Page 2 of Edge of Yesterday

Besides, this was no holiday.

This was a pilgrimage.

~*~

Dressed in plaid and mail, Triumph strapped to his side, Cailean strode down the High Street. The transformation from a modern Scottish crofting town to a medieval village was complete. Had he not driven this road three days ago, he wouldn’t have recognized the town.

Oh, he’d seen the preparations, trucks trundling along laden with wood and stone, the caravan of lories that carried centuries-old shopfronts that were now mounted as facades of High Street businesses. A bed and breakfast had become the Bell Inn. The local pub had been transformed into a tavern, and a hardware store’s plate glass windows now hid behind the stone façade of a merchant’s clothing store. Straw littered the road to hide the asphalt. And the viewing bleachers where he’d stopped to ask directions to Bain’s Highland Farm and Guesthouse stood draped in colorful cloth and bunting, shields and banners, hiding all hints of modern construction.

Traffic, even bicycles, had disappeared, banished to a large car park located well beyond the festival area. Only reproduction medieval carts passed along the street. Now, except for a few tourists, everyone in town dressed in period costumes. Visitors and participants arrived on foot or purchased faux medieval coins at the town’s festooned point-of-entry and bought rides in a pennant-bedecked wagon.

“Cailean the Champ.” A big man in the garb of a long-ago smithy stopped in front of Cailean. He glanced around, then withdrew a digital camera from his leather apron and said in a low voice, “Can we have a picture?”

Cailean nodded. “Aye.” He hooked his thumbs in his sword belt and straightened.

The smithy angled his camera and snapped a photo. This man wasn’t the first to stop him. It seemed many in the town knew him.

“I promised the missus I’d get a keepsake photo—or two or three—of ye.” The smithy snapped another picture.

Cailean flashed his best champion knight smile. “I hope I leave you with good memories.”

“Och, ye will.” The big man grinned and shoved his camera out of sight beneath his leather apron. He turned and disappeared into the crowd and three monks approached.

They stopped and the shortest of the three, small and somewhat grizzled, said, “Couldnae believe it when we saw you.” He grasped Cailean’s hand and pumped. “The great Cailean the Champ.” He smiled a yellow-toothed smile, his poor dental hygiene fitting his medieval monk costume. “Last we heard, you were on the tourney circuit in Europe.” The man glanced at his fellow monks.

“Kicked arse over there, we heard,” one of his companions said.

The monk released Cailean’s hand. “Val did us all proud when he signed ye.”

Cailean grinned. “I’m honored to be here.” So honored, I’d have crossed the English Channel in a rowboat and crawled on my knees to participate in the Heatheredge Gathering.

“Cailean! Cailean Ross!” calleda woman with an American accent. A leggy blond elbowed her way past the monks and stopped within a breath of Cailean. “I knew you’d be here.” She pressed a hand to her breast, her face flushed.

The monks grinned and left.

“Good afternoon, lass.” Cailean stepped back, silently damning the crowd that made it impossible to put more than a few inches between himself and the woman. “Are ye enjoying the festival?”

“Things are looking up.” She beamed, her gaze gliding over him. “I’m Randi.” She glanced at a woman who joined her. “This is Denise. We’re from Chicago and we came to see you, mostly.”

“Me?”

“We follow you on Facebook and Twitter.” The second girl, shorter and darker than the first, brushed back her hair. Her jacket gaped, revealing braless, double D breasts beneath a thin white T-shirt. “We love how you swing your sword.” Her gaze flicked to Triumph, then settled suggestively on his groin. “We can’t wait to see you in action.”

Cailean silently groaned. Sword chasers.

He’d lost his taste for groupies years ago. They worshipped the flash of steel and the blast of trumpets. For less than a wink, these women would follow him anywhere, do his bidding, and pleasure him as if he were a sex god. Many were known to drape themselves over older and badly out-of-shape elders at tournament feasts simply because such men played kings and great nobles.

Cailean once played their game. Most men did when they joined the touring circuit, a whirlwind that cast modern-day knights into the same fame as rock stars. At least, that was true in the world of renn fairs, Highland games, and here at the pulse beat of them all; Heatheredge. He’d lost count of the sword-chasers he’d bedded over the years. To his shame, their faces were a blur. But he’d been younger then. Now, hot and heavy quickies behind the bleachers of a tournament field left him cold.

Sun glinted off something between a building and a food vendor’s tent and Cailean glimpsed a television camera pointed in his direction. He looked away from the camera. Television crews hid their cameras and gear under bleacher draping and behind rows of food stalls that lined the road. Last night, he’d strolled past a well-known news anchor and overheard her instructing her staff where to set up their filming stations. But their locations were nowhere near this spot. The last thing he needed was to encourage more of these women by being caught on camera with others of their kind.

Cailean flashed the easy smile he’d mastered for such women. “Do ye have your Heatheredge flags, lassies?” He nodded at the banner flapping in the wind on a wooden pole fifty feet away. The town’s logo, a silhouetted crow perched on a medieval dagger, adorned the dark red fabric.

Randi glanced in the direction he looked. “What’s so special about them?” She fluffed her bleached blonde hair.

“During the parades and games, everyone waves them and shouts our slogan, ‘To the edge!’ If you bring your flags into the pubs after the nights’ events, the lads will sign them for you.”

“What pubs?” Denise brushed her breasts against his arm.