Page 43 of Edge of Yesterday

Chapter Eight

Cailean knew he’d lost his mind. He’d slept most of the day and awoke to an even stronger sense of confusion than he’d experienced earlier that morning. This place was simply too strange. When he’d arrived in Heatheredge, he’d felt as if he’d truly gone back in time. But this cottage, the castle compound—Raghnall—made everything else seem like a movie set.

He nearly laughed. The thing that came closest to pushing him over the edge was the medieval toilet. All the medieval buildings he’d entered while at Heatheredge included modern plumbing. Even he wasn’t such an enthusiast that he willingly gave up that modern convenience. He hadn’t noticed the toilet until the need to use it arose. The alcove that hid the toilet was located in the far left hand corner of the room, hidden by a rickety wooden screen. Little more than a bench with a hole cut into it, and appropriately placed over what he assumed was a cesspit, the toilet appeared seldom used. A blessing, that. He guessed the basket of straw was the medieval equivalent of toilet paper and the small cluster of dried heather, as the bowl of dried lavender and rose petals, must be an attempt at period air fresheners. Either way, he felt like he’d stumbled into an episode of Dr. Who.

Who the bloody hell forced guests to use a medieval toilet? This was a bad joke. A bad joke delivered in a very pleasant package—if he ignored the toilet. That afternoon, Julianna tended to his arm once again. Gregory accompanied her this time and Cailean wasn’t fooled by his quiet demeanor. He sat at the table, head leaning against the wall, eyes closed, but Cailean recognized the coiled cat ready to strike should the need arise.

So they didn’t want her alone with him and neither were they willing to let him leave. He hadn’t missed the men who sat beneath the oak tree near the cottage. They’d played dice all afternoon and into the evening as if they hadn’t a care in the world, but Cailean knew full well they were there to guard him.

“Ye are healing well,” Julianna said.

“I have a fine physician,” he replied.

She nodded, but said no more.

“Have I angered ye, my lady?”

She paused as she picked up the used bandages. “Angered me? Nae. Why?”

“You don’t seem much in the mood for talking.”

She flushed. “I am sorry, Cailean. There is just much to do for the festivities tonight.”

Cailean nodded.

She smiled, then cleaned up her medical supplies and left with Gregory. He stared at the closed door for a long moment. Julianna certainly acted like a woman who had a lot on her mind. So did he.

Lennox said it had been twenty-four years since the conflict in Heatheredge. The slaughter in Heatheredge took place in thirteen hundred and seventy one. That meant the year was approximately thirteen hundred and ninety-five. Why would Val have him reenact this year in particular? He could think of nothing special about the timing, nor could he come up with what his role was in this bizarre play. Hell, he couldn’t figure out what this play was. Heatheredge’s history. Their clans’ histories. Why switch the clans’ roles? He could just as easily have reenacted the history as written. And why keep him here in this cottage for a day?

It seemed Val wanted Cailean to believe he’d actually gone back in time. Why go to so much trouble for him? Maybe it wasn’t only Cailean he wanted to convince. Were there other reenactors who had been thrown into this weird situation? Perhaps it was a new and bizarre reality television show. He had to find out.

First, he would find a telephone in the castle’s administration office. A phone call to Ginny would set things right. In more ways than one. After he’d heard his down-to-earth, ever logical sister’s voice and assured himself he wasn’t crazy, he would have her start digging. The challenge would pale in comparison to her work as head of IT with Rylon Financial Corp, but when she learned that the Chairman of the Gathering Committee plucked people out of the festival and dropped them into bizarre fantasies, she would hack through their systems and ferret out the truth in half an hour.

That’s when his fun would begin.

Cailean went to the window and eased aside the animal skin. The moon hung just past its zenith in the west, which made the time about one a.m. Perfect. All but a skeleton crew should be abed by now. He drew in a breath. He would have to use the window to escape. When he’d last looked, the guards slept soundly in front of the tree where they’d been all day, but he felt certain they’d awaken if he walked out the front door. The opening was too small to straddle. He would have to go head first. He hoisted himself up, ducked through the opening and lowered his torso over the sill. His breath caught when his belly took all his weight in the seconds before he wiggled from the window. He hit the ground, shoulder first and stifled a groan. He really was going to make Val pay for this.

Cailean slowly pushed to his feet, then crept to the corner of the cottage and peered around the edge at the two guards. They still slept, their plaid wrapped around their shoulders. Perfect. Earlier, he’d glimpsed what he figured was a damned good replica of Raghnall’s unusual gatehouse, the main entrance at the northeast side of the façade. That could mean that a scullery, pantry or maybe a bake house would be located on one of the other two sides. That’s where he might find the administrative office.

He turned and crept along the cottage and through the trees toward the castle. Keeping to the shadows beneath the curtain wall, he edged forward. The wind kicked up a wisp of smoke that smelled heavily of aromatic herbs and, more telling, bog myrtle. He resisted the urge to rub his hands together. While hops were used for brewing on the Continent clear back to antiquity, they weren’t grown in England until the seventeenth century, even later in Scotland. True to form, Val made do with what was on hand, just as their ancestors would have. Cailean would guess there was broom and gorse in the brew, as well. He couldn’t have picked a more perfect spot to sneak into the castle.

White-washed, the brew house gave off the fragrant smoke he’d smelled. Best of all, the only souls he saw were brawny lads, all heavily perspiring, and busy drawing water from a huge, deep well. They paid him no mind, but trudged around a corner of the brew house with their sloshing buckets, heading, he imagined, to wherever the mash-tub awaited them. Only one lad shot him a look, nodding only when Cailean met his gaze.

Cailean neared the brew house, prepared to be greeted with a customary ‘stirrup-cup,’ or drink at the door. But when he inched the door open, the wood creaked loudly on an empty, silent room. Even better. No one called out a warning, and Cailean released the breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. No welcome drink was better than being met and noticed.

Bloody hell, he acted as if this was real. Still, he didn’t relish running into more zealots like last night’s opponents. He would rather avoid another swordfight.

He slipped inside, closed the door, then faced the room. A cozy warmth blanketed his face and arms. Red hot coals glowed at the base of the banked fire in the large hearth directly ahead. To Cailean’s relief, no one slept on pallets near the fire. That surprised him, but he wouldn’t question his good luck.

The roof trusses arched overhead, making the brew house seem larger than it was. More light fanned out across the stone-flagged floor through an arched opening across the room and easily illuminated the dozen massive oak casks that lined the left wall. Cailean took two paces to the first cask and laid a palm on the roughly hewn wood. Strange how the feel and smell of oak made a man feel as if he was home. He let his hand drop to his side. Medieval oak barrels were easily replicated. Their contents, however...

Mugs and cups of various sizes cluttered a table in the right-hand corner of the room. He fetched one of the cups and filled it halfway with the frothy liquid that poured from the spout. Even before the cup reached his mouth, the pungent scent of bog myrtle filled his nostrils. A few other aromatic tones tickled his nose, as well, but bog myrtle was clearly the base brewing component. This ought to be as interesting as the cider. Cailean took a long draught. Thick, slightly sweet, and ‘herby,’ the rich brew went down smoothly. He suspected it would also prove strong, packing a punch if he drank too much. Smiling, he looked at the remaining ale. He was tempted to have a pint. Later.

He finished the ale, set the cup on the shelf, then entered the room and found a small pantry. A low burning sconce hung on the wall directly to his right. A rushlight sat on a small table beneath the sconce. Cailean lit the rushlight with the sconce, then scanned the room. Large sacks leaned against the right wall. Cailean crossed to the sacks and peered inside one. Grain. He dug into the nearest bag with his free hand and let the grain fall through his fingers. Barley, if he wasn’t mistake. Were they grinding the barley?

Through an arched opening to his right was a room with several large querns, two circular stones, one set atop the other, with the upper stone boasting a hole for the grain, and—he couldn’t believe it—a wooden handle to turn the stone. He’d seen stone querns propped as ‘historical curiosities’ against the walls of Highland and Hebridean black houses at living history museums. He’d also seen a few used as garden ornaments. But here, and looking as if they were used daily? He looked in three more sacks. Two held barley and one held wheat. A large, rough-sided wooden kist held oats and—was it possible? He withdrew one of the half dozen fresh-looking cheese rounds someone had plunged into the oat chests. Someone was actually adhering to the Scottish medieval practice of keeping cheese fresh in oats? If he dug deeper in the oat kist, might he also find baked oatcakes and even mealie puddings?

Cailean inspected the cheese round. How far did this fantasy go? Time to find out. He strode to the door directly ahead and eased it open. Another door lay ahead at the end of a fifteen-foot corridor. He went to the next door and opened it. Light seeped into the room from an archway. As Cailean approached, he detected increased warmth and realized there was a fireplace in the next room. He reached the door and peered around the jamb. A massive vaulted kitchen. He glanced back. He’d seen no other rooms.