequent swagger. And then, of course, she’d have laughed as well at his spectacular crash. He grinned faintly, wishing for both her company and that smile of hers.

He wondered what she’d think of his present appearance, though. Father Gilbert had very kindly—surprisingly—gifted both Cole and Tank with a stack of folded clothes, with a pair of leather boots tucked beneath them. After presenting them with a complete set of medieval attire, right down to the underwear — braies, as Father Gilbert called them—the priest had gone further, arranging for their modern clothes to be laundered.

The stack of clothes smelled faintly of a sharp but clean soap, and of the outdoors, suggesting they’d been aired recently. The braies were loose linen shorts that tied at the waist, not entirely different from old-fashioned boxer shorts, but somehow very different indeed. Over these went woolen hose, which he tied at the knees with simple garters, the rough wool scratching slightly against his skin.

Next came the tunic, a long, knee-length garment of undyed wool, simple but well-made. It fit loosely over his torso, cinched at the waist by a sturdy leather belt with a plain iron buckle. Father Gilbert had even provided a linen undertunic, which he wore beneath for warmth, as well as a plain hooded cloak to shield him from the biting Scottish weather. The pants he’d been given—breeches, he’d heard them called several times by now—were much thicker but then more comfortable than jeans and fit him well. The ensemble was topped off with a pair of leather boots that laced up to his calves, surprisingly comfortable once he got used to the feeling of them.

At first, he thought he looked ridiculous, but pretty quickly he felt just the opposite, that he fit in so much better, and stood out so much less. Would Ailsa think he fit in better now? Would she look at him and see not a stranger thrust into her world, but someone who belonged?

Presently, he sighed and forced himself to sit up, grabbing the back of his thighs to make rising easier since his body continued to suffer bruises and aches, even after another full week of training.

He was missing Ailsa like crazy, but the week had not been wasted. Christ, he couldn’t even keep track of everything he’d learned. A few things stood out, though. He’d mastered cleaning the horse’s tack and now knew all about their feeding schedules —information he hadn’t expected to find even remotely interesting. He could start a fire with flint and tinder now, and at his first success, he and Tank had reenacted the Castaway fire-making scene, dancing around and pounding their chests like triumphant cavemen.

He’d even picked up a bit of the language. Now, he could confidently say words like “water,” “sword,” “shield,” “bread,” and “fire.” He’d also learned “God’s blessing,” a polite greeting that doubled as both hello and goodbye, making him feel slightly less out of place.

Most surprising of all, the soldiers they trained with had warmed up considerably. Hostility gave way to camaraderie. A few had even become downright friendly, going out of their way to speak English in his and Tank’s company, even though it was clearly not their first language. Small gestures, but they went a long way in making Cole feel like he might finally be finding his footing here.

The most shocking realization of the past week was that as much as he wanted to go home—back to good ol’ Buffalo, New York, in 2024—he’d prayed every morning since Ailsa had left that today wouldn’t be the day.

He needed to see her again. He wanted, desperately, to apologize. He still stood by his actions—stopping the kiss, stepping away when he had—but he regretted how he’d handled it. He could have been gentler, kinder. He should have been honest with her, told her that while he understood why kissing her—or anything else—was a bad idea, he didn’t like it one bit either. He’d felt just as she had seemed to feel in that moment: bereft, as if something vital had been ripped away.

He hadn’t wallowed, though. Not at all. There simply wasn’t time.

He and Tank hadn’t just absorbed information over the past week—they’d shared knowledge as well. While the Sinclair soldiers were undeniably skilled with swords and adept in hand-to-hand combat, it quickly became clear that many of them lacked stamina.

Tank had been the first to suggest introducing conditioning drills, but explaining the concept to Tavis had been a task in itself.

“What is this ye speak of?” Tavis had asked, brow furrowed as he watched Tank drop to the ground to demonstrate a push-up.

“Strength and stamina,” Cole had explained, gesturing toward Tank. “Right now, your guys are tough and skilled, but they tire quickly.”

Tavis had given a dubious snort. “We train to kill swiftly, nae to linger on the field.”

Cole had held up a hand. “Fair, but what happens if you’re facing an enemy who doesn’t drop so quickly? Or you’re forced to retreat uphill, in the rain, wearing armor?”

To convince Tavis of the benefits of conditioning, they’d had to put on a demonstration. Cole was pitted against the young soldier, Domhnall—the same kid who’d humbled him during his first day of training. Cole had been running since he was seventeen, so the outcome was never in doubt. He and Tank mapped out a five-mile course that looped through the practice field, circled the village perimeter, followed the low stone wall lining the brown and fallow fields, skirted the edge of the beach, and ended back at the field.

When they began, Domhnall took off like a shot, clearly mistaking the endurance race for a sprint. Cole paced himself, knowing the uneven terrain and lack of proper footwear would already test his limits. He returned in just under an hour, winded but far from spent.

Domhnall, however, stumbled back a full thirty minutes later, dragging his feet and gasping for air. By the end, he wasn’t running but walking, his exhaustion plain for all to see.

The demonstration had made its point.

“Aye, but how do ye train for that?” Tavis, more resistant than skeptical then, had wanted to know.

Tank had laughed. “You run. Everyday. For miles.”

The discussion had carried over to the dinner hour, with Cole advising that daily training should begin with warm-ups and running, which Tavis reluctantly agreed could be implemented.

He and Tank had also advocated as well for the use of helmets, which hardly any wore during training.

“Most the lads consider the helms to be cumbersome,” Tavis had reasoned. “They limit vision.”

“They also keep your brain inside your skull,” Tank had quipped. “Can they stop an arrow?”

“Nae always,” Tavis had answered.

“But sometimes?” Tank had pressed.

“Aye.”

“Even without an arrow or blade,” Cole had interjected, “a blow to the head can be crippling, or worse, fatal.”

Dersey was there as well and frowned. “Crippling how? A knock to the skull is common enough. Most men recover well enough after a day or two, save for a bit of soreness.”

“Not always,” Cole countered. “You might not see any injury, but that doesn’t mean there’s no damage. Your brain can get shaken up inside, slamming against the skull. That’s what we call a concussion, and it can lead to all kinds of problems—memory loss, confusion, headaches that never go away. Sometimes, if the injury’s bad enough, a man might seem fine, but he could die later that night.”

Tavis’s expression darkened as he absorbed this. “Some time ago, a lad took a blow during a skirmish, seemed to come out of it right enough. But he passed before dawn, nae wound to show for it.”

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about,” Cole said. “Even if they survive, repeated injuries can add up. Over time, a man might lose his wits—forget things, act strangely. I’ll bet you’ve seen that too, right? Soldiers who’ve fought too long, taken too many blows to the head?”

Tavis’s brow furrowed as if recalling specific men. “Aye,” he said at last.

“That’s traumatic brain injury,” Cole explained, glancing at Tank, who nodded in agreement. “Helmets can’t stop every injury, but they can make the difference between a man walking away and not walking at all.”

Tavis fell silent, his gaze distant, before he narrowed a suspicious gaze at Cole. “Ye are nae a healer, nae a fighting man, but how do ye come by this knowledge?”

Cole scrambled for an answer. “Um, where we come from—Spain—there’s a better understanding of this kind of thing.”

Still, Tavis wasn’t sold on the idea of forcing his men to wear helms at all times.

However, that changed two days later, but not because of any head injury.

The kid, Somerled, who was a huge trash talker—and all-around pain in the ass, both Cole and Tank agreed—had been flipped over Davey’s back during their sparring, and dropped hard on his shoulder. He’d howled in pain, somehow managing to sit up, holding his arm. The onlookers froze, having no idea what to do for him, several wincing at Somerled’s obvious pain.

Accustomed to running toward those in need, Tank and Cole had arrived just as Somerled announced he couldn’t move his arm. Tank immediately took control, clearing the too-close crowd, while Cole began to strip the kid of everything above his waist, having to use his knife to cut away his tunic. It was then patently obvious that his shoulder was dislocated, the joint of it bulging forward, looking like a big goose-egg.

Cole had glanced at Tank, who’d named the injury.

“Saw this in Afghanistan,” Tank had said, referencing his tour in 2011 with the Marines. “Quick fix,” he’d pronounced over the kid’s loud moaning.

With guidance from Tank, Cole had stabilized Somerled before Tank guided the joint back into place.

Somerled, pale but breathing easier, gave a shaky thumbs-up—another thing brought to the 14 th century by Cole and Tank—announcing he could feel his arm again.

On the sidelines, a watchful Tavis had witnessed the whole thing, his jaw slightly slack, a rare expression of awe crossing his features.

Someone had commented about how quickly that had been resolved, while another had made some mention about how well Cole and Tank had worked together, with hardly any communication.

“Teamwork makes the dream work, baby,” Tank had pronounced with a wide grin while Cole fashioned a sling from Somerled’s sliced tunic.

That evening in the dining hall, Tavis was eager to revisit the helmet discussion, and Cole had some suspicion that their earlier actions with Somerled had earned them some credibility. It seemed that Tavis was now more open to hearing out their suggestions.

Cole was accustomed now to the general din of the great hall during the supper hour, and in truth looked forward each day to the communal meal. One evening he found himself seated beside Father Gilbert, the priest’s austere robes standing out among the colorful tartans.

The meal had just begun when Father Gilbert turned to Cole with a curious look. “Ye strike me as a man of faith,” the priest said, breaking a piece of bread. “Yet ye’ve said little of the church since ye arrived.”

Cole hesitated, unsure how to frame the complexities of religion in his time for a man rooted in medieval Christianity. “I wouldn’t say I’m deeply religious, but I do have faith,” he began. “Where I come from, though, religion is more... personal. It’s not as tied to the government or daily life as it is here.”

Father Gilbert raised a brow. “Personal, ye say? That’s a curious notion. How do ye keep order if the church is not at the center?”

“In my time, we separate church and state,” Cole explained, leaning closer so their conversation wouldn’t carry. “Religion is important to many, but laws and governance are meant to be neutral, not influenced by any particular belief system. People are free to worship—or not—however they choose.”

The priest’s brow furrowed as he digested this. “Neutral? Such a thing would be seen as chaos here. The church is the foundation of all: law, morality, education. Without its guidance, how do you ensure that men act justly?”

Cole paused, choosing his words carefully. “We have laws based on fairness and reason, not necessarily religion. People are taught ethics at home, in schools, and we trust that they’ll act responsibly.”

Father Gilbert stroked his chin, his expression one of both fascination and skepticism. “And what of their souls, lad? Who watches over them? Secular laws cannot save a man from damnation.”

“No, they can’t,” Cole admitted. “But where I’m from, the idea is that faith is a choice. It’s not forced. People decide for themselves what they believe, and that freedom means something.”

The priest gave a soft chuckle, shaking his head. “Aye, I see the appeal of such freedom, but it’s a dangerous path. A man untethered from divine guidance is like a ship without a rudder. He may find the shore, but he’s just as likely to be dashed on the rocks.”

The conversation shifted as Father Gilbert turned to more pressing matters. “Perhaps these dark times are when we need God the most, eh? His ways may be beyond our understanding, but faith can be a strong shield. In the unlikely event that a siege was laid against Torr Cinnteag, the laird fears he wouldn’t be able to protect his people,” Father Gilbert articulated. “But he has yet to understand that it is all in God’s hands.”

“And it all falls to him?” Cole asked, trying to steer the conversation away from a strictly theological debate. “The protection of Torr Cinnteag?”

Father Gilbert nodded. “Aye. It’s his burden to bear, but it’s shared by all who live here. The people look to their laird for protection, and he does what he must.”

Cole leaned back, his appetite waning as he tried to imagine the weight of such responsibility. Aside from his job, during which he had a responsibility to save lives, he was responsible only for himself. “But the English wouldn’t come this far north, would they?”

“Nae the English, perhaps,” the priest conceded. “But armies aligned with them, aye. This past summer, the Comyns laid siege to Inverlochy, hoping to gain a foothold in the north.”

The gravity of their situation settled over Cole like a heavy cloak. He’d seen the strength of Tavis’s soldiers in training, but numbers didn’t lie. They were vulnerable. And if Torr Cinnteag fell, what would happen to Ailsa and the people who called this place home?

Father Gilbert offered a faint smile, as if sensing Cole’s unease. “Ye’ve the look of a man who would carry others’ burdens. But dinna fret, lad. God works in ways we cannot understand, even in the darkest times.”

Cole nodded thoughtfully, positing, “But he wouldn’t have—or couldn’t have—had a hand in what has happened to me and Tank.”

“If what you say is true,” the priest replied, “I would wager it was not an act wrought by the hand of God.”

Cole considered him. The middle-aged priest seemed capable, was obviously spiritual, and was clearly intelligent. But Cole had to ask, “Aren’t you curious? Even a little bit? About life in the future?”

Father Gilbert paused, his fingers lightly tracing the edge of his wine goblet. He regarded Cole for a long moment, his gaze thoughtful, before responding. “I must admit,” he said slowly, “the idea of the future does pique my curiosity. But it’s a curiosity tempered by skepticism.” He smiled faintly, as if acknowledging the paradox. “The Lord made this world as it is, and I believe we are meant to live within the confines He has set. The idea of a different world, one so removed from our own, but alive at the same time, is difficult to reconcile. I wonder if it’s not the work of the Devil himself, a temptation to distract us from the purpose we’re meant to serve here and now.” He shook his head, as if casting aside the thought. “But still... yes, there’s a part of me that wonders. What will be, how will it all turn out? I suppose it’s only natural.”

Sensing the priest’s reticence, Cole decided not to push him. He grinned. “Let me know if your curiosity ever wants those answers.”

And though he kept himself occupied each day—indeed, seeking out tasks to occupy his mind—each night, without fail, he found himself lying in the narrow cot, thoughts of Ailsa ever-present. He longed for her return, wanting her return to be soon, to be now, wanting her to be here at Torr Cinnteag while he still was.

***

Cole and Tank stepped into the cold morning air, their boots quiet on snow-covered ground. Their breaths plumed in the chill as they exchanged a few words with Father Gilbert, who was getting about his morning at the same time, the three of them expressing surprise over the snow that had fallen overnight, amounting to about three or four inches.

Their attention was quickly diverted, however, by calls from the battlements for the gates to be opened. Seeing Father Gilbert’s frown and knowing the gates were rarely opened without Tavis’s orders, usually in time for the army’s drills, Cole and Tank followed the priest as he approached the opening.

The sound of hooves echoed across the snow-covered earth. Two riders, their horses lathered with sweat, charged into the yard. The tartans they wore—green, blue, and brown—told Cole they were Sinclair men. The urgency of their arrival gave him pause.

“This...is not good,” Father Gilbert muttered. “Those are scouts from the lass’s party.”

Cole’s stomach tightened. Where was Ailsa?

The riders dismounted, their faces weary. One of them spoke urgently in Scots to another soldier before heading into the keep. Father Gilbert’s expression darkened as he strode toward the keep.

Cole’s concern deepened as the priest hurriedly lifted the hem of his long robes and jogged inside. Exchanging a worried glance, Cole and Tank followed without hesitation.

Inside, Tavis stood at the head of a long table, barking orders to a cluster of soldiers who sprang into action the moment the scouts entered. The taller of the two scouts wasted no time explaining, speaking hurriedly in Scots, his voice taut with fatigue and anxiety.

“They were separated,” Father Gilbert translated, his voice low and hesitant. “They went ahead, scouting as they would, but when they returned...the party was gone.”

Cole’s heart lurched, the words slamming into him like a punch to the gut. “Gone?” His voice was louder than he intended.

The scout grimly continued, and the priest translated sparingly. “There was no sign of a struggle where they’d left them, he says. They searched but the snow made it impossible to track them—there were no tracks, he says.”

“Gone,” Cole repeated, barely able to wrap his mind around the word.

His blood felt like ice in his veins. Ailsa.

He stepped forward, announcing to Tavis. “I’ll ride with you, with whoever’s going.”

“Ye’ll do no such thing,” Tavis snapped, turning on him with a frown. “This is Sinclair business, lad. It’s nae concern of yours.”

“She’s missing, Tavis,” Cole shot back, stepping closer to the table. “Your sister could be—” His throat tightened, and he couldn’t bring himself to finish the thought. “Jesus, you are sending out a search party, right?”

Father Gilbert arrived at his side, laying a hand on his shoulder. “Calm yourself, lad.”

Tank spoke up. “How the hell can anyone be calm? Let’s go! Assemble the posse! All hands on deck!” When the priest turned toward Tank, presumably to calm him down as well, Tank jumped on him. “And before you say a damn thing about it, Padre, let me remind you that Cole and I know how to save lives.” He faced Tavis then, his scowl dark. “Wouldn’t you want all the help you can get?”

Tavis raised a hand to stop the argument, impatient and annoyed. His piercing gaze locked on Cole. “Aye, come along, Spaniards. But ken that we’ll nae wait for ye, will nae give ye a second thought if ye fall behind.”

“I won’t fall behind,” Cole vowed, his voice steady despite the storm raging inside him. He turned to Tank, who nodded solemnly.

They had faced plenty of danger before, Tank more so than he, but this was different. This was Ailsa.

“Ready the troops,” Tavis ordered. “We leave at once.”