Page 6 of Edge of Yesterday

The man gripped Cailean’s arm. “Good, because you’ll be seated on the dais with Lord Ross and the other gentles.”

“The high table?” Had he heard correctly? “I’m honored.”

“Nae, nae, Heatheredge is honored.”

He bent in another smart little bow. Before Cailean could think of a reply, the herald hurried toward a cluster of men and women costumed like wealthy medieval merchants and their ladies. The man’s words then sank in. He’d been granted a place at the Heatheredge high table. It was all he could do not to whoop.

~*~

An hour later, the trumpet blasted and Cailean joined the crowd filing into the Heatheredge Tower’s great hall. He stepped through the arched entry and stopped. He had truly entered fourteenth century Scotland. Torches blazed in the smoke hazed room and a pleasing blend of wood-and-peat smoke curled upward from the two large hearths into the black-raftered ceiling. Heavy silvered candelabrums graced the pristine white linens that covered every table. Well-polished knives and spoons—no forks!—gleamed in the candlelight, while some of the silvered ale cups and wine chalices sparkled with gemstones. Baskets of fresh-baked bread, rounds of cheese, bowls of sugared almonds and eating trenchers sat on each table.

Servants emerged from the wooden partitions that hid the kitchens, carrying huge trays brimming with joints of roasted meat, whole roasted capons, beef and cheese pasties, and dishes of—he guessed—spiced jellies and steaming custards. Mouthwatering aromas drifted behind the serving lads and lassies as they moved about the hall. Then Cailean registered the Wall of Honor. The feathers covered all three walls that enclosed the raised dais at the hall’s far end, and extended outward nearly the length of one side of the great hall. Hardly an inch of stone lay visible, and the silvered feathers reflected the torch and candle flames like…

“‘Tis as if the walls were made of stars, eh?” The gnome-like herald finished Cailean’s thought. “I doubt even the great castles at Edinburgh or Stirling have anything so grand.”

“I vow you are right,” Cailean agreed.

The little man spun and hurried away and Cailean watched him scramble onto a block of wood. The two trumpeters from the keep steps flanked him. Dinner was about to start. Cailean hurried to the dais steps and spotted his discreet name place card at the empty seat to the right of Val Ross’ chair at the head of the table. Cailean slowed. He had the place of honor at the lord’s table?

A trumpet fanfare split the air. Cailean claimed his seat as the herald raised his arms and cried, “Gentles, knights and ladies—the Heatheredge Gathering begins. All hail our illustrious Lord of the Festival, Valdar Ross!”

The attendees stood and cheered. The trumpets blasted another flourish. Pipes skirled and fiddles played. The stamping of feet and pounding on tables with fists, swords and dagger hilts nearly drowned out the music. Val entered through a door at the back of the dais and the deafening noise increased. He strode to the only empty chair, a heavily carved throne-like seat of age-blackened oak at the head of the table.

He now wore a richly embroidered, velvet doublet over his polished mail shirt and the voluminous great-plaid swept across his shoulder. He’d also donned more flashy Celtic jewelry, although his huge silvered talon pendant remained the most eye-catching piece. Cailean’s attention snagged on a dirk fashioned after an ancient two-handed sword strapped to his waist and sheathed in a black, leather scabbard. The weapon’s silvered hilt appeared beautifully worked. Like a true two-handed sword, the dagger had a forward-sloping cross hilt that bore the traditional quatrefoil fleurette terminations—like the blade on the Heatheredge banner. Yes, he was sure of it. They were the same, even down to the quatrefoil fleurette. Even the sheath boasted a fancy silver tip with three fleuettes instead of four.

Val gripped the back of his lord’s chair and nodded to the packed rows of tables that stretched to the farthest corners of the hall. “My friends, welcome.” He raised his arms. “Feast well and fight better on the morrow. Hail Heatheredge!”

“Hail Heatheredge!” the crowd shouted.

He again roared, “Hail Heatheredge. May we never forget the past.”

A single trumpet blasted and everyone sat. Cailean joined his fellow reenactors in calling out the customary response, “We will always remember. Long live Heatheredge!”

~*~

The big, red-bearded man sitting to Cailean’s right elbowed his ribs. “What do ye think of our lovelies?” The man jerked his head toward the center of the hall where an open space had been reserved for their dinner entertainment.

A knot of fiddlers played and half the joy-women danced nearby. Each leap or twirl revealed a flash of breast or thigh through the slits in their dresses. At times, the dark curls between their legs could be seen, much to the delight of the night’s merrymakers. The other joy-women lounged on a trestle bench set against the silvered wall, their cloaks parted so all could admire their bare-fleshed beauty, barely concealed by their transparent gowns.

“They are exquisite,” Cailean said.

“Have you such temptresses down in Cumbernauld?” He waggled his bushy red brows.

“If we do, I have no’ seen them.”

“And you willnae—not outside Heatheredge,” Val Ross declared, his gaze on the dancing joy-women. Val’s gaze shifted to Cailean. “This wee Highland town is a place like no other.”

Cailean nodded. “That it is, my lord.”

“Val.” The chairman’s smile flashed. “I don’t stand on such formality from my best knights.”

“You honor me, sir. Val. I still cannae believe I’m here.” He returned the smile, emotion thick in his chest. “I have dreamed of this day since I was seven, perhaps even from birth. My uncle traced my father’s ancestry back to the original conflict here.”

“That we know, lad. No applicant is accepted without due scrutiny. And of those we choose, only a few attend our opening feast with a seat at the high table. Your success on the tourney circuit is hardly a secret.” Val picked up a beef rib from a platter. “We’re aware that your interest in the past is genuine.”

“I wager every reenactor present appreciates distant times and customs,” Cailean said.

“True enough.” Val bit the rib, then wiped his mouth and beard. “But you, lad, inspire.”