Edge of Yesterday (Edge Series Book 1)

by Tarah Scott

  “What pubs?” Denise brushed her breasts against his arm.

  “The Red Lion is popular. You’ll have to show your flags to get in.” He stepped back, not sure which annoyed him more, the press of her double D’s against his arm or her strong perfume.

  Both women edged closer. “Will you be there?” Randi asked.

  “I’ll be there around midnight,” he lied without a twinge of guilt. At that hour, he’d be asleep in his bed at Bain’s.

  Randi glanced down the High Street. “I didn’t see a store to buy the flags.”

  “That’s the charm of Heatheredge. If the town is to look truly medieval, there can be no visible modern shops.” He nodded down the lane. “At the far end of the High Street, there’s a stall where you can get the flags for free. Tell Harry I sent you. He’ll give you extras.”

  He would give them more than flags if they were amenable. Harry was a good sort, but tupped anything.

  Denise lifted her cell phone. “Is there a place to get a converter? This is our first time in Scotland and we didn’t know we needed a special plug for our phones.”

  “Of course. There’s a shop down the lane, MacGowan’s Tapestries.”

  Randi giggled. “Did you forget your converter, as well?”

  Cailean kept the smile on his face. The woman must only look at his Facebook pictures. If she’d read the posts, she’d know he was Scottish. He didn’t need to convert his phone and tablet from 110 to 220 current.

  “No. The vendors who sell modern supplies during the festival display a small plaque with the name of their modern shop on the lower right hand corner of the building. I just happened to notice the plaque.”

  He’d noted several of the shops: a Highland soap and candle shop, a corner establishment offering locally-distilled whisky, a bookshop, and a ‘fudge den.’ He would nip behind the lines before leaving and pick up a gift for his sister. Ginny adored all things fudge.

  Randi grasped his arm and, before he realized her intent, she rose on tiptoe and kissed him. Bloody hell. If the camera was still on him, they would have gotten the kiss on film. She ground her breasts against his mail-covered chest before he grasped her arms and stepped back. He bumped someone behind him.

  The girls beamed. “We’ll see you tonight, Cailean.”

  “Till then, lassies.”

  “I could listen to your accent all day.” Denise gave an exaggerated shiver before they turned and left.

  Cailean released a breath as they wriggled and bounced down the road, quickly disappearing into the throng. The crowd had grown. Already, locals costumed as pikemen were directing folk out of the lane and onto the narrow walkway in order to open a path for the noblemen and other dignitaries who would later march through town and out to Heatheredge Tower for the invitation-only dinner feast.

  Cailean turned in the opposite direction the women had gone and glimpsed the TV camera still pointed his way. He whirled away from the jackals and stopped short at sight of the man striding down the walkway in his direction. Cailean would’ve recognized Val Ross anywhere. Festival Chairman and City Councilman, his headshot accompanied a myriad of news write-ups and every festival program.

  The man who parted the throng as he strode toward Cailean looked every inch a medieval Highland warlord. The large two-handed sword strapped low on his hip weighed at least ten kilos. Celtic wristbands covered his forearms from wrist to elbow and—most striking—a large silver pendant in the shape of a giant bird talon hung from his neck. Dark, thick hair brushed his shoulders while his full beard boasted half a dozen hammered-silver beard rings. The distinctive circular scar on his left cheek gave him a dangerous look. Cailean often wondered how he’d gotten the scar. An intensely private man, little was known about him outside of his work as Festival Chairman.

  Passersby jostled Cailean, but he didn’t take his eyes off Val Ross. Had the man just made eye contact with him? Yes, and he was definitely headed toward him. Cailean’s heart began to pound. Seconds later, the crowd parted for Lord Ross as he stopped in front of Cailean. Two other lords stepped up alongside him.

  Words failed Cailean. The embodiment of his every boyhood dream stood before him. “Lord Ross, ‘tis an honor to meet you. I am—”

  “Cailean Ross. Aye, lad, we know who ye are, and we are pleased to have you here.” Val smiled, and adjusted the flashy swath of red-based tartan that crossed his broad, mail-covered chest. “I see you are wearing that famous sword of yours.”

  Cailean laughed. “I wouldn’t say famous but, aye, this is Triumph.”

  “Well named,” Val said. “Cailean, meet Lord Rathais and Lord Dunnett.”

  Cailean gave a slight bow. Both men, he realized, wore a talon necklace similar to Val’s, only smaller. Was the talon a specialty of Heatheredge? He would have to find out.

  “My lords.” Cailean nodded to the men.

  They canted their heads, but he suspected they weren’t as impressed with him as Val seemed to be.

  “Where are ye staying?” Val asked.

  “Bain’s Highland Farm,” Cailean replied.

  Val nodded. “Donnie Bain, a good man. His wife is a damned fine cook.”

  Cailean grinned. “One of the best.”

  A young, curvaceous brunette stopped beside them and raked her gaze down Cailean’s body. Her eyes shifted to Val.

  He shook his head. “Be gone, lass. I’m too old for ye.”

  “You should let me be the judge of that, my lord,” she said in a thick cockney accent.

  Val snorted. “I dinnae bed children.”

  She looked at Cailean.

  “The lad is busy. Go on now,” Val said in a stern voice.

  She thrust out her full lips in a pout, but moved along with the rest of the crowd.

  Val looked at Cailean. “Would ye have preferred I didn’t send her away?”

  Cailean shook his head. “You’re right, she’s very young, and I’m not interested in the sword chasers.”

  Val lifted a brow. “You’re too young to shun female companionship.”

  “You’re not so old yourself.” Cailean would have guessed the man to be about fifty years old.

  A corner of Val’s mouth ticked upward. “Perhaps not, but I’m surprised ye havenae sought out a saucy wench.”

  Cailean grimaced. “I lost my taste for sword chasers long ago.”

  It seemed Val would reply; instead, his eyes shifted past Cailean. His expression darkened and he snapped his gaze onto Lord Dunnett. “Dunnett.” Val nodded at something behind Cailean. Cailean glanced back as Dunnett stepped past him and caught sight of the same TV camera he’d seen earlier. The camera disappeared as Dunnett slipped between the buildings. Cailean faced Val Ross.

  “Each year we have to ask some camera crews to leave,” Val said. “There’s always someone who refuses to abide by the rules.”

  Cailean knew that camera crews were supposed to remain as unobtrusive as possible, but wasn’t sure what infraction this crew committed.

  “They’re jackals one and all,” Cailean said

  Val’s expression cleared. “I knew I liked ye, lad.”

  Rathais whispered something in Val’s ear.

  Val nodded, then said to Cailean, “You received your invitation for dinner at Heatheredge Tower tonight?”

  “I did.”

  “Well done. I must go, but we’ll see you there.” He grinned. “Don’t let the good folks of Heatheredge drag you into the pubs. The ale will be flowing at the Tower and you’ll need your wits about ye.” He lowered his voice. “We have fairer serving wenches, too.” He winked, then turned and strode away, leaving Cailean alone.

  Cailean surveyed the street. It was time to make some memories.

  Chapter Two

  Twilight in Heatheredge came gently, and if Cailean hadn’t yet lost his heart to the little Highland town, he did now. Soft and misty, the gloaming hour brought chilly raindrops that could turn into a light drizzle before he reached Heatheredge Tower. He strode past th
e last of the town’s outlying thatched cottages, slowing to look more closely at them. Heatheredge had done such a convincing job of transforming the town into a medieval village that he was suddenly uncertain whether the cottages were real or stage props. He laughed. Why spoil the mood by asking?

  Earthy-sweet peat smoke wafted from the chimneys, and he inhaled deeply of the cold, damp air. Life just didn’t get any better. These days, most of his neighbors in the Central Belt opted for more efficient heating than a peat fire. He walked every night, regardless of weather, but rarely could he enjoy a whiff of the pleasant, quintessentially Scottish scent. Here at Heatheredge, the distinctive bluish smoke curled upward from the chimney of nearly every home he passed.

  Cailean broke from his reverie at the blaze of torchlight up ahead. He slowed. A long row of torch-poles flanked the last stretch of the path leading to the wide iron gate of Heatheredge Tower. The torch flames leapt high in the cold, misty air. On each side of the well-preserved gatehouse, colorful sailcloth pavilions greeted visitors with the warmth of glowing charcoal braziers. Food stalls offered hearty beef soup, meat pies, cheese pasties, and what appeared to be an endless supply of earthen ale and wine jugs.

  Cailean caught the glint of a TV camera lens between one gap and wondered if the crew was the same one he’d spotted on the High Street or if Val had kicked them out of the festival. Strange that he allowed merchants to sell modern items, yet became upset over the appearance of a camera lens between food stalls. Film crews were a necessary evil at these festivals. But he wasn’t about to let the intrusion detract from the sense that he’d slipped into another age. He sometimes suspected he’d been born in the wrong era. Cailean grinned. A full sennight here at the Gathering. Seven days and nights. This week—his week—offered the most spectacular events and was considered the highlight of the celebrations.

  His gaze snagged on a tall, dark haired man loitering near a food stand up ahead. The man locked gazes with Cailean. Somehow out of place in his modern kilt, the man leaned back against the food stand as if he owned the place. Cailean neared the stand and discerned the man’s deep blue eyes. A cord of familiarity reverberated through him. Had he seen the man here at the Gathering? No. He would have remembered. Cailean nodded to him. The man gave a slight nod of acknowledgement, but didn’t turn his gaze away as expected. Cailean passed him and felt the blue eyes bore into the back of his head until he rounded the bend and the gatehouse came into sight.

  A huge banner strung from one side of the gatehouse to the other read, Welcome to Heatheredge Gathering Grand Opening Feast. The town’s armorial shield held pride of place above the raised portcullis—the crow perched upon a dagger. The bird seemed to preside over the bustle with an air of detached ease and, after centuries of festivals, was well-used to the wide-eyed wonder of all who entered this hallowed place. Fastened to the gatehouse’s half-opened door, a smaller sign read: Private: Invited guests only. Two fully accoutered medieval spearmen guarded the entry.

  “Sillers for the poor!” A raggedy man in the garb of a wandering friar stepped onto the path. He thrust forward his clack-dish, an alms basket outfitted with a noise-making clapper, used to draw attention in crowds. “Sillers to feed the needy,” the friar repeated. He nodded solemnly as Cailean fished beneath his plaid for his pouch of modern day coins.

  “Gladly, and God thank you for collecting,” Cailean gave the expected response and presented the traditional bulky leather pouch that was his contribution. The pouch landed in the friar’s basket with a satisfying plunk.

  The bag of coins wouldn’t ‘feed beggars and lepers’ as it would have in medieval days, but instead supported a major children’s charity.

  “Bless ye, lad, bless ye.” The friar grinned, then turned to confront the attendees behind Cailean, a man and woman in the resplendent dress of Highland nobles.

  Cailean looked over his shoulder at the growing line of people approaching the tower. Lords, ladies, fellow knights and warriors, holy men, and white-robed druids. Behind them followed a bevy of joy-women. His loins tightened when their cloaks swung open to reveal shapely bare legs and the dark triangles between their thighs. Nothing like the American sword chasers he’d met in town, these ladies were medieval temptresses. He laughed. Medieval men and women had been a lusty lot.

  Strains of fiddle music followed by a skirl of pipes drifted from the direction of Heatheredge Tower. Cailean quickened his pace, anxious to cross the last few yards to the gatehouse’s torchlit entry.

  The spearman struck his weapon against the other guardsman’s pike to form an ‘X’ before the arched doorway. “Name? Your feather?” the taller said.

  Cailean reached inside his mail shirt and withdrew the silver feather that he’d received as the invitation for the night’s gathering in the great hall. Crafted of the highest quality sterling, each feather bore the name of the guest. At some point during the feast, every attendee would be called upon to donate his feather to the Heatheredge Wall of Honor. He’d heard that so many engraved feathers graced the wall that it appeared as if its stones were made of silver. Cailean handed his feather to the first guard.

  “Cailean the Champion.” The guard beamed as he pretended to examine the feather.

  “Ye may pass,” the other boomed as the first guard returned the feather.

  They straightened their weapons and bowed low as Cailean slipped the feather back inside his shirt, then strode into the tunnel-like pend of the gatehouse. He emerged into a courtyard teeming with revelers. Several bonfires lit the cobbled bailey. Iron-bracketed torches flared around the perimeter of the enclosing curtain walls. A nearly full moon’s silvery light and the reddish glow of the flames combined to give the scene a surreal, pagan feel. Deep shadows in the lees of the tower keep and outbuildings added to the air of unreality. Drifting smoke and curtains of mist blew across the courtyard, leaving no doubt that this was Scotland.

  The soulful wail of bagpipes cut through the air and pipers emerged around a corner of the tower. Cailean’s heart expanded. He watched as they marched toward and then past him, conscious of a sudden heat that stung his eyes.

  Heatheredge came alive, ancient, seductive, and powerful.

  “Have a care, lad. You’ll get ember burns on your plaid.”

  “What?” Cailean turned.

  A gnome in a herald’s tabard bowed. On straightening, the short man nodded his gray head at a nearby bonfire. “Sparks fly high and wide when the wind’s up.” His eyes twinkled. “Ye be the champion, Cailean Ross?”

  Cailean nodded. “Aye, that’s me.”

  “I expect ye will be our champion, as well.”

  Cailean glanced at the other knights milling about the crowded courtyard. “I had best not claim championship until I’ve won a few trophies.”

  “Och, ye will.” The little man leaned in, his eyes full of merriment. “We’ve all been wagering on ye.”

  Cailean grinned. “Then I suppose I’d better win.”

  “Ye will, laddie.” He stabbed a finger in the direction of two richly clad trumpeters standing on the tower keep’s steps. “Don’t come late to the banquet in the great hall. Thon lads will give a flourish when it’s time. That’s why I’m out here.” The little man’s chest swelled. “I’m Lord Ross’s herald, making sure all and sundry know to head into the castle when the trumpets blast.”

  “I’ll be there.” There wasn’t a chance in hell he’d miss this.

  The man gripped Cailean’s arm. “Good, because you’ll be seated on the dais with Lord Ross and the other gentles.”

  “The high table?” Had he heard correctly? “I’m honored.”

  “Nae, nae, Heatheredge is honored.”

  He bent in another smart little bow. Before Cailean could think of a reply, the herald hurried toward a cluster of men and women costumed like wealthy medieval merchants and their ladies. The man’s words then sank in. He’d been granted a place at the Heatheredge high table. It was all he could do not to whoop.

&n
bsp; *

  An hour later, the trumpet blasted and Cailean joined the crowd filing into the Heatheredge Tower’s great hall. He stepped through the arched entry and stopped. He had truly entered fourteenth century Scotland. Torches blazed in the smoke hazed room and a pleasing blend of wood-and-peat smoke curled upward from the two large hearths into the black-raftered ceiling. Heavy silvered candelabrums graced the pristine white linens that covered every table. Well-polished knives and spoons—no forks!—gleamed in the candlelight, while some of the silvered ale cups and wine chalices sparkled with gemstones. Baskets of fresh-baked bread, rounds of cheese, bowls of sugared almonds and eating trenchers sat on each table.

  Servants emerged from the wooden partitions that hid the kitchens, carrying huge trays brimming with joints of roasted meat, whole roasted capons, beef and cheese pasties, and dishes of—he guessed—spiced jellies and steaming custards. Mouthwatering aromas drifted behind the serving lads and lassies as they moved about the hall. Then Cailean registered the Wall of Honor. The feathers covered all three walls that enclosed the raised dais at the hall’s far end, and extended outward nearly the length of one side of the great hall. Hardly an inch of stone lay visible, and the silvered feathers reflected the torch and candle flames like…

  “‘Tis as if the walls were made of stars, eh?” The gnome-like herald finished Cailean’s thought. “I doubt even the great castles at Edinburgh or Stirling have anything so grand.”

  “I vow you are right,” Cailean agreed.

  The little man spun and hurried away and Cailean watched him scramble onto a block of wood. The two trumpeters from the keep steps flanked him. Dinner was about to start. Cailean hurried to the dais steps and spotted his discreet name place card at the empty seat to the right of Val Ross’ chair at the head of the table. Cailean slowed. He had the place of honor at the lord’s table?

  A trumpet fanfare split the air. Cailean claimed his seat as the herald raised his arms and cried, “Gentles, knights and ladies—the Heatheredge Gathering begins. All hail our illustrious Lord of the Festival, Valdar Ross!”