by Tarah Scott
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.
He’d definitely left the brew house and entered the main cooking area, but… Unlike every other restored and maintained medieval castle he’d ever visited, something was missing. The staff rooms. Where the hell were the headquarters for those responsible for the upkeep of all this ancient glory? He should have found at least one administrative office in the kitchen area. Were there other rooms that led to the kitchen? Dammit. If he didn’t find a phone in this area, he would be forced to search the upper floors. He inched forward while scanning the kitchen, then stopped at sight of a boy sleeping in front of the fire. Cailean nearly laughed. The lad looked every inch a real spit-boy.
No more than six or seven, the sprite had carrot-red hair and a sprinkling of freckles across his slumbering face. He wore a rumpled white, long-sleeved shirt and his bare feet stuck out from the bottom of the threadbare plaid he’d wrapped himself in. Nae matter, that, for a plump, clearly well-fed ginger cat slept across the lad’s ankles. Biting back a chuckle, Cailean crept to a narrow staircase to his right. Servants’ stairs. He mounted the steps two at a time.
On the second floor, he stopped, startled by the large tapestry that hung on the wall near the landing. He stepped closer and examined the fabric, rubbing an edge between his fingers. He studied the picture, a falconry scene showing resplendently dressed lords and ladies on equally resplendent steeds. A few of the men held falcons on their upraised arms. Two falcons flew free among the clouds, the whole depiction set against a fanciful woodland, with a fairytale castle on a hill in the background.
The tapestry’s threads were unfrayed, its jewel-toned colors untouched by time. Cailean scanned the fabric for damage but found none. He released a low whistle. In medieval days, this tapestry alone would be worth a fortune. At least the fantasy Val had thrown him into took place in a wealthy laird’s castle. Val could just as easily have tossed him into a hovel. No, Val probably figured Cailean would more willingly play along in a pleasant fantasy than a filthy one.
An idea struck. From any of the towers, he would be able to see the lights of Heatheredge. That, at least, would give him clarity. The Raghnall he’d visited had been a ruined shell. Only a portion of the walling stood, the upper floors gone. Long ago, however, there’d been a fine tower keep rising up five levels. There was also supposed to have been an arcaded passageway that encircled the inner courtyard. If this Raghnall was the same, he need only find and follow the arcade until he reached the first stair tower. Its arched entry would give it away. He hurried forward and, sure enough, a moment later, spotted the first tower entry up ahead.
Without waiting to see if anyone would bar his way, he nipped inside the dimly lit entry. The almost eye-stinging smell of wood-and-peat smoke greeted him. He detected the heavy scent of melted wax, along with a hint of stale ale, fresh bread and roasted meat. Cailean squinted at the dimness stretching beyond an open archway into what could only be a great hall. Looking about, he distinguished the forms of men slumped over long tables with their heads resting on their folded arms while others sprawled on the rush-strewn floor. A stuttered snore broke the silence and he bit back a laugh. Unbelievable. He backed up several paces, then turned and hurried up the turnpike stairs, cold, shadowy, and winding like a corkscrew.
Light flickered off the stone wall ahead. Cailean climbed several more steps, passing a sconce on the wall, then slowed. Every castle he’d seen, except at Orlando’s Disney World when Ginny talked him into a Florida vacation, had steps worn smooth by age, most with ‘dips’ in their centers, treads created by centuries of trampling feet. These stone steps were new. How— He shook off the question, hurried up the last few turns of the stairs and pulled open the top landing’s door.
He stepped outside, set the rushlight on the floor, and strode to the edge of the turret. Clouds hung low, hiding the moon, but he discerned the trees that stretched out as far as he could see. However, not a single light flickered in any direction. What about Heatheredge Tower? From this vantage point he should easily see light flickering in the tower.
How far had they taken him from Heatheredge? How far would they have to travel for the lights of Heatheredge not to be visible? Had they traversed a mountain without him realizing it? Wouldn’t there have been at least some slight smudge of light pollution in the sky? He would think so. What he found was total darkness of a kind he’d never before witnessed. He braced his hands on the wall of the battlements and drew a long, uneasy breath. Where was he?
Cailean took another, slower turn, searching for car headlights, a passing airplane, any sign of life, but no luck. He released a breath. There had to be some signs of modern civilization. He would have to find the administration office. The longer it took him to locate a phone, the harder he was going to make things on Val. Usually, the administration office bore a sign that said ‘No Admittance’ or was cordoned off with a velvet rope.
The castle was large, more like a sprawling medieval stronghold or fortress than a mere tower house. He needed to try another section. He grabbed the rushlight, then headed back inside and descended to the fourth floor. Once there, he hurried down the hallway to look for another set of stairs or passageway. The passage turned and he came upon another set of stairs going down. Moments later, he reached the third floor. There were four doors located in this section, none of which were marked as administrative. He started to turn back toward the stairs to go down another level when his attention caught on the stone wall.
Cailean ran a finger along the wall. The stone shone as if it had just been cleaned, which, if this were a true laird’s castle, would be the case. He’d been preoccupied when he began his search, but he realized now that all the stone walls were as whitewashed as this one. Raghnall’s very existence was in itself a feat. But to be in such phenomenal condition boggled his brain. When this reenactment ended, he wanted to see every inch of this castle.
First, however, he had to find a phone.
None of the doors in this corridor were marked for administrative use. “You sneaky devil, Val,” Cailean murmured.
He examined each door and finally stopped at one made of sturdier wood than the others. This room belonged to someone special. Val maybe? That would be almost as good as
finding a phone. Cailean grasped the handle and eased open the door.
A fire burned in the wide fireplace opposite the door. The hearth’s elaborately carved stone lintel and the massive black-oak four-poster bed with its heavy damask curtains and sea of embroidered cushions left no doubt that this was the bedchamber of a very important soul, likely Baron Ravenstone. But the huge wall hangings made him feel as if he truly had fallen into an alternate universe. As pristine as the falconry tapestry he’d admired earlier, these were larger and boasted almost life-sized men, women and mythical beasts. Crafted to depict a fanciful woodland feast, the jewel-toned scenes extended from one tapestry into the other so that the room seemed to open into a legendary landscape.
The iron-strapped coffer at the foot of the bed hinted at riches within, while the highly polished table against the far wall held silver candlesticks and two wine chalices with gem-encrusted rims. Even the room’s floor set it apart, being waxed wooden planks polished to a high sheen and covered with a scattering of furred skins instead of rushes.
Cailean lifted a hand and rubbed the back of his neck, half wondering if he was dreaming. This couldn’t be right. Such splendor belonged in a museum—or at least in a well-operated open-to-the-public site where no one could simply waltz inside as he’d done.
Yet, what bothered him more was what he didn’t see. Not a single electrical outlet. In fact, now that he thought of it, he hadn’t noticed any outlets in any of the hallways or rooms. The castle truly seemed to be a real medieval castle. That was a true accomplishment. The revenue from tours alone could potentially make the town wealthy. Why had Heatheredge kept Raghnall a secret?
Chapter Nine
The following afternoon when the door to Haven Cottage opened, Cailean looked up from the table where he sat staring at the small leather pouch in his hands, Julianna’s pocan cheann. Her brother stood in the doorway.
Cailean met the man’s stare. “There really are heads in the bag. I didn’t believe it.”
“You should no’ have touched the bag.” Lennox entered and crossed to the table. “The Beatons gave Julianna that healing bag. Even I would not put my hands on it.”
“I’m sorry I did.” But not for the reasons Lennox would think.
“Aye, well, if you value your hide, I wouldnae tell Julianna you touched it.”
Cailean grunted. “If you’re willing to keep my secret, then mum’s the word.”
“I see ye are wearing the plaid Julianna gave you.”
Cailean had done as Julianna instructed and set his sword aside, then donned the plaid she’d given him. He hadn’t been surprised that the wool was heavier and scratchier than his plaid. After all, Val had gone to a great deal of trouble to convince him that he resided in medieval Scotland. The man wasn’t about to make the mistake of giving Cailean modern manufactured wool.
Cailean stood. “I’m to meet your mother today. It’s only right that I wear a fresh plaid.”
“Ye think well of yourself,” Lennox said. Despite the firm tone, Cailean detected no rancor. “Many lairds and noblemen will be presenting themselves to my mother,” Lennox went on. “She has little time for simple warriors. You are lucky to be attending at all.”
“I would be content to go my merry way,” Cailean said.
“Where would you go?” Lennox asked.
“Where else? Heatheredge.”
“Who would you visit in Heatheredge? No Rosses live there.”
“Mackays live there.”
“What business has a Ross with a Mackay?” Lennox said.
“Are the Rosses and Mackays feuding?” Cailean asked.
Lennox’s gaze sharpened. “Why continue to act as if you know nothing of your clan’s business?”
“You act as if we are at war. That is not what I learned.” Cailean crossed to Julianna’s cupboard and put her bag of heads back where he wished he’d left it.
“I didnae say we are at war,” Lennox said. “We have…kept our distance.”
Cailean chuckled. “They didn’t keep their distance in my family. My father was a Ross, my mother a Mackay.”
Lennox’s brow rose. “What Mackay woman would marry a Ross?”
Cailean didn’t break from the stare. “My mother.”
Lennox held the connection another two heartbeats, then shrugged. “Who am I to gainsay a Mackay woman?”
Cailean couldn’t help another laugh, this one genuine. “You wouldn’t want to contradict this Mackay woman.”
“Julianna was right,” Lennox said slowly. “Your speech is strange.”
“No’ where I come from.”
Lennox crossed his arms over his chest. “Who is your family on the Mackay side?”
Cailean wondered what Lennox would do if he told him his relative was the Bear. Broc ‘the bear’ Mackay had died in thirteen eighty-five, ten years before now, thirteen ninety-five, which meant Lennox would remember him quite well.
What did he have to lose? “The Bear was my cousin.”
Lennox brows dove down in a fierce frown, then he laughed. “By God, ye have bollocks. You might easily have said John Mackay, for there are many of them, and it would take me six months to discover whether or not you lied. Instead, ye chose a man I knew. Broc had no cousins.”
“Now who’s daft?” Cailean said. “Every Highlander has at least a dozen cousins. I didn’t say I was a close cousin.” He and Broc were so far apart in blood that Broc could marry Cailean’s sister Gennine.
Ginny. Dammit, he’d promised to call her yesterday morning. If she didn’t hear from him within a few days she would show up on Val’s doorstep looking for Cailean. If anyone could find this hidden Raghnall, Ginny could. Cailean pictured the look on Val’s face when she told him that kidnapping was an offense punishable by prison. Val would think twice about involving any other reenactors in a fantasy like this.
Cailean couldn’t be the first person Val had plunged into an involuntary reenactment. Which meant the constable must know of the castle’s existence and wouldn’t let things get out of hand. Perhaps that meant he could relax a bit.
“‘Tis very convenient that Broc is dead and cannae confirm whether or no’ ye are his cousin.” Lennox’s voice broke into his thoughts.
Cailean shrugged. “Do you know all your cousins?”
“I would know if I had a Ross as a relative.”
Cailean considered pointing out that his sister was a Ross, but decided against it.
Lennox regarded him. “I cannae decide if ye are brave or just downright stupid.”
“Probably more of the latter,” Cailean said, and thought of his arrogance in admitting the connection. “Either way, I am no’ a liar. I cannae prove my claim—Broc didnae know me personally, but…” He shrugged.
“Strange ye should own up to it, then,” Lennox commented.
“Not so strange.” Cailean smiled. “I knew it would bother you.”
The great hall was a completely different room than the one he’d stumbled upon last night. Music now mingled with the din, laughter, and voices. Flaming torches, hanging oil lamps, and wall sconces lit the room. A fire blazed in the small fireplace on the left wall while a pig roasted in the massive hearth on the right. A historian’s paradise of medieval banners and tapestries decorated the walls. To the right of the dais, on the far side of the room, half a dozen clarsairs played their clarsachs. Cailean stared at the musicians and their ancient, triangular-framed harps, his pulse quickening to think that such instruments were favored by the Picts as long ago as the eighth century. On the dais a woman of about forty years of age sat in a carved chair fit for a queen. She leaned left, deep in conversation with Julianna.
The woman could be none other than Lady Ravenstone. No pictures of her had survived to modern day, but there could be no mistaking the dark hair she shared with her son or the full mouth and delicate nose she had given to her daughter. The young man on her right who watched the minstrels, a rapt expression on his face, had to be Lady Ravenstone’s
nephew whose birthday they celebrated.
Despite the fact Lady Ravenstone was known as a devout Christian, looking at her now, Cailean could almost believe she dabbled in the black arts, as was rumored of the family. Sir Artair Grray, the fifth Baron of Ravenstone, enjoyed something of a ferocious reputation, not only as a fierce warrior, but as a sorcerer. No proof was found to support the rumors, and historians gave no credence to the gossip. However, when the baron disappeared on a trip home from visiting his tenants, accusations that he had been taken to Hell to live with his god, Satan, forced Lady Ravenstone and her two children to undergo a special mass to prove they weren’t practicing black magic.
“You may sit where you want, but I advise you not to drink too much cider,” Lennox’s voice broke into his thoughts. “My mother does no’ tolerate drunkenness.”
“She’s a pious woman,” Cailean said.
Lennox cast him a sideways glance. “What do you know of my mother?”
Cailean shrugged. “It is well-known that Lady Ravenstone is a good Christian.”
A large man cut off any reply when he clapped Lennox on the back. “Why do ye look so serious, Lennox? Tonight is a night for merrymaking. Even your mother agrees.” The man’s gaze shifted onto Cailean. “And who might you be?”
“Cailean Mackay,” Lennox cut in. “From the Durness Mackays in far north.”
The man grunted. “Ye are a long way from home.”
“You have no idea,” Cailean said.
“Cailean, this is Brody Mackay,” Lennox said. “He is our father’s captain at arms.”
“Good to meet ye, Brody.” Cailean extended a hand and Brody shook. “Is Lord Ravenstone here?” Cailean asked.
Lennox shook his head. “He will no’ return for another week, at least. I have to speak with my mother. Brody will introduce you to the men.” Lennox left Cailean alone with Brody.