Page 5 of Edge of Yesterday

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 the 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 torch-lit 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.