by Tarah Scott
Edge of Yesterday
Book One The Edge Series
Sue-Ellen Welfonder
&
Tarah Scott
Edge of Yesterday
Copyright © 2016 by Tarah Scott and Sue-Ellen Welfonder
All rights reserved
No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means without the prior written permission of the author, nor be otherwise circulated in any form of binding or cover other than that in which it is published and without a similar condition being imposed on the subsequent purchaser.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Cover Design by R. Jackson Designs
Cover Image: The Illustrated Romance
Contents
A Place Beyond Rules
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
From the Authors
About the Authors
Also Available from Sue-Ellen Welfonder
Also by Tarah Scott
CONNECT WITH TARAH
Acknowledgements
Our undying thanks to Kimberly Comeau for her dedication to ensuring we wrote a good story. Thanks, Kim. You’ll never know how much we appreciate your hard work.
Tarah Scott would like to thank Sue-Ellen Welfonder, friend and co-author. I’ve learned so much from you. Adventure awaits us.
Sue-Ellen Welfonder would like to thank her friend and co-author, Tarah Scott, for accompanying her to the Edge. It was a great journey, you wicked woman you, and I am looking forward to spending lots more page-time with you in Heatheredge.
Dedication
In gratitude to all medieval reenactors ~ You bring history to life, honoring tradition, customs, and lore, and keeping the fires of the past burning bright. You inspired EDGE OF YESTERDAY and our EDGE Scottish time travel series. A mere thank you doesn’t seem enough.
A Place Beyond Rules
The last decades of the fourteenth century saw many folk in Scotland wondering if an ill wind had come to their beautiful, heather-kissed land. The great heroes William Wallace and Robert the Bruce, larger-than-life men who’d brought such glory—and independence – to the Scottish nation, had since stepped from the annals of history and those who followed, failed to fill their mighty footsteps. These new leaders founded the Stewart dynasty, their rule beginning when Robert the Bruce’s son, David II, died young and childless.
His nephew, Robert Stewart, succeeded him as Robert II. Tall, handsome, and loved by all at the start of his rule, some claimed his amorous adventures exhausted him, for this king fathered at least twenty children, perhaps even more. Yet he came to be known as ‘Auld Blearie’, and ended his reign ill and enfeebled.
The next Stewart king did not enjoy his father’s auspicious start. Two years before he was crowned, a kick from a horse rendered him an invalid. He did not possess the brilliant mind of his famous great-grandfather Robert the Bruce. Even his name doomed him, for this Stewart king was baptized ‘John,’ a name believed unlucky by Scots. John fought to overcome his bad fortune and changed his name to Robert III, but the new name served him naught.
The longer he ruled, the more his ineptitude grew, shadowing the land and everyone in the kingdom. His younger brother, much stronger and more iron-fisted, held the true reins. But his fierce ambition led to corruption. Bribery, dissent, and all manner of scheming spread through the royal court and Lowland Scotland, and hindered the true king’s authority.
Few men were pleased.
But some Highlanders rejoiced, and even took advantage.
As chaos mired every corner of the country, the clan chiefs fought amongst themselves in a mad race to increase their power and broaden their territories. Rough-hewn and fearless, well used to clan raids and feuding, they grasped any means possible to crush enemies and win advantageous alliances.
After all, who was to stop them?
Certainly not a weak and despondent king known for his piteous last words to his wife that he ‘should be buried in a dung heap with the epitaph ‘Here lies the worst of kings and the most miserable of men.’’’
And so it came to pass that two great Highland clans, the Mackays and the Rosses, agreed to form one of the most formidable seats of power in all of northern Scotland, perhaps even in the whole of the realm. To achieve this, a marriage was arranged; the Ross heiress to the Mackay heir.
The wedding would take place at Heatheredge, Clan Mackay’s Highland home.
What happened left this fair place in ruin and awakened dark powers.
But Highlanders are nothing if not strong, and Heatheredge rose from soot and ash to thrive again. So great was this resurrection that men came from far and wide to celebrate the town’s triumph. The town elders hosted a festival with parades, swordfights, jousting, and other games to draw crowds, fill the town coffers, and—always—to remember the past.
In later centuries, the tradition lives on. Men call it the Heatheredge Gathering.
But the dark power awakened that terrible day also thrived and now walks among these Highlanders.
Chapter One
The Beginning
Near the village of Heatheredge
Scottish Highlands
Heatheredge.
It had taken thirty-two years, but he was home.
Cailean breathed deep of the chill dawn air, ripe with pine, morning dew…and promise. A hint of heather teased his senses. Deep in the wilds of Sutherland, Scotland’s most rugged and remote region, he stood in an empty moorland field. Hands resting on the hilt of the sword he’d driven into the peaty soil, he watched the April morning break in blue-grays above the mist-covered treetops. Soon, the rich golden blooms of gorse and broom would glisten in the sunlight. The village on the far side of the woods would waken and the ancient road that curved through its heart would prove scarcely wide enough to accommodate the throng of visitors. Visitors like him.
Cailean tracked his gaze along the breeze-swayed heather. A tiny whirlwind leapt to life near the trees, then jolted toward him. He watched in amusement as the whirlwind batted the pink heather then jumped away. Its breeze reached him and he tensed in anticipation when the cooling mist danced across his bare flesh between kilt and boots. The wind abruptly softened and swirled around him as if in a lover’s embrace. Cailean smiled. Even the cold Highland air welcomed him home.
“Heatheredge,” he murmured, “I am yours.”
He glanced at the path that led to the village and watched swirling mist rise in thick folds along the field’s edge. Within the murk, a dark line of near impenetrable pines obscured all but the trail’s beginning. Above the fog, Clan Mackay’s impressive seat, Heatheredge Tower, speared the mist, rising from the trees like a citadel that pierced the clouds. At gloaming, he would stride through the stronghold�
�s gates, welcomed as a friend and ally.
Cailean pulled his sword from the earth, then whipped the blade high, slicing air and invisible foes.
“To the Edge!” he roared the Heatheredge war cry, swinging his sword again and again…and again.
The blade flashed silver as he thrust and swiped. Cailean dipped and spun, lunged and leapt aside, then back, relentless—and fast. He counted the seconds, the minutes, until lost in Triumph’s beauty. At last, his arm ached and he paused, breathing hard as dawn’s fingers brightened the sky over the trees.
Cailean brought the flat of the sword to his lips, kissed the tip for luck. “Triumph,” he whispered.
He carefully traced a finger along the sword edge. Her blade gleamed in the morning mist as if lit from within. No finer sword could be found in all of Scotland. A low rumble drew his attention to the right. Once again, he thrust Triumph into the ground, rested his hands on her leather-wrapped hilt and waited as the noise grew louder. The lighter blue-gray that spread across the eastern sky illuminated the tractor chugging through the wall of mist. Donnie Bain, the crofter who owned Bain’s Highland Farm and Guesthouse, steered the tractor in Cailean’s direction. He cut the motor before he reached Cailean.
“A good morning to ye, laddie. ’Tis an early riser you are.”
Cailean grinned. “Life is too short to spend it in bed.”
“No’ all of it is a waste.” The older man winked, then his eyes twinkled as he wriggled the paper bag he held. “Still, we dinnae see many folk up from the Central Belt willing to skip breakfast. Figured you’d appreciate something to fill your belly.” He held out the bag.
“I would. Thank you.” Cailean stepped forward and accepted the bag. Warm and bulky, it gave off the mouthwatering scent of bacon. His stomach growled. “This smells delicious.”
Donnie set his hands back on the wheel. “The wife buttered two of her Ben Nevis-sized cheesy scones and filled them with bacon for you. There’s also a slice of fried clootie dumpling and a thermos of tea. Or” –he glanced back over his shoulder toward the mist that hid the farm-and-guesthouse from view– “would you rather have coffee? We have both as our American visitors dinnae much care for tea.” He shook his head. “They have some odd taste, the Yanks.”
Cailean bit back a chuckle. “Tea will do.”
Donnie nodded. “Swinging a sword is hard work, eh?”
“It is.”
“But you were born to it.” The farmer’s gaze flicked over Triumph.
“My family hails from Skye, giving me Highland and Viking genes,” Cailean said. “That’s where I get my dedication to swording.” That and his ancestor Broc Mackay, the famed Mackay the Bear.
The farmer nodded. “We knew your name and reputation long before you applied to join us this year.”
“I’m honored,” Cailean said. More than his host would ever know.
“I’ll leave you to eat your breakfast.” The farmer restarted his tractor and lifted a hand in salute, then swung around and chugged off across the field, back into the thinning mist.
Cailean strode to Triumph, pulled her from the ground and slid her into the sheath attached to his belt. Then he crossed to a large, flat-topped boulder, lowered himself onto its cold surface, opened his breakfast bag, and withdrew one of the bacon-laden scones. He took a hearty bite of the crusty wheat and salty bacon. Never had a cheesy bacon scone tasted so good. He wiped his mouth with a napkin then removed the thermos cup and twisted the top loose. Steam wafted upwards as he poured the sweet, milk-laced tea. Cailean replaced the thermos lid and sipped the tea. This was heaven.
The wind kicked up. While today wouldn’t be a day of blue skies and sunshine, rain wasn’t forecast and he welcomed the brisk air. Warmth and fair weather hadn’t drawn him here. If he’d wanted either, he’d have flown to the Caribbean.
Besides, this was no holiday.
This was a pilgrimage.
*
Dressed in plaid and mail, Triumph strapped to his side, Cailean strode down the High Street. The transformation from a modern Scottish crofting town to a medieval village was complete. Had he not driven this road three days ago, he wouldn’t have recognized the town.
Oh, he’d seen the preparations, trucks trundling along laden with wood and stone, the caravan of lories that carried centuries-old shopfronts that were now mounted as facades of High Street businesses. A bed and breakfast had become the Bell Inn. The local pub had been transformed into a tavern, and a hardware store’s plate glass windows now hid behind the stone façade of a merchant’s clothing store. Straw littered the road to hide the asphalt. And the viewing bleachers where he’d stopped to ask directions to Bain’s Highland Farm and Guesthouse stood draped in colorful cloth and bunting, shields and banners, hiding all hints of modern construction.
Traffic, even bicycles, had disappeared, banished to a large car park located well beyond the festival area. Only reproduction medieval carts passed along the street. Now, except for a few tourists, everyone in town dressed in period costumes. Visitors and participants arrived on foot or purchased faux medieval coins at the town’s festooned point-of-entry and bought rides in a pennant-bedecked wagon.
“Cailean the Champ.” A big man in the garb of a long-ago smithy stopped in front of Cailean. He glanced around, then withdrew a digital camera from his leather apron and said in a low voice, “Can we have a picture?”
Cailean nodded. “Aye.” He hooked his thumbs in his sword belt and straightened.
The smithy angled his camera and snapped a photo. This man wasn’t the first to stop him. It seemed many in the town knew him.
“I promised the missus I’d get a keepsake photo—or two or three—of ye.” The smithy snapped another picture.
Cailean flashed his best champion knight smile. “I hope I leave you with good memories.”
“Och, ye will.” The big man grinned and shoved his camera out of sight beneath his leather apron. He turned and disappeared into the crowd and three monks approached.
They stopped and the shortest of the three, small and somewhat grizzled, said, “Couldnae believe it when we saw you.” He grasped Cailean’s hand and pumped. “The great Cailean the Champ.” He smiled a yellow-toothed smile, his poor dental hygiene fitting his medieval monk costume. “Last we heard, you were on the tourney circuit in Europe.” The man glanced at his fellow monks.
“Kicked arse over there, we heard,” one of his companions said.
The monk released Cailean’s hand. “Val did us all proud when he signed ye.”
Cailean grinned. “I’m honored to be here.” So honored, I’d have crossed the English Channel in a rowboat and crawled on my knees to participate in the Heatheredge Gathering.
“Cailean! Cailean Ross!” called a woman with an American accent. A leggy blond elbowed her way past the monks and stopped within a breath of Cailean. “I knew you’d be here.” She pressed a hand to her breast, her face flushed.
The monks grinned and left.
“Good afternoon, lass.” Cailean stepped back, silently damning the crowd that made it impossible to put more than a few inches between himself and the woman. “Are ye enjoying the festival?”
“Things are looking up.” She beamed, her gaze gliding over him. “I’m Randi.” She glanced at a woman who joined her. “This is Denise. We’re from Chicago and we came to see you, mostly.”
“Me?”
“We follow you on Facebook and Twitter.” The second girl, shorter and darker than the first, brushed back her hair. Her jacket gaped, revealing braless, double D breasts beneath a thin white T-shirt. “We love how you swing your sword.” Her gaze flicked to Triumph, then settled suggestively on his groin. “We can’t wait to see you in action.”
Cailean silently groaned. Sword chasers.
He’d lost his taste for groupies years ago. They worshipped the flash of steel and the blast of trumpets. For less than a wink, these women would follow him anywhere, do his bidding, and pleasure him as if he were
a sex god. Many were known to drape themselves over older and badly out-of-shape elders at tournament feasts simply because such men played kings and great nobles.
Cailean once played their game. Most men did when they joined the touring circuit, a whirlwind that cast modern-day knights into the same fame as rock stars. At least, that was true in the world of renn fairs, Highland games, and here at the pulse beat of them all; Heatheredge. He’d lost count of the sword-chasers he’d bedded over the years. To his shame, their faces were a blur. But he’d been younger then. Now, hot and heavy quickies behind the bleachers of a tournament field left him cold.
Sun glinted off something between a building and a food vendor’s tent and Cailean glimpsed a television camera pointed in his direction. He looked away from the camera. Television crews hid their cameras and gear under bleacher draping and behind rows of food stalls that lined the road. Last night, he’d strolled past a well-known news anchor and overheard her instructing her staff where to set up their filming stations. But their locations were nowhere near this spot. The last thing he needed was to encourage more of these women by being caught on camera with others of their kind.
Cailean flashed the easy smile he’d mastered for such women. “Do ye have your Heatheredge flags, lassies?” He nodded at the banner flapping in the wind on a wooden pole fifty feet away. The town’s logo, a silhouetted crow perched on a medieval dagger, adorned the dark red fabric.
Randi glanced in the direction he looked. “What’s so special about them?” She fluffed her bleached blonde hair.
“During the parades and games, everyone waves them and shouts our slogan, ‘To the edge!’ If you bring your flags into the pubs after the nights’ events, the lads will sign them for you.”
