Edge of Yesterday (Edge Series Book 1)

by Tarah Scott

  *

  As night descended upon Heatheredge, stars winked between scattered clouds. Flaring torches blazed in the chilly darkness during the short walk from town to Lady Elizabeth’s cottage, the scene of the night’s performance. Cailean joined six other knights in the shadows of the dense woods across from the thick-walled and whitewashed cottage where the reenactment would take place. They had shed plate-and-mail jousting gear for full belted plaids, broadswords, dirks, and war axes. Cailean rested a hand on the hilt of Triumph. He wanted to commit every detail of his surroundings to memory. Heatheredge maintained Elizabeth’s cottage as a living history museum. Tonight, he was part of that history.

  Peat smoke rose from the chimney of the thatched roof. Woods stretched out behind the lane as dark and silent as he imagined it had been this night six hundred years ago. The yellow glow of candlelight flickered through two of the cottage’s deep-set windows, and a thousand guests sat on movable bleachers beneath a full moon. Several hundred more spectators lined the street of the medieval village, watching in tense silence as Valdar Ross appeared on the torchlit path, garbed in a hooded cloak. The silvered links of his mail shirt gleamed beneath his cloak, and black leather boots reached his muscled calves. He looked every part the sorcerer he portrayed. Cailean had always been intrigued by the historical man, Valdar Ross. Known as a great sorcerer, many believed he could foretell the future and perform acts of magic, but he was also a renowned healer. Not a typical combination.

  Gasps of awe underscored the flash of camera lights despite rules against picture taking. Val stopped at the cottage door. Cailean knew the story so well that when they’d rehearsed that afternoon, he had only had to skim the script. He’d read the story countless times, but this was the first time he was observing the scene. Cameras and TV crews weren’t allowed to film the reenactment.

  The story went that Valdar had heard rumors that he would find the woman he loved in this cottage. The woman betrothed to the son of the Mackay chief, a groom who betrayed her by giving her to his men to rape and then kill. Until hearing the tales, Valdar believed his beloved Elizabeth had died. Now he stood at the door as if dreading what he might find inside. A wolf howled in the distance and Valdar’s hand went to his sword as he peered over his shoulder into the misty darkness. His face, shadowed within the hood of his cloak, appeared as an apparition staring at them through the gloom.

  “By God, a wolf.” The reenactor beside Cailean peered into the trees. “Did they borrow the beast from a zoo?”

  Another knight shook his head. “Too dangerous with so many tourists about.”

  Cailean whispered, “It must be a recording.” Wolves had disappeared from Scotland in the sixteen hundreds, but tonight they revisited the Highlands of thirteen hundred and ninety-five. “Heatheredge is renowned for authenticity,” he added.

  The wolf howled again and a thrill lashed through Cailean. He hadn’t truly understood the lengths to which the inhabitants of modern day Heatheredge would go in order to reenact Valdar’s heartbreak. As the animal’s lonely cry faded, he rubbed his nape where the fine hairs had risen.

  A woman’s wail of pain snapped Cailean’s attention to the cottage. Valdar grabbed the door latch. When it didn’t open, he threw his shoulder against the door. Still, it didn’t budge. He flattened his palms against the wood and lowered his head as if in concentration. Another cry from the woman inside the cabin split the eerie silence. The door sprang open an inch as if freed of a spring. Valdar shoved the door open wider and faint light spilled onto the dirt lane.

  A soft click sounded and the façade of the cottage slid open like an accordion door and disappeared into a recess on the cottage’s right side. A collective murmur rippled through the crowd when the inside of the modest room came into view. A low fire in the hearth illuminated a corner bed where a peasant woman sat on the mattress beside a woman whose distended belly indicated she approached time to deliver a child. The girth of her middle appeared too large for her slight frame. The birthing sheet that had covered her hips had slipped from her long, gleaming thighs. She writhed, her head thrashing from side to side.

  Valdar entered.

  The peasant woman’s head snapped in his direction. “Who are ye?”

  He didn’t answer, but strode to the bed. The woman leapt to her feet and retreated until her back met the wall.

  Valdar sat on the bed, threw back his hood, and took Elizabeth’s hand in his. “Lady Elizabeth,” he murmured.

  She stilled and turned her head toward him. A long moment passed before she said, “Valdar?”

  “Aye, my lady. It is I.” He pressed her fingers to his lips.

  Cailean’s throat went dry. He could almost feel her cold hand in his. He resisted the urge to hurry to the cottage…to her. When she lifted a hand and touched Valdar’s cheek, Cailean’s hand drifted to his own face. Valdar dipped his head closer to the delicate fingers. Her hand dropped back to the mattress and a chill swept through Cailean.

  “But how are you here?” she said. “I thought all my loved ones perished when—” Her voice caught. “My father, is he…?”

  Pain lashed through Cailean at the anguish on her face.

  Valdar nodded. “Dead, my lady.”

  “My husband?” This time, her voice rang stronger in the room.

  Valdar straightened. “Your husband died like the fiend he was.”

  “It was not his clan that attacked.” Her vehemence hit like a slap to Cailean’s face. “My husband was innocent.”

  Cailean frowned. Not the Mackay clan that attacked the Ross bridal party? How had Heatheredge made such a huge historical blunder?

  Valdar shook his head. “Your groom did not want the marriage. He desired another woman. He planned to give you to his men and say that you had been kidnapped then killed.”

  “How can you know this?” she demanded.

  “Those who survived the slaughter in Heatheredge spoke of it,” Valdar said. “They say his evil plans brought the wrath of God down upon them and God sent your father as an avenging angel.”

  “My father, an avenging angel?” Her bitter laugh made Cailean yearn to take her into his arms and show her that no gentlewoman should experience such pain. “Nae,” she said in a bitter voice. “My father is Satan himself.”

  “Satan is the man who did this to you.” Valdar placed a hand on her belly.

  The peasant woman took a step toward him. “Do no’ touch her.”

  “Quiet,” he hissed, and she shrank back.

  Elizabeth cried out again and kicked at the covers.

  Valdar stood. “Help her.”

  The peasant woman hesitated.

  “Help her and I will no’ harm you.”

  The woman gave a wide berth, but hurried past him to the hearth. She grabbed a rag from a nearby table, then used it to lift the kettle hanging over the fire and poured water into a small basin. She returned the kettle to the fire, then grabbed several white rags from the table and took the basin to the stand beside the bed. She sat on the mattress beside Elizabeth and mopped her brow.

  “When will the babe come?” Valdar demanded.

  “Soon.”

  Elizabeth grunted and drew her knees up, spreading her thighs wide.

  “Ye must leave,” the peasant woman said.

  Fear lanced through Cailean. How could a man be asked to leave the woman he loved while she suffered such pain?

  “I will never leave her side,” Valdar vowed.

  The woman hesitated, then said, “Wait at the hearth. A man shouldnae be in the room when a woman gives birth.” He didn’t move. “I will only close the curtain,” she said. “The lady will be safe.”

  Valdar gave a curt nod and the woman reached for the curtain and dragged it across the front of the bed. Valdar strode to the hearth. For what seemed hours, Cailean stared down at the flames, as did Valdar, glancing in the direction of the pulled curtain only when Elizabeth cried out. The night grew chilly and Cailean drew his plaid more tig
htly about his shoulders.

  At last, the wail of a child broke the quiet. The peasant woman slid back the curtain. Valdar didn’t immediately face them, but stared for another long moment into the fire before turning and striding to the bed. Elizabeth lay, eyes closed. The babe in the crook of her arm suckled a breast. Cailean’s heart seemed near to bursting. No child had ever been more beautiful.

  “I must fetch herbs, my lord,” the peasant woman said.

  Valdar nodded, and she hurried from the cottage, scurrying into the shadows of the darkened path.

  “I can find someone to take the babe,” Valdar said.

  Elizabeth’s eyes fluttered open. “Take her?” she repeated.

  Her voice lacked its previous strength. Fear tightened Cailean’s gut. What was wrong?

  “You need not fear, my lady.” Valdar eased the covers back and stared down at the child. “No one will know of this night.”

  Cailean’s heart pounded. Take the child from its mother?

  Valdar’s gaze shifted to Elizabeth’s face. “I will see you from this terrible place. No one will ever harm you again. Perhaps, in time…”

  She stared up at him.

  “Perhaps you might love me as I love you.”

  Elizabeth cocked her head as if trying to understand. The baby lost the nipple and cried out.

  “I will take it.” Valdar reached for the child.

  Cailean took a step forward before catching himself.

  “Nae.” Elizabeth pulled the squalling child closer.

  Again, the weakness in her voice frightened him. Were all women so frail after giving birth? The child continued to cry.

  “When the midwife returns, I will have her bring the child to a wet nurse,” Valdar said.

  A cold finger touched Cailean’s spine.

  “You are too spent, my lady,” Valdar said.

  Her brow furrowed. “Do no’ harm her.”

  “Nae,” he murmured.

  She drew a sharp breath, then groaned.

  “Elizabeth,” Cailean whispered.

  She convulsed. Valdar dropped to one knee at her side. Cailean’s heart thundered. The baby cried louder. The red stain that began to spread across the sheet below her belly confused him for an instant. Then understanding struck.

  “Elizabeth!” Valdar shot to his feet.

  Cailean glanced about, but saw no sign of the midwife. Where was the woman? He returned his attention to Elizabeth, then choked at sight of the blood-soaked sheets.

  “No!” Valdar pulled her into his arms.

  She lifted a hand to his cheek. “The babe.”

  The child’s cry nearly drowned out her whispered plea.

  Cailean stared at her, his heart stopping.

  “I will no’ let you die.”

  “Annora,” she said. “My daughter.”

  “Annora,” Cailean whispered.

  “I will find the man who did this to you,” Valdar swore. “And that” —He turned his gaze onto the screaming child.

  “Please.” Elizabeth grasped his shirt.

  Then her hold went lax and her head lolled to the side.

  Valdar shook his head. “Nae, nae, nae.” He hugged her close. “It cannae be,” he whispered. “I won’t allow it.”

  “Go.”

  Cailean jumped at the rough male voice in his ear. He whirled. “What?”

  “That’s our cue,” his companion said.

  “Cue?” Cue. The reenactment.

  “Go on,” the guy said. “You’re supposed to be our leader.”

  Bloody hell. Cailean started forward on shaky legs. He had been awarded the part of the warrior who led the party that discovered Valdar Ross in Heatheredge. They were to capture him. Christ, he’d gotten so wrapped up in the reenactment he’d forgotten it was a show.

  Cailean grinned.

  It just didn’t get any better than this.

  He motioned the men to follow. They left the trees and crossed the street to the cottage where Valdar mourned the woman he loved. They reached the cottage and Cailean burst inside, with the men following in single file as if they were rushing in through the open door.

  Valdar sprang to his feet and yanked his sword from its sheath. The baby wailed. Cailean caught sight of the child and started. That was a real baby lying beside Lady Elizabeth Ross—played by Lady Morgana, he realized with a start. Strange, how he hadn’t recognized her earlier. He’d assumed they were using a doll with a recording of a crying baby. The little mite was bawling in earnest. Was the child all right?

  “Who are ye?” Valdar shouted above the baby’s screams.

  Cailean jarred from his thoughts. His men fanned out beside him, swords drawn.

  Cailean said in an aggregation of his soft Scottish burr, “Ye are accused of witchcraft, Valdar Ross. Throw down your sword—or do your clansmen hide behind dead women and babes?”

  Valdar’s eyes narrowed. “Are you the Mackay craven that killed Lady Elizabeth?”

  Cailean glanced at the woman. “I did not touch your Ross whore.” The word ‘whore’ stuck in his throat.

  Valdar lunged. Cailean sidestepped and Valdar spun, meeting Cailean’s sword with a ferocity that nearly caused Cailean to lose his grip. They hadn’t practiced like this during rehearsal. So Val wanted to play rough. Cailean smiled. About time.

  “Back, lads,” he ordered his men. “This cur is mine.”

  Cailean jabbed as they’d practiced. Val swung his blade downward and the momentum forced Cailean’s sword into an arc. Cailean fell back, and Valdar advanced. Left, right, a hard swing to the left that nicked the leather armband Cailean wore. Damn, the man knew how to use a sword. Cailean suddenly understood why he had been awarded this part. He’d not just been the best jouster or swordsman to win the most trophies, but no one else could’ve stood against Val.

  Not believably, anyway.

  Cailean wiped the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. No wonder the great man chaired the committee. He might have some years on most of them, but he was a demon with a blade. Cailean fought the urge to grin. These people took their reenacting seriously. Cailean slipped on something, jumped back and spared a glance to the floor. A tiny puddle of fake blood.

  As planned during their practice, Valdar drove Cailean back toward where the door would have been. Cailean’s men edged closer when Valdar jabbed at his belly and sliced open his shirt. Cailean glanced down, then jerked his gaze back to Valdar. It had been years since Cailean had sparred with anyone of Val’s skill. Damn, but he was glad for his years of practice.

  “Bastard!” Valdar shouted as rehearsed, and leapt toward Cailean.

  Valdar swung his sword in a mighty arc and caught Cailean’s blade at the hilt. Cailean shoved him back and Valdar slid on the blood. His blade flew from his hand and skidded across the floor. He roared and yanked a knife from a sheath strapped to his belt. Cailean recognized the wicked dagger Val had used during the sacrifice to the Blood Stone. This hadn’t been part of their rehearsal. But then, neither had they practiced slipping on fake blood. Valdar circled him, then lunged and slashed.

  The room spun, the candlelight a circular blur of light. Cailean snapped from the stupor as Valdar dove for his sword, snatched it up as he tucked and rolled to his feet. He rammed the dirk into its sheath and jabbed at the nearest actor to Cailean’s right. A roar went up amongst the spectators when he broke through the men and raced out the imaginary door.

  Cailean whirled, slammed his sword back into its scabbard, then caught sight of the thin line of blood on his left wrist. Bloody hell, Valdar had nicked him and Cailean hadn’t even felt it. That dagger was sharp as hell. Another war story to tell when he returned home.

  Cailean shot after him, the other men on his heels. They turned south, toward the outskirts of the village. Spectators in the lower bleachers leapt to their feet and followed. Those lining the lane urged Valdar to run faster. With his cloak whipping in the wind and long hair streaming behind him, Valdar looked like a gothic hero.
Cailean caught snatches of obscenities hurled at him and his men for chasing the love stricken warrior. He pumped his legs faster.

  Cailean figured that before Valdar reached his horse, he first would give the paragon a small taste of his own steel. Turnabout was fair play and the crowd would love the extra drama. Cailean allowed Valdar to stay ahead of them, but when the last torch came into view up ahead, Cailean picked up speed.

  The other men kept pace, and one said in a whisper, “Hey, mate, what are you doing? You’re supposed to let him get away.”

  “Adding drama.” Cailean kicked into high gear.

  Valdar glanced over his shoulder, then faced forward and ran faster.

  Now this was a chase.

  Cailean had the fleeting thought that he might be screwing himself out of a role at the next fourth-year festival. Then dismissed the thought when the spectators cheered louder. Val would thank him for making the show better. Valdar, on the other hand, would curse him.

  Valdar shot past the last torch and the other men fell back as Cailean gained on him. Cailean drew his sword. Valdar skidded to a halt. Cailean shot past him then whipped around just in time to yank his sword up and block the downward swing of his sword. Steel rang on steel in the sudden silence and the jar to Cailean’s arm traveled clear to his shoulder.

  If he hadn’t known better, he would say that Val intended that blow to crack open his skull. Valdar’s parries softened. Triumph clanged with each blow, but Cailean felt the immediate difference between the attack he’d just experienced and this swordplay clearly intended for show.

  Valdar drove him back into the rising gloom and Cailean realized that he was following the script by the two of them disappearing into the mist. Valdar continued the light parrying well out of the torchlit area. Cailean’s adrenalin still fired his blood, so he’d go along with the plan—with enthusiasm. They’d discussed every move in detail. Though Val had jokingly informed everyone that, at times, a bit of improvisation would be needed. In the main arena, everything was well choreographed. Once they left the audience at the cottage, they would make sure the sword fighting would clang loud enough to be heard by the audience, and would slowly fade as they continued along the path. Then after a few moment’s silence, they would return to the audience and take a well-deserved bow.