Edge of Yesterday (Edge Series Book 1) Page 4

  Late morning sun warmed his face through his helmet’s open visor. He relaxed in the saddle, glad for the solid muscle of the heavily caparisoned charger he rode. Aptly named Hercules, the beast had been the luck-of-the-draw. Literally. Yet another Heatheredge tradition. At the ceremonial breakfast of champions, jousters pulled the names of their steeds from Val Ross’ silver helm. Cailean had chosen last. Hercules had been meant for him.

  Cailean patted the charger’s neck. Like him, Hercules was a champion and Cailean intended to maintain his winning streak. After five days and seven trophies, Cailean held the highest scores. He planned to witness Valdar and Elizabeth’s dramatic encounter moment-by-moment as a participant. Living history—the reason he was here. But Otto had informed him of an unspoken tradition. No matter how many wins a knight held, no knight who lost today’s joust had ever been honored with a role in the night’s Elizabeth-Valdar reenactment.

  Alan waved to the crowd. His roguish smile and showy black-and-gold enameled armor made him a favorite with the ladies, especially the sword chasers. Something about his shaved head, gold earring, and neatly-trimmed black beard attracted lassies who appreciated ‘bad boys.’ Alan was a friend, but that wouldn’t stop Cailean from knocking him on his arse in the joust.

  Through the gates ahead, Cailean spotted a twin row of kilted warriors with raised spears and swords. His heart began to pound. The gaily-festooned gate led to the tiltyard where the jousting competition would take place.

  “To the Edge! To the Edge!” shouted the crowd.

  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.

  The crowd shouted as Cailean and Alan pounded back to their starting places and reined around to again gallop along the barrier. A direct clash seemed likely as each horse raced ever faster at the oncoming beast and rider.

  “Heatheredge! Heatheredge!” the spectators’ cries filled Cailean’s ears, joining the thunder of Hercules’ hooves tearing up the sanded earth as he barreled toward McMahon.

  Cailean aimed his lance straight and kept his eye on the lance racing toward him. Cailean’s lance slammed into Alan’s shoulder with a clash of steel and wood. Alan’s swift up-thrust of his shield arm diverted the impact as they sped past each other.

  Racing back to his starting place, Cailean yanked his steed around and tore back along the rail toward Alan, faster this time. Cailean’s lance struck Alan’s side just as Alan’s punched Cailean’s hip. Cailean crashed his shield down so hard onto Alan’s lance that the lance broke with a loud snap. The tip swung crazily, held on by splinters. But Alan remained seated, his helmet in place, as he cast aside his useless lance and galloped back to his end of the tiltyard. Cailean did the same and drew his sword as he raced back toward the center of the jousting field to meet Alan’s sword attack.

  “They’ll fight on with blades,” Otto announced over the loudspeakers.

  The crowd roared and pressed toward the rail.

  “No quarter till one is down—or helmet gone,” Otto shouted.

  Cailean reined up at the center point of the jousting rail and swung off his mount an instant before Alan did. They gripped blunted blades, yet Cailean launched himself at Alan as if the swordfight were real. Steel met steel in a resounding clang and the crowd silenced.

  “I dinnae see any knickers.” Cailean landed a blow against Alan’s down-swinging blade. The force of his counter-strike almost knocked the sword from Alan’s hand. “No’ a one.”

  “You bastard,” Alan laughed, and leapt back as Cailean’s sword whipped through air.

  Alan swung his blade in an arc.

  Cailean spun and caught the momentum of Alan’s blade, shoving him back. Alan stumbled two paces and righted himself, then parried left, and right. The shriek of steel on steel sent a surge of adrenaline through Cailean. He spun, his sword an eye-blurring slash of silver as its tip successfully caught the chin strap of Alan’s helmet. The fastening popped open. Cailean seized the helmet from his friend’s head.

  “Fiend!” Alan staggered backward, expression dark. Then he straightened and grinned. “You fight like the devil’s own footman, brother.”

  “So some say.” Cailean thrust the helmet high and turned in a victorious circle.

  The crowd surged upward with one unanimous cry. Banners, hats and scarves sailed onto the field.

  Alan appeared at his side. “Give my regards to Elizabeth tonight. Guess I’ll have to make do with Lilith at the Red Lion.” He winked then turned to face the female spectators who had reached them.

  Cailean half envied him—but only half. The crowd surrounded both of them as Otto’s voice came over the loudspeaker. “The winners of today’s jousting matches are…” He began reading the list of winners as Val Ross and other dignitaries set out the shining silver trophies at the committee’s canopied tent.

  “Cailean,” said a man dressed in the fine velvet tunic of a lord, “Thank ye for winning.” He smiled. “I won a tidy sum.”

  Cailean laughed. “Always glad to oblige, my lord.”

  The man turned away and Cailean caught sight of Randi and Denise pushing through the crowd toward him. Dammit. He’d completely forgotten about them. The spectators pressed in around him and Alan like cattle. There would be no escape. He spotted Hercules being led off the field by a lad. He should have headed straight for the charger once he’d made his first circle with Alan’s helm.

  “Alan,” Cailean called.

  Alan looked in his direction and Cailean held up the helmet.

  Alan shook his head. “Keep it,” he shouted. “It’ll keep you warm tonight.”

  Randi and Denise reached him.

  Randi flashed a bright smile. “You were awesome.”

  “We didn’t see you last night at the Red Lion.” Denise thrust her lips into a pout.

  A man dressed as a knight slapped Cailean on the back. “Cailean the Champ. Well played, lad.”

  Cailean nodded to the man before he turned away.

  “Where are you going to be tonight?” Denise persisted.

  “I’ll be taking part in the night’s reenactment.” Bloody hell, had he missed the announcement about which role he would play? Otto was still reading off the winners’ roles.

  Randi slid an arm around his forearm. “After that?” she purred.

  “Things will run late, lass.”

  The crowd jostled her and she bumped into him, her breasts crushing against his arm.

  “Late is the best time of night,” Randi said. “All sorts of naughty things happen in the wee hours of the morning.” She pressed close on his side.

  Cailean silently groaned. Her attempt at Scottish vernacular only cheapened her even more.

  “I believe you are running late, my lord,” said a cultured English female voice. A brunette dressed in a velvet, medieval noblewoman’s dress halted in front of him.

  Cailean frowned and she lifted a brow. “You were supposed to meet us in Lord Ross’ tent. You’ve forgotten, haven’t you?” She shook her head. “Just like a man. A pretty face comes along and all thought flees to his lower regions.”

  Cailean suppressed a smile. “Guilty as charged, my lady. Can ye forgive me?”

  “Just this once,” she said with such gravity that Cailean almost couldn’t maintain a serious expression. She looked at the women. “You will forgive him, ladies, but our champion has duties.”

  “We can come,” Randi began, but the woman shook her head.

  “I’m sorry, but that isn’t possible. We cannot have distractions while our knights prepare for the evening performance.”

  Randi’s brows dove downward and Cailean feared she would argue.

  The brunette slipped a hand into the crook of Cailean’s arm and said, “Come along, my lord,” then pulled him away from the women.

  The crowd had thinned enough for them to weave their way toward Val Ross’ tent.

  When they were out of earshot of the women, Cailean said, “I owe you a huge debt.”

  She looked up at him, eyes alight with amusement, “Yes, you do.”

  “I thought I would have to become rude,” he said.

  “I thought knights loved sword chasers.”

  “In my younger days,” he admitted. “I just don’t have the energy anymore.”

  “I imagine you wouldn’t have had to expend much energy with those two. They would have willingly done all the work.”

  He laughed, then grimaced. “A terrifying thought.”

  This time, she laughed. “You seem to be at home here.”

  Cailean nodded. “I almost feel like a real Edger.”

  She nodded, but the amusement had vanished from her eyes. “Be careful what you ask for.”

  He intended to ask her what she meant, but they reached the tent and she disengaged her arm from his.

  Val Ross looked up from his examination of the trophy and met the brunette’s gaze. Something flickered in his eyes. Unease?

  “Cailean, I see you’ve met Lady Morgana,” he said.

  “Aye,” Cailean said. “She saved me.”

  Val paused while moving a trophy. “Saved you?”

  “Two female enthusiasts had him cornered,” Lady Morgana said.

  “Ah.” Val nodded. “A hazard of the knight’s life.”

  “If you will excuse me, I have another knight to locate.” She canted her head in Cailean’s direction. “Take care, my lord.” Her gaze shifted to Val. “My lord.” Before Cailean could reply, she turned and walked away.

  He watched the gentle sway of her hips.

  “You will do better to c
hase the sword chasers than to chase her,” Val said.

  Cailean jarred. He’d been staring. “Is she married?”

  Val shook his head. “Nae, but she is no’ a woman ye want to pursue.”

  I’ll pursue any woman I choose, rose to his tongue, but Cailean shrugged as if the matter were now closed. It wasn’t, but he found Val’s attitude odd. Cailean had been sixteen the last time he’d been told he couldn’t pursue a woman. Memory struck of yesterday when the older man commented that Cailean hadn’t sought out female companionship. Cailean’s attention had been on the woman who stopped and flirted with them, but upon consideration, Val’s comment wasn’t about that encounter. But how could Val know what Cailean had been doing or not doing in Heatheredge?

  “Ye must be pleased,” Val said.

  Cailean broke from his thoughts. “Pleased?” He referred to the joust. “Aye, Alan is a formidable opponent. I’m honored to have won.”

  “You should also be pleased that you’ve been awarded the secondary lead role in tonight’s play.”

  “Secondary lead role?” Cailean repeated. Bloody hell. He really had won.

  Chapter Four

  Cailean knew better than to let his eagerness to commence the evening’s festivities interfere with the phone call he’d promised his sister. She didn’t ask much, but once he agreed to any request, to Ginny, that became a solemn promise. His heart warmed. She lost her mother—his stepmother—ten years ago in a plane accident, and thereafter appointed herself mother hen to him and their father. When their father died of a heart attack two years ago, Ginny had directed all of her mothering toward Cailean. He suffered her attentions in silence—mostly—but knew her worries had more to do with the fear she would lose him than the need to take care of him.