Page 49 of Edge of Yesterday

Chapter Ten

Brody had been right. A little practice drinking the cider made all the difference in the world. Cailean finished off the cider in his goblet. He could grow to like the sour drink. He’d paced himself a little better than last night and a pleasant buzz hummed through his body. The man to his right picked up the pitcher of ale and filled his mug, then filled Cailean’s goblet.

“I’ve been drinking cider, man,” Cailean said with a laugh. “If I mix the two, I’m sure to have a headache in the morning.”

The man looked at Brody, who sat to Cailean’s left. “The lad needs a lesson in drinking.”

Brody nodded. “Aye. I have taken him under my wing. He is a quick learner.”

The other man grinned, then lifted his mug. “To Lady Ravenstone.”

Brody clinked his mug against the other man’s mug, then looked expectantly at Cailean.

“When in Rome.” Cailean lifted his mug, clinked it against their mugs, then followed suit when they drank their ale in several long gulps.

The men clapped him on the back and for one terrible instant Cailean feared the ale would come back up. Thankfully, he didn’t embarrass himself, but he groaned inwardly when the other man refilled all three of their mugs. This was going to be a long night.

A long night that brought much laughter, more cider—much more cider—ale, food that was as perfect in a medieval castle as was possible, and pretty serving girls that made Cailean wonder what had become of Lady Julianna. She hadn’t returned after leaving with the tall knight. The look she’d cast Cailean when she’d passed him almost had him believing she wanted him to leave with her. But such thoughts were probably alcohol induced.

A man reached between Cailean and Brody, picked up the half-eaten pork bones sitting on the table, and dropped them in a basket he carried. Cailean leaned back and allowed the man to gather pieces of bread and other scraps scattered across the table.

He dropped the last crust of bread into the basket, then bent and picked up a bone that lay in the rushes. He then continued down the table until he’d finished cleaning up the rest of the scraps.

Cailean pushed to his feet.

“Where are ye going, lad?” Brody asked.

“To get rid of some of this cider.”

Brody grinned. “Making room for more?”

Cailean wasn’t sure about that. He looked around for signs of a lavatory, then grimaced. He didn’t relish using an alcove like the one in the cottage. Worse, the kind he suspected he’d find: little more than a closet-sized, barely ventilated structure protruding from the tower or curtain wall, a ‘seat’ that was only a hole cut into a wooden plank and a chute to the cesspit. No thanks. A private bush outside would do the trick. He threaded his way through the crowd to the entry arch, but when he neared the door, the two guards who’d been standing there talking, straightened and crossed their spears in front of the door.

Cailean frowned. “I’m only stepping outside to use the facilities.”

The men didn’t reply, but neither did they move their spears. Cailean had seen people coming and going all evening long. Yet he wasn’t allowed to leave the great hall?

“At least have the decency to direct me to the privy,” he said.

The two men exchanged a glance, withdrew their spears, then the warrior on the right nodded to a staircase on Cailean’s right. He skirted the crowd near the table and hurried up the narrow staircase to a small chamber with several alcoves on the right wall. A welcome breeze wafted through an open window. With a sigh, Cailean started for the corner alcove, wondering how long Val thought he would put up with medieval ‘plumbing.’

After he’d finished using the facilities, blessedly not the wall-protrusion variety, he headed for the door, but paused at the window when he caught sight of a crowd gathered below. He braced his hands on the ledge and leaned out to see two dozen people dressed in peasant clothing pressed close to an open door.

A man carrying a basket emerged from the door and began handing its contents to the people. When a young boy snatched something from the man’s hands and stuffed it into his mouth as if starving, Cailean realized the man was the one he’d seen cleaning the table. Only he hadn’t been cleaning, but gathering scraps for the poor as an almoner would.

The man disappeared back inside the castle and the crowd edged closer to the door. Seconds later, he returned with two more baskets in hand. Cailean watched in amazement as the people took all the scraps. Some ate greedily on the spot, while others carefully wrapped the scraps in small pieces of fabric then hurried off.

Even the most authentic reenactments hadn’t included almoners. How had Val known he would be looking out the window at that moment to see this? He couldn’t have—which meant there was someone else at Raghnall Val wanted to see that particular reenactment. Someone else like Cailean who was taking part in this bizarre fantasy. How many others had Val plucked from the festival and dropped into this strange place?

The man handed out the last of the scraps and said something Cailean couldn’t distinguish. A murmur swept through the crowd, but they turned and walked toward the curtain walls. He watched until they disappeared through the gates, then went back down the stairs. Cailean returned to the great hall, stopped, and scanned the room. Who here wasn’t a citizen of Heatheredge? If he could find a couple Edgers maybe they would have answers.

A shout rose above the din and Cailean yanked his attention toward the door as a man rammed his fist into another man’s jaw. One of the guards standing at the door lunged toward the two fighting men. The warrior struck the first man hard across the ribs with the blunt end of his sword.

The man howled in pain, spun, and charged the warrior. The warrior sidestepped him and Cailean realized the warrior’s intent. Cailean lunged toward them, but the warrior whacked his spear against the back of the man’s head before Cailean could reach them. The man fell face first onto the floor, scattering rushes like dandelions. Cailean pushed through the gawkers to the man who lay motionless, and dropped to one knee beside him. He placed two fingers against the side of the man’s neck and breathed relief at the steady pulse that beat against his fingers.

He looked up at the warrior. “What the bloody hell is wrong with you?”

“Who are you?” a woman demanded.