Page 81 of Edge of Yesterday

“It was just a hunch.” A hunch that rose the gooseflesh on his arms and sent shivers down his spine. It was too damned coincidental that the disappearances in medieval Heatheredge fit with the disappearances in modern Heatheredge. “I cannae say there is any connection between the disappearances and Crowe,” he said.

“But it is odd that they began after he arrived in Heatheredge,” Lennox finished.

“What counts is that your father isn’t on his way here—”

“My message was to turn him back if he is on his way,” Lennox cut in. “Yesterday, my mother sent him word about Julianna’s kidnapping.”

“You mean he might already be coming?” Cailean’s gut clenched.

Lennox paled. “Ye are sure he is in danger?”

“Good God, man, send someone to meet him—better yet, go yourself.”

Determination hardened Lennox’s expression. “You are going with me.”

~*~

A heavy rain fell as Cailean rode alongside Lennox on the way to Reay Forest where Lennox hoped to intercept his father. According to Lennox, his father journeyed about his estate every spring, visiting each tenant to hear how they’d fared through winter, to learn what they might need most, and to deliver a fresh change of clothes, seed, and other supplies to see them into summer. Apparently, the lord’s last stop was usually a small farmhouse at the forest’s edge. The farmer’s great-great-great grandfather had been a Saxon with a fine hand for brewing ale, while a later ancestor had married a Frenchwoman who, according to local legend, had only to wriggle her fingers to turn water to wine.

No one truly believed such tales, but one truth remained: the farmer’s cellar held casks of the best ale and wine to be found this side of Inverness. The farmer, Alan Muir, supplied ale and wine to Reay village’s inn and tavern, and whenever the nearby monastery’s store of libations ran low, Muirhead Hall, as the farm was called, would send a cartload of casks to the thirsty monks. Lord Ravenstone enjoyed stopping at Muirhead Hall.

Just now, Cailean hoped the man had knocked back enough ale or wine to keep him in his chair—or, better yet, napping in a warm bed.

The crushing sense of doom that had swept him when he’d realized that Lord Ravenstone might be on his way home still made his heart pound. He didn’t understand why he felt such a rush of extreme dread. He only knew he couldn’t let Julianna’s father fall into whatever black hole had pulled the other residents of Heatheredge away from here. How long would a fourteenth century knight survive in the twenty-first century? He gave a silent, morbid laugh. A day had passed, and already he’d changed history. In his world, Julianna hadn’t lived long enough to see her father disappear.

Now…

Dread ripped through him. He shoved the fear to the back of his mind. They would reach Lord Ravenstone in time.

They’d overtaken Lennox’s messenger and kept him with them. If they ran into trouble, an extra blade would come in handy. Bloody hell, he’d been here four days and his go-to impulse was to use his sword.

“Where is Crowe from?” Cailean asked.

“Nae man truly knows, though I believe far to the south.” Lennox rubbed his chin. “I heard him mention Hadingtoun once, a bustling market town far east of Edinburgh.”

Cailean nodded. “I know the place.”

He did. But as Haddington in East Lothian, and more quiet than busy.

The rain stopped and a modest tower came into view beyond the hills up ahead. They followed a muddy track that soon widened into a road, and finally opened into the tiny village of Reay. Little more than a cluster of thick-walled and thatched cottages, Reay still offered a surprisingly affluent-looking inn and tavern, and a stout wooden structure Cailean guessed to be a watch tower. Despite the cold, wet day, several women labored at the well, filling water buckets, and a score of big, rough-garbed men plowed the fields that surrounded the village.

Cailean guessed the crops were oats, barley, and wheat. Any other time, he would have gone into the field to get a look at a real medieval plow, but today he only cared that they hadn’t encountered Lord Ravenstone on the road. Cailean hoped that meant the messenger Lady Ravenstone sent yesterday hadn’t located him.

They stopped at Muirhead Hall, more a modest medieval towerhouse than the ‘small farm’ he’d been told awaited them. They could’ve been on the moon and he still would’ve wanted to whoop for joy when they found Lord Ravenstone in Alan Muir’s cellar inspecting the ale and wine casks that filled the cold, dimly-lit space. The smell of damp stone, oak, and spilled ale and wine was enough to intoxicate a man. It was easy to see why Lord Ravenstone liked stopping here.

Lennox had told Cailean to let him do the talking. Cailean hadn’t argued. The less he said, the better.

Lord Ravenstone caught sight of them and his expression lightened. He said something to the man beside him, Alan Muir the farmer, from the pleased and proud look of him, then started toward them.

They reached him and father and son hugged. They separated and Ravenstone said, “What are ye doing here?”

“Did you receive Mother’s message?” Lennox asked.

His brow furrowed and he shook his head. “Nae. What has happened?”

Lennox motioned with his chin. “Let us talk alone.”

His father glanced at Cailean, then bid farewell to the farmer and preceded them up the stairs into the rising mist. A short while later, they sat in the private room of the Monk’s Elbow tavern and ordered wine.