Page 52 of Winter Longing
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 14thcentury 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?”
