Page 18 of Edge of Yesterday

“A lady does not frequent common taverns,” she said with amusement.

“At least tell me where you live,” he said. “I am likely staying another three weeks. I would be pleased to visit you.”

She glanced again at the pub and he had the sudden thought that she expected someone. “I will be here in Heatheredge,” she said. “For now, settle for visiting the swordsmith.” She started to turn away. “And don’t forget Gillie’s.” She began walking down the street away from him.

Cailean watched her for a moment, uncertain if she had brushed him off or meant to play hard to get. After the reenactment, he would find out. He turned in the opposite direction. He’d visit the swordsmith—and Gillie’s.

He reached the lane and spotted the sign for Gillie’s extending from a building halfway up the lane. Cailean headed toward it, then slowed when two women appeared up ahead, where the lane intersected with the street. Was that—The blond woman turned slightly. Yes, Randi and her friend—what was her name?—Denise. He quickened his pace and ducked inside Gillie’s. Cailean pressed close to the door and peered through the window to the right of the door, but couldn’t see the women. Bloody hell, he and Lady Morgana had conjured them by talking about them. At least they hadn’t seen him enter this store—he hoped.

Cailean turned and immediately understood why Lady Morgana had suggested he visit this store. Medieval axes, scythes, picks and other tools mingled with modern hammers, sandpapers, nails and the like. He halted. Was that a mouldboard plough in the far left-hand corner near an open door? Cailean crossed to the plough. Damn, if it wasn’t—and the wood looked as though it really came from the medieval era. He squatted and traced a finger along the beam to the mouldboard, which actually showed dirt stains on the cutting edge.

He pictured a large kilted medieval farmer, massive hands on the plough, steering behind the family cow that pulled it. The mouldboard plough cut the ground, then lifted the soil to the sides of the furrow, and represented a major advancement in farming. The farmer could plough much more land in a day with this tool than the earlier version, which meant more crops for lord, as well as family.

Cailean rose and peered through the doorway to the right of the plough. Other tools in various states of disrepair lay scattered about the room. This was probably an Employees Only area, but the door stood open, so… He entered and stopped to the right of the door where a worn battleax, at least five feet long and three bladed, leaned blade down against the wall. He hadn’t seen a battleax like this anywhere but museums. With two blades on one side and a third on the opposite side, the weapon was lethal.

How would that battleax differ from modern ones? Cailean grinned. He grasped the end of the handle and lifted. Light as a feather. He gripped it with both hands and slashed through the air. The audible whoosh sent a bolt of excitement through him. He spun, swinging the ax in a wide arc that would have sliced an opponent within seven feet of him.

He stood the ax on its handle and rubbed a thumb across the blade, surprised at the sharp edge. If he didn’t know better, he’d say the blade had been used recently. Leave it to Heatheredge to make sure their weapons struck fear into the hearts of observers. Cailean carefully returned the ax to its place against the wall, then perused the room. So many wonderful weapons and tools. He would have to come back when he had time to examine each one. Spears and polearms leaned against a corner in a group of two dozen or more weapons. Like the battleax, their blades weren’t blunted. His attention snagged on a long branch stripped of bark and sanded smooth, half hidden behind the weapons. Symbols had been burned and painted into the wood. A large red crystal had been lashed to the top of the staff with leather thongs.

Cailean stared, unable to believe what he was seeing. This was a magical staff, a wizard’s staff. He crossed to the corner and shifted aside the polearms and spears, then pulled it from among the weapons. The natural heft of the wood sent a thrill through him. His fingers fit around the worn wood as if made for him. He examined the strange markings, but had no idea what they meant. He trailed his gaze upward to the crystal and brought it closer. No doubt about it, the translucent red stone was a ruby the size of a woman’s fist. Cailean rubbed a thumb across the edges where the rock had been cut away from a larger whole. Although smoothed from time, the angled edges were still distinct. The stone hadn’t been polished in a rock tumbler, which gave the crystal an ancient and beautiful look.

Might the owner of the shop sell him the staff? Why not? It sat hidden behind weapons.

“Who the devil are ye?”

Cailean whirled, the staff in hand. A short man built like a rugby player strode toward him. He reached Cailean’s side and took the staff from him.

“Ye may not believe in things like privacy where you come from, but here we respect a man’s belongings.” He leaned the staff back with the polearms and spears.

“The door was open,” Cailean said. “I didnae know this room was off limits to customers.” Not a total lie. He had suspected…

“Now ye know.”

Cailean nodded. “Ye wouldn’t, by chance, be willing to sell the staff?”

The man folded his arms across his broad chest. “Nae.”

“It’s a handsome piece,” Cailean said. “I would be willing to pay what it’s worth.”

Derision washed across the man’s face. “Ye think money can pay what this is worth?”

Apparently not. “The staff has sentimental value?” he asked.

“Aye.”

Cailean nodded. “I understand. Forgive the intrusion.”

He strode from the room and out onto the lane. Too bad Lady Morgana hadn’t warned him that the storekeeper was a cantankerous sort.

~*~

As night descended upon Heatheredge, stars winked between scattered clouds. Flaring torches blazed in the chilly darkness during the short walk from town to Lady Elizabeth’s cottage, the scene of the night’s performance. Cailean joined six other knights in the shadows of the dense woods across from the thick-walled and whitewashed cottage where the reenactment would take place. They had shed plate-and-mail jousting gear for full belted plaids, broadswords, dirks, and war axes. Cailean rested a hand on the hilt of Triumph. He wanted to commit every detail of his surroundings to memory. Heatheredge maintained Elizabeth’s cottage as a living history museum. Tonight, he was part of that history.

Peat smoke rose from the chimney of the thatched roof. Woods stretched out behind the lane as dark and silent as he imagined it had been this night six hundred years ago. The yellow glow of candlelight flickered through two of the cottage’s deep-set windows, and a thousand guests sat on movable bleachers beneath a full moon. Several hundred more spectators lined the street of the medieval village, watching in tense silence as Valdar Ross appeared on the torch-lit path, garbed in a hooded cloak. The silvered links of his mail shirt gleamed beneath his cloak, and black leather boots reached his muscled calves. He looked every part the sorcerer he portrayed. Cailean had always been intrigued by the historical man, Valdar Ross. Known as a great sorcerer, many believed he could foretell the future and perform acts of magic, but he was also a renowned healer. Not a typical combination.

Gasps of awe underscored the flash of camera lights despite rules against picture taking. Val stopped at the cottage door.Cailean knew the story so well that when they’d rehearsed that afternoon, he had only had to skim the script. He’d read the story countless times, but this was the first time he was observing the scene. Cameras and TV crews weren’t allowed to film the reenactment.

The story went that Valdar had heard rumors that he would find the woman he loved in this cottage. The woman betrothed to the son of the Mackay chief, a groom who betrayed her by giving her to his men to rape and then kill. Until hearing the tales, Valdar believed his beloved Elizabeth had died. Now he stood at the door as if dreading what he might find inside. A wolf howled in the distance and Valdar’s hand went to his sword as he peered over his shoulder into the misty darkness. His face, shadowed within the hood of his cloak, appeared as an apparition staring at them through the gloom.