Page 10 of Edge of Yesterday

Long, sharp trumpet flourishes sounded as they neared the tournament grounds. The band marched through the gate, followed by Valdar and the other dignitaries. Cailean caught sight of the viewing bleachers. He’d competed in large venues, but these bleachers were so packed that no gap was visible between spectators. The standing crowd was a sea of faces that seemed to melt into the countryside.

“Friends of Heatheredge!” Otto’s voice boomed over hidden loudspeakers as Cailean and his fellow knights broke from the procession and rode onto the field. “We present the flower of Scotland’s chivalry, our champion knights.”

The throng erupted in shouts and wild applause. Val Ross and committee dignitaries halted in front of a canopied platform at the top of the jousting field and dismounted. Cailean and the other mounted contenders urged their horses to their places along the lower edge of the tiltyard.

Local kilted clansmen, many bare-chested and bare-shanked, who performed in races, caber tossing, hammer throwing, and tug-of-war, circled the field in a showy procession led by pipers and torchbearers. Female spectators shouted and hooted as the men headed for the far end of the tournament ground where the blue haze of cook fires fronted booths or tents that offered hearty fare and other refreshments. Cailean caught a whiff of roasted beef ribs and his stomach growled, his mouth watering.

“We will abide all ancient laws of the joust,”Val Ross’ voice boomed over the loudspeakers. All fell quiet as he stepped to the edge of the viewing tent located at the top of the field. “This is not a’ l’outrance.” His words drew a few disappointed but good-natured groans from the spectator benches. Apparently, there were a few truly bloodthirsty spectators who would have gotten a thrill out of getting a joust-to-the-death on video with a smartphone. He’d seen more than one YouTube jousting accident video go viral. “Our knights will use blunted lances and dulled swords.” Val nodded to a strapping kilted lad who held a pole affixed with the Heatheredge banner.

The youth strode to the center of the field and took up his position, ready to flash down his flag and open the joust.

“You’ll no’ top me, Ross,” Alan McMahon spoke low beside Cailean, his grin cocky.

Cailean rubbed beneath Hercules’ steel-guarded ears. “May the best man win.”

“So I said.” McMahon laughed.

“I’ll send you some aspirin in the morning, to ease the ale-head you’ll have after drinking off your disappointment at losing.” Cailean straightened and turned his attention to the field as Val finished calling out the jousting rules.

“The rail running through the center of the field is three hundred and fifty yards,” Val said. “Our champions will ride along its length from opposite sides, their lances couched and aimed. Their goal is to clash at midpoint and unseat their opponent.”

More cheers and applause burst from the crowd. The first contenders trotted away from the waiting area and took up starting positions. The jousters raised their lances in salute to Val and the other committee luminaries.

Cailean’s heart began to pound. Beside him, McMahon smiled wickedly at a sword-chaser who was tying her scarf to the point of his jousting pole. Otto and his trumpeters edged closer to flank Val as he raised a hand to silence the throng.

“An unseated jouster may choose to fight on by sword,” Val said. “Down for good, or if a helmet is lost, victory is claimed by his opponent. Hail our champions.”

Trumpets sounded. The lad with the starting flag slashed it down, then whirled and raced away as the loudspeakers blared Otto’s voice calling out the names of the first two jousters.

The two combatants each kicked their horses into a gallop and pounded down the list’s wooden rail. Their lances missed the first strike as they hurtled past each other. They circled round and thundered forward again. This time, one lance struck the other knight in the shoulder. The blow hurled him backward in his saddle and he toppled to the ground.

Slowly, the downed knight pushed to a kneeling position then shook his head, accepting defeat rather than draw his sword to fight. The winner trotted up to him and thrust his lance high in triumph. The defeated knight limped from the field. Applause followed him while the winner trotted around the edges of the field as spectators tossed flowers and ribbons at him. At last, he passed out of sight beneath the viewing bleachers.

“‘Tis knickers the lasses will be tossing at me,” McMahon joked beside Cailean. “Lacy black ones, if I’m lucky.”

Cailean smiled. “You’re mad.”

“Nae, that will be you when you reap granny panties.”

Cailean laughed, then returned his attention to the games as another pair of jousters charged down the rail.

The day began to darken early. Chill, misty air and low clouds necessitated the lighting of bonfires, torches, and the line of lanterns strung around the tiltyard. The illumination wasn’t as complete as modern floodlights, but effective enough and much more atmospheric.

“We’re up next.” Alan edged his great steed closer, lifting his voice over the cheers as the last jousters rode off the field. “I’ll no’ apologize for thrashing ye.”

“You won’t need to.” Cailean grinned and reached to pull down his visor.

“Next, we have Sir Alan McMahon of Edinburgh and Cumbernauld’s Sir Cailean Ross taking their places,” Val announced.

The spectators leapt to their feet, waving Heatheredge flags. Drum rolls and the wail of pipes filled the air as Cailean and Alan trotted their beasts to the heart of the tiltyard. They reined in before the wooden rail, then raised their lances toward Val and the other dignitaries in the canopied ‘gentry tent.’

That honor done, Cailean, as the festival’s highest-ranking champion, reversed his lance and carefully knocked its thickest end lightly against Alan’s shield. Alan returned the ancient knightly agreement that their joust was friendly and not to the death. They nodded at one other, then wheeled their horses about and cantered to opposite ends of the field. They’d barely reined around when a trumpet blast split the air.

Otto the herald shouted, “At your ready!” and the lad with his flag whipped it down, signaling their match to begin.

“Heatheredge!” Cailean yelled. Hercules burst forward in a powerful surge.

Hurtling along the wooden barricade, he carried Cailean straight at McMahon. They neared one another and Cailean knew a second before his lance would have hit that he’d missed. They thundered past each other, Alan’s lance missing his arm by a hair’s breadth.