by Tarah Scott
The attendees stood and cheered. The trumpets blasted another flourish. Pipes skirled and fiddles played. The stamping of feet and pounding on tables with fists, swords and dagger hilts nearly drowned out the music. Val entered through a door at the back of the dais and the deafening noise increased. He strode to the only empty chair, a heavily carved throne-like seat of age-blackened oak at the head of the table.
He now wore a richly embroidered, velvet doublet over his polished mail shirt and the voluminous great-plaid swept across his shoulder. He’d also donned more flashy Celtic jewelry, although his huge silvered talon pendant remained the most eye-catching piece. Cailean’s attention snagged on a dirk fashioned after an ancient two-handed sword strapped to his waist and sheathed in a black, leather scabbard. The weapon’s silvered hilt appeared beautifully worked. Like a true two-handed sword, the dagger had a forward-sloping cross hilt that bore the traditional quatrefoil fleurette terminations—like the blade on the Heatheredge banner. Yes, he was sure of it. They were the same, even down to the quatrefoil fleurette. Even the sheath boasted a fancy silver tip with three fleuettes instead of four.
Val gripped the back of his lord’s chair and nodded to the packed rows of tables that stretched to the farthest corners of the hall. “My friends, welcome.” He raised his arms. “Feast well and fight better on the morrow. Hail Heatheredge!”
“Hail Heatheredge!” the crowd shouted.
He again roared, “Hail Heatheredge. May we never forget the past.”
A single trumpet blasted and everyone sat. Cailean joined his fellow reenactors in calling out the customary response, “We will always remember. Long live Heatheredge!”
*
The big, red-bearded man sitting to Cailean’s right elbowed his ribs. “What do ye think of our lovelies?” The man jerked his head toward the center of the hall where an open space had been reserved for their dinner entertainment.
A knot of fiddlers played and half the joy-women danced nearby. Each leap or twirl revealed a flash of breast or thigh through the slits in their dresses. At times, the dark curls between their legs could be seen, much to the delight of the night’s merrymakers. The other joy-women lounged on a trestle bench set against the silvered wall, their cloaks parted so all could admire their bare-fleshed beauty, barely concealed by their transparent gowns.
“They are exquisite,” Cailean said.
“Have you such temptresses down in Cumbernauld?” He waggled his bushy red brows.
“If we do, I have no’ seen them.”
“And you willnae—not outside Heatheredge,” Val Ross declared, his gaze on the dancing joy-women. Val’s gaze shifted to Cailean. “This wee Highland town is a place like no other.”
Cailean nodded. “That it is, my lord.”
“Val.” The chairman’s smile flashed. “I don’t stand on such formality from my best knights.”
“You honor me, sir. Val. I still cannae believe I’m here.” He returned the smile, emotion thick in his chest. “I have dreamed of this day since I was seven, perhaps even from birth. My uncle traced my father’s ancestry back to the original conflict here.”
“That we know, lad. No applicant is accepted without due scrutiny. And of those we choose, only a few attend our opening feast with a seat at the high table. Your success on the tourney circuit is hardly a secret.” Val picked up a beef rib from a platter. “We’re aware that your interest in the past is genuine.”
“I wager every reenactor present appreciates distant times and customs,” Cailean said.
“True enough.” Val bit the rib, then wiped his mouth and beard. “But you, lad, inspire.”
“I don’t follow.”
A shadow crept across Val’s face. “The world is changing. I am long in years. I’ve seen much and some of it doesn’t please me. What we do here at Heatheredge is sacred. Sadly, in this age of internet and worldwide connectivity, the temptations of big cities and high-paying careers, our youth are lured away. Some go as far as London, a few even venture across the sea to America.” He lifted his ale cup to Cailean. “Our hopes, lad, are on you. We trust that your passion will fire the blood of our young people, renew their interest in the great heritage of this town.
“We’re also a bit mercenary.” Val knocked back a swig of ale. “Your presence at the festival has drawn a larger crowd than we’ve seen in years. Once we announced your attendance, the number of knights applying for acceptance soared. They all hope to challenge you.” A corner of his mouth twitched into a smile. “So you see, you’re filling the town coffers, and that’s always welcome.”
Cailean laughed. “I’m glad I could oblige. But I can’t take credit for this year’s success. Heatheredge is legend. Any medieval scholar or serious reenactor would give an arm to be here.”
“May that always be so.” A speculative glint appeared in his eyes. “I am wondering if we can talk ye into staying a month, instead of the week you planned.”
A month? That would make him a bona fide Edger.
A shout went up somewhere across the hall, followed by cheers, claps, and foot-stomping. When the ruckus quieted, Cailean whispered, “A month in Heatheredge? I might never leave.”
Val grinned. “So my plan is working.”
More cheers emanated from the other side of the hall. The fiddlers and pipers joined in, playing a lively tune. A stone swung outward from the north side of the wall of silvered feathers.
Excitement rammed through Cailean when cries of “The stone! The stone! The stone!” broke the din.
He squinted in an effort to see through the haze that hung in the air, but couldn’t discern what lay beyond the dark opening. The crowd around the dancing beauties parted and three white-robed druids appeared. Their tonsured hair, shaven from ear-to-ear over the top of their heads, hung to their shoulders in the back. They had a dangerous look that would have given him pause had he met them in medieval Scotland. Bloody hell, he was enjoying himself.
They carried a flat, oblong reddish brown stone that glistened in the torchlight. Cailean thought he discerned runes carved on the stone. The three men halted at the heart of the dance floor, where light from several hanging oil lamps converged, and lowered the stone to the floor.
Red-beard leaned close. “Only the chosen see this—and I’ll warn ye no’ to speak of it outside these walls.”
Val looked at him. “‘Tis one of our most revered rituals. Thon is our Blooding Stone.”
Chapter Three
Val stood and Cailean resisted the impulse to rise, as well.
“My friends, behold the Heatheredge Blooding Stone.” Valdar pointed at the stone. “‘Tis almost time for the sacrifice to quench the stone’s thirst.”
Sacrifice?
Cailean grinned. How would Val bring this tradition to life?
“But first, other business,” Valdar said as a tall, frail-looking man in dark robes stepped through the door at the back of the dais. He held a rolled parchment. “All greet Nechtan the Old.” The man walked toward the table and feasters again bowed low. When everyone took their sets, Valdar smiled at the man who halted beside him. “Good men, our revered Heatheredge scribe has something of great value to show you.”
Cailean couldn’t take his eyes off the scroll. Thick, yellowed, and rolled, it looked like genuine medieval parchment. His gaze caught on the small silver talon at the scribe’s neck, a duplicate of Ross’s much larger dragon’s claw or talon pendant.
Nechtan the Old glanced at Valdar, who inclined his head.
“My lords and ladies.” The scribe’s voice proved stronger than his skeletal appearance suggested. “Braw knights of the realm and all tournament contenders, I present our newest Scroll of Valor.” He lifted the parchment high and turned in a slow half-circle. Cheers erupted, stopping only when he lowered the scroll and again tucked it under his arm. He retreated backwards from the dais to the door through which he had entered, then bowed and disappeared.
“You will excuse Nechtan, my frien
ds.” Valdar chuckled. “Men of letters are a breed unto themselves. Hermits all, they spare few words for their fellow men. I’m pleased to announce that our previous Scroll of Valor is now filled and has claimed its rightful place in the Heatheredge Tower scriptorium.” Clapping rippled through the hall. “That means this year’s tournament winners will enjoy a triple honor.”
Triple honor? Cailean leaned forward.
“As we all know,” Valdar continued, “this week’s festivities mark the high point of the Gathering, when we reenact my ancestor and namesake’s final encounter with Elizabeth Ross, the ill-fated bride of Patrick Mackay. My forebear was Clan Ross’ sorcerer, and a famed healer.” He paused. “Yet, despite his knowledge and skill, he was unable to save her.” A shadow flickered across his features. “However, he resurrected Heatheredge and brought the Mackay clan to redemption. Without him, our town would be moss-grown rubble like the crofting villages whose ruins litter the region. So we honor the brave men and women who rebuilt our home.” Val crossed to the dais steps. “At the end of this week, we shall honor new heroes.
“First, we will assign participation in the popular Valdar and Elizabeth scene to this week’s top tournament winners. Second, those champions will not only have their names entered into our Scrolls of Valor, but, as a third honor, they will see their names inscribed at the top of our newest scroll. And that is a privilege, indeed, as each scroll can hold up to a century’s worth of champion names.”
Cailean grinned. He intended to win this honor.
His attention centered on the joy-woman who started up the dais stairs. She could’ve been a bloody satyress, the female version of a satyr. The slits in her translucent gown gave glimpses of her full, dark-nippled breasts and—God help him—the black triangle at the top of her thighs. She held an intricately woven basket that was attached at the handles by a blue ribbon around her neck. Her breasts bounced as she approached the table. Worse, the torch flames limned her, revealing her tempting curves.
She paused at the head of the table. Candlelight flickered across her creamy skin and lustrous hair. “Good men, I will have your feathers,” she said, her voice husky and silken.
She stopped beside each feaster, holding out her basket for each man’s silver feather. These were surrendered gladly, for upon dropping the engraved banquet invitation into the basket, each reveler received a heated smile from the vixen. Then the men kissed the curve of her hip or the swell of her breasts generously displayed by the low cut bodice. Some gave her more than one kiss. This was a Heatheredge secret Cailean hadn’t expected. Not that he minded.
“My lord…” She stopped before him, her sultry gaze locked on his face. “Your pleasure?”
Cailean lifted a brow. “My pleasure, lass?”
Amusement appeared in her eyes. The woman was accustomed to male attention. “Your feather, please.”
He reached beneath his mail shirt, withdrew the feather, and placed it in the basket. She edged closer for her kiss and he caught her scent. An ancient, exotic blend of musk, spices, and night-blooming jasmine. A delicate chain slipped free of her bodice and swung forward. The attached silver charm winked—a tiny talon pendant like the design worn by Valdar and Nechtan the scribe. However, her tiny bird’s claw clutched a sprig of silvered heather. She tucked the necklace out of sight into the depths of her cleavage, then surprised him by gripping his shoulders and lowering her lips to his for a soft, light kiss.
She straightened and gave him a knowing smile. “We are pleased to have you here. If you want more than I offer the others, ask for Lilith.” Then she turned, hips swaying, as she rounded the table to the next lucky attendee.
“She liked ye.” Red-beard’s face split in a grin. “I wouldn’t mind airing her skirts myself. She keeps a room at the Red Lion. I’d seek her out later, if I were you.”
“She is beautiful,” Cailean said.
Somewhere in the hall, the slow beat of swords striking shields rose in the smoky air. Cailean scanned the lower hall as Valdar descended the dais, strode to the cleared area in the center of the hall and stopped beside the Blooding Stone. Three white-robed druids formed a triangle around the stone. A score of solemn-faced warriors flanked the druids and made the sword music. Two of the joy-women, now cloaked in robes of shimmering silver, approached from the far wall, each with a flaming torch held high. They reached the Blooding Stone as Valdar did and stopped.
He drew his dagger. The sword clangor ended and Valdar shouted, “Here at Heatheredge we honor the past. But now, on this night of nights, once every four years, we do more.”
A hush spread through the ranks, all eyes on the red-glowing Blooding Stone.
“In days of yore, Druids worshipped in the forested hills surrounding our town. So many centuries have passed since then, that we no longer know where they kept their sacred groves and ancient shrines. These places are known only to the gods and perhaps the chill mists that curl across the land. But while the sites of most of their blood sacrifices are lost to us, we do know that these very walls were drenched in the sacrificial blood of innocents.” Valdar turned in a slow circle and pointed with his dagger at each corner of the hall. “Long before Heatheredge Tower stood as we know it today, an older edifice claimed this hallowed ground, its foundations blessed by the living souls who were buried beneath its four cornerstones.”
“Hail Heatheredge! Hail Heatheredge!” came a swell of voices from the hall.
Valdar lifted his voice, “Those men were bled before they were dropped into the ground. Their life’s blood fed the earth, guaranteeing that the ancient ones would always look on Heatheredge with favor—even in later days when great tragedy befell us. Our town prevailed and became the place of pilgrimage and glory we know and love today. The souls who surrendered their lives so many centuries ago, are there still, as dust and bone beneath us. Now, at every festival’s opening banquet, we honor and thank them with a blood sacrifice of our own.”
The sword beating now thrummed a slow, steady rhythm, eerie and primal. Others joined in, knocking fists or knife hilts on the long tables. Valdar turned his face toward the smoke-blackened ceiling rafters as if seeing the ancients peering down at him. After a long moment, he lowered his gaze and pointed the tip of his dagger at the Blooding Stone.
“We need a hero. A man willing to shed his blood for Heatheredge.”
Cailean jarred. What? Shed blood? Modern Highlanders didn’t perform human sacrifices. Yet Valdar’s expression remained as grave as any pagan priest he could have imagined.
“A quick cut to the arm is all we ask.” Valdar’s words echoed in the stillness.
“A quick cut?” Cailean whispered.
Valdar’s voice droned on, answering almost as if the great man had heard him, “A few drops of shed blood to nourish the stone and honor the memories of the long line of Heatheredge heroes who surrendered their lives as in distant times.”
“Thought he wanted a real sacrifice, eh?” Red-beard whispered.
Cailean looked at him. “I did wonder.”
Now, however, he was tempted to volunteer. What an honor to have your blood splattered across the Heatheredge Blooding Stone—to know that such an intrinsic part of yourself helped stain the rock, a forever bond with this exceptional place.
“Who will come forth?” Val’s gaze found his, but slipped away as quickly to light on others as he swept the teeming hall. “Who will heed the call of the ancients?”
The silence turned heavy, the sense of anticipation so thick Cailean would’ve sworn he could see the smoke haze quivering. He wanted this, badly. Dare he stand?
“Cailean!” shouted a man in the low hall.
Cailean jerked his head in the direction of the shout.
“Cailean,” yelled another, then another.
Red-Beard lifted his ale cup and joined in, “Cailean.”
Other voices rose. Men leapt to their feet, rattling swords or pumping fists in the air. The deafening ruckus swelled to a thunderous roar.
Anticipation rammed through Cailean. He pushed back his chair and walked around the high table. Each man clapped him on the arm or back as he passed. He descended the dais steps and strode toward Valdar.
The great man spread his arms as Cailean halted in front of him. “Behold Cailean Ross, our champion.” He faced Cailean. “Kneel, if you willingly give your blood to answer the ancient call.”
Heart hammering, Cailean knelt on one knee. A bullhorn sounded and the hall fell silent. The horn wailed two more times, then a young, white-robed lad darted forward and gripped Cailean’s arm. Quick as lightning, he shoved up Cailean’s sleeve and positioned his arm across the flat surface of the stone.
Dagger gripped in his right hand, Val spoke a strange litany that sounded like Gaelic mixed with something more ancient. Cailean couldn’t tear his eyes from the dagger. Val’s words faded, as if spoken from a distance. The blade gleamed, then seemed to lengthen. Cailean’s heart pounded. The shining blade writhed like a snake. He fought an urge to touch the apparition.
The blur of a downward slash startled him from the trance. Bright light flared in his vision then he registered the red trail of blood on his forearm. He watched in fascination as the glistening rivulet trickled down the side of his arm and slowly seeped into the ancient crevasses etched in the stone. A wave of dizziness swept over him, then vanished when strong fingers gripped his arm. He snapped his head up as Valdar pulled him to his feet. The great hall erupted in shouts. One of the joy-women rushed to his side and deftly bandaged his arm.
“It is a small cut, my lord.” She tied off the bandage. “You may not even have a scar.”
Cailean grinned. “That would be a shame.” He glanced at Val who cleaned his blade with a silvered cloth.
Val smiled as he returned his dagger to its sheath. “You have just entered into Heatheredge’s history.”
*
Dressed in full plate, mail, and a plumed helm, Cailean rode alongside his friend Alan McMahon, known on the tourney circuit as Sir Alan—and slated as Cailean’s tiltyard opponent. Cailean kept his gaze on Val Ross and the other Heatheredge dignitaries riding in front of him on the High Street. Heatheredge’s award-winning pipe and drum band led them, but the crowd’s joyous shouts of ‘To the Edge!’ nearly drowned out the instruments. Cailean kept his eyes forward. If he glimpsed the crowd’s shining faces, the sea of flags and pennants they waved, he half feared he’d wake in his bed back in Cumbernauld to find Heatheredge had been no more than a dream.
