Page 77 of Winter Longing
Honestly, the idea of blame had never crossed his mind.
He pumped Tank’s hand. “Same, Tank. I’m proud to call you friend. And frankly, I think I’d have gone crazy here if not for you.”
“What a freakin’ adventure, though—right?”
Cole laughed despite himself, as they marched toward what might be their end.
He thought of Ailsa. “Yeah, what an adventure.”
Chapter Twenty
The march was grueling, a steady, punishing trudge, often through deep snow and in biting winds that stretched the Sinclair army thin. For all the snow he’d seen living in Western New York, Cole was sure he’d never hated it more. Here, there was no relief from it; they did not return to any nice, warm house, putting their feet up in front of a blazing winter fire at the end of the day. Here, the end of the day only meant giving the horses a rest while they attempted to keep warm out in the mean elements, not daring to light fires at all once they’d gone too far south. For a week, they advanced toward Biggar, the sharp cold cutting through even the thickest woolens. The weight of their gear and the unrelenting terrain tested even the hardiest among them.
As Christmas loomed on the horizon, both Tank and Cole found themselves sinking into bouts of melancholy. They thought about the people back home—those who, after so many months of silence, might now be grieving their absence or assuming the worst, that their lives had ended somewhere in Scotland.
For Cole, the thought of Aunt Rosie’s sorrow was almost too much to bear. Same as she was to him, he was basically all the family she had left. Rosie had envisioned her later years surrounded by the sound of children’s laughter—Cole’s children—filling her home with life and joy. The weight of knowing she was facing this Christmas without him, likely mourning what she thought was an irretrievable loss, gnawed at him until he thought constantly, desperately, trying to imagine some way to get word to her.
There were several evenings where even hardy, optimistic Tank was quiet, reflective, his gaze lingering on the fire while hisexpression was either blank or troubled. They didn’t talk about it, but Cole was pretty sure he was thinking along the same lines as Cole, of family and Christmas.
What little comfort they did know during the march could be credited to Ailsa.
He silently thanked her once again for her foresight and efficiency. Her knowhow and care were evident, for it was she who’d ensured that he was as well-prepared as possible for conditions far removed from Torr Cinnteag, and from his time. Somehow she’d managed to procure another thick, woolen cloak, clasped with a sturdy brooch, several tunics, and linen undergarments. A woolen cap and heavy leather gloves were given to him to protect him against the cold. Though she’d told him the army itself—specifically the quartermaster and the armorer—were responsible for supplying the army with food, weapons, and gear, she’d given him a shirt of chainmail and a padded gambeson for protection, and had surprised him with a small dagger, which she’d advised should be tucked into his boot. Though the army had its own cook, Ailsa had made sure Cole had his own pack containing dried provisions—salted meal, oatcakes, dried fruits—and a fire-starting kit, flint and steel. Above and beyond those generous necessities, she supplied him with a rolled-up blanket, which she’d shown him how to strap to the back of his saddle, and some basic medicinal supplies—linen bandages, a small jar of salve, and an herbs she said to brew if he found himself with a fever. She’d come to bed late the night before they’d departed, having managed to assemble all these things for him. Tank, too, had benefitted from Ailsa’s preparations. She’d ensured both men carried the proper gear and provisions for the march and the fight that might come.
After seven days, the Sinclair army reached Biggar, where the sight of Simon Fraser’s forces was a welcome relief. Thousands of Scots had gathered, their banners flapping defiantly in theicy wind. The combined armies set out the next morning, their destination clear: John Segrave’s massive English contingent, reported to be marching toward Edinburgh.
They were joined in the next week by John Comyn, of Badenoch—who was sometimes referred to asThe Redby Tavis. Tank had frowned and seethed when they’d joined with his army, “Jesus, we’re living inside the pages of a history book.”
Cole glanced at him, raising an eyebrow. “Comyn?” He asked, not recalling the name from any history he’d been introduced to while in Scotland visiting museums, ruins, and memorials.
Tank waved a hand toward the two men in discussion with Tavis and several other generals, as he and Tank had come to think of the many lairds combining forces in this army. “FraserandComyn, actually. Sir Simon Fraser and John Comyn III.”
Cole shook his head, feeling a flicker of guilt. He knew Tank had spent hours poring over books before their trip to Scotland, while Cole had mostly coasted, assuming Tank’s enthusiasm would fill in the gaps.
“They’re major players, man,” Tank continued, his voice low. “But they’re complicated. Both of them waffled during this whole mess of a war. Fraser fought for Edward I in Flanders not that long ago. So did Comyn. Hell, they both wore English colors for years before switching back to the Scots’ side. But Comyn, he’s one of the nobles who left Wallace high and dry at Falkirk.”
Cole frowned, the name “Falkirk” sparking a memory. “Wait, what happened at Falkirk?”
“Disaster,” Tank said, his tone bitter. “Wallace needed cavalry—desperately. The English had knights in heavy armor, longbows, the whole shebang. Wallace had infantry and hope. Comyn and his lot refused to provide cavalry support. Treachery, man, pure and simple. According to some of what I read, John and his clan hated Wallace. Showed up on thebattlefield just to make it look like they were helping, but they had no intention of lifting a damn finger.”
Cole digested this, his jaw tightening. “And now we’re fighting alongside this guy?”
“Yeah, history’s messy,” Tank replied with a shrug. He leaned closer, and quieted his voice even more. “But hey, good news—Bruce takes care of Comyn in the end. Stabs him in a church, before he takes the throne. The ultimate power move.”
Cole snorted at Tank’s irreverence but couldn’t shake the unease settling in his gut. He realized he needed to pay attention, not just to Tank’s impromptu history lessons but to these men themselves. If he was going to be stuck here for any length of time, he’d need to know who the players were, who could be trusted, and more importantly, who could not.
Christmas came and went, hardly marked by the army, which had now swelled, by all estimates, to nearly 8,000 strong. A brief spell of fair weather, or at least something less frigid, gave the men a small reprieve. Daytime temperatures might have crept toward forty degrees, and those days weren’t so bad. There was a bit of hunting, and venison roasted over roaring fires dotted the sprawling camp that stretched for miles. The camaraderie and temporary ease of the days felt like a reprieve before the storm, though the men rarely spoke of what lay ahead.
By the end of January, scouts reported that they had caught up with Segrave, and the real grind began.
The daily marches were relentless, each one blending into the next as they shadowed Segrave’s movements. Soldiers’ breaths hung heavy in the freezing air, their steps crunching through ice and frost. Even the thickest cloaks offered little defense against the cold that seeped into bones and lingered. The moments of camaraderie over campfires now felt like distant memories, replaced by the monotony of trudging mile after mile.
Cole tried not to dwell on the inevitable clash ahead, but the occasional pang of unease crept in. His muscles ached, his hands stiffened in the cold, and though he tried to focus on the rhythmic sound of boots and hooves, the looming thought of battle pressed against the edges of his mind.
One day, Tank said to Cole out of the blue, “If the fight comes, stay near me.”
Cole turned his head sharply, scoffing at the suggestion. “I’m not hiding behind you, Tank.”
Tank didn’t laugh, his expression deadly serious. “I can’t lose you, man.”
