The Handfasting (3 page)

CHAPTER 3 – BAWDY  WOMEN

Aulay
Gunn looked to where the man pointed.

“See
that?” Old Ros wailed. “See those holes?” His hands trembled with distress.
“They’ve been punched in there.” Tears threatened. “How am I to go out and get
fish? How are we to feed ourselves?”

This
was not the first fisherman to have lost boats to sabotage.

“Aye,
you’ll not be using that boat this day. You tend to it, see if it can’t be made
seaworthy again. I’ll get young Taran to help you.”

“And
you’ll go after the MacKays, now?” Ros’s voice firmed, fueled by retribution.

“Oh,
aye,” Aulay promised. “Don’t you worry. We’ll get the lousy MacKays if they’re
the ones who are doing this.”

“Of
course they’re the ones who are doing this, mon. Who else would do such a
thing?”

“I
don’t know, Ros, I just don’t know.” Aulay shook his head, fretting over just
that. The MacKays might be mortal enemies, stealing livestock and raiding goods,
but that was no different than the Gunns were want to do.

Malicious
destruction for its own sake was not something The MacKays would condone. The
man had his sense of honor. This was not honorable.

Much
as Aulay hated to admit it, he and the MacKay were not that different. On
separate sides of the fence, but with the same responsibilities. The MacKays
had no reason to start a war with the Gunns. Everyone in their part of the world
knew the man had just filled his stores. Why do something that would drain
those resources? It made no sense.

“If
it’s the MacKays, we will get them for this. But I want to find out just who
the vermin is before we strike.”

“Bloody
MacKays, that’s who it is, mon, who else would go against us like this?”

And
that, Aulay knew, was the crux of his problem.

* * * * * * * * * *

Maggie
slipped through the keep headed for the kitchens, relaxed, as always , amid
scents that embraced, succulent and heady as only a kitchen can be. This was
her home, her place, amid the bustle of clan's women, within this room rich
with roasting meats, spicy steam and yeast. As a child she had helped tend
whole haunches skewered on spits set before the huge fire with ovens placed in
the wall around that fire. It was here the clanswomen baked cakes and bread
while the warmth aided the brewing of strong, dark beer in heavy casks set deep
in the shadows.

Simon,
her young cousin, stole a bannock cake straight off the rack where it cooled.
Maggie chuckled, but did not try to stop him,

“Did
you see The MacKay?” Sibeal, wife of Maggie's oldest brother, asked any who
would listen.

Simon
headed to the spit handle he had abandoned. Maggie shooed him away and grabbed
the handle herself, near enough to hear the chatter, far enough removed that,
she hoped, no one would notice her. It was no more than gossip, the women were
about, but Maggie found she was drawn to their foolish natter.

“Oh,
aye,” her cousin Muireall sighed. “What a man that one is.” Maggie snorted.
Everyone knew Muireall thought the same of all men.

“He’s
even larger than The MacBede.” Another cousin brayed. Too true, Maggie
glowered.

“Did
you see his eyes?” Muireall trilled, “I’ve never seen anything so blue in my
life. They’re as clear as the summer sky.” Summer sky? Nay, not so simple. They
were more like a gem and its playful light, fire and ice all in one place. Just
as likely to burn as to make you shiver.

And
shiver she did, remembering his eyes when he looked at her. Thoughts of him
were like a fierce undertow. A body could drown in it while scrambling for a
shore that was safe and secure. Maggie released the spit’s handle, startled by
her own thoughts. She had to get out of the room, away from the talk, talk,
talk.

“Are
you fancying him then, Muireall?” Alec's wife, Caitlin, lured Maggie back with
her question. “For you must know when a man is that large, he’s that large
allllll over.” Maggie blushed, remembering what she felt, pressed against him
in that tower. T’was more than bunched cloth, which meant Caitlin's words were
truth.

 “You’re
not telling me anything I don’t know.” Muireall bragged, “My own Malcolm, God
rest his soul, was no little tyke.”

“No,”
the others laughed together, “no he was no small man, and a shame it was he had
to go so soon. He’s missed.”

“The
missing wouldn’t be so bad,” Muireall confided with a laugh, “if it could be
shared with someone like the MacKay, now. And as he’s been widowed these three
years, well . . .”

“Och,
Muireall,” Nigel’s wife, Leitis, humphed, “he’s not looking for a widow such as
yourself.”

“And
why not?”

Maggie
snorted. There was no need to turn around to see the glances passed from one
woman to another. They’d all be looking about, wondering who would do the
telling. It was Leitis who finally admitted, “He’s not going to look for a lady
willing to share the warmth in
any
bed. A man
such as the MacKay will show more discretion.”

You tell her, Leitis
, Maggie thought sourly, only to feel guilty moments later when Muireall
countered, “Say what you like, but you can’t ken the loneliness of an evenin’
alone. You don’t know what it’s like to have your man taken in his prime, not
even married a full year and no bairn to wake me in the night with cries. The
loneliness, och, it’s a terrible thing.”

“Oh,
aye, Muireall,” Leitis admitted, “it is a sad thing, I’m sure, but you know
it’s a worrying thing as well. You have to watch yourself. Too many see, too
many tell. And what that means is there’s just too many.”

The
women burst into laughter, all but Muireall, who looked about, her brow
furrowed. “Too many what?” She asked.

Laughter
descended to snorts, as Leitis quipped. “Too many men in your bed.”

Both
Sibeal and Caitlin offered, “That’s not being fair to cousin Muireall, now. She
didn’t take on Puny Piers.”

“He
had Maggie’s eye, then, didn't he?” Leitis chided.

“Well,”
Muireall defended, “I’ve never warmed myself with Babbling Birk the bard.”

“For
the same reason.”

“And
now there’s Maggie’s Hamish the tailor,” Agnes tossed in, “Muireall hasn’t gone
near him!”

Once
again the room erupted with laughter as women called out, “Who else would
notice those scrawny buggers but our Maggie?”

“They’re
not fit for anyone.”

“'Tis
Maggie and her love for the runts of the litter.”

“Stop
it!” Maggie swirled about, anger as wild as her wind-tossed hair, “you know
nothing about it. They are good men, each and every one of them. Just because
they aren’t as big as a mountain and as thick in the head doesn’t mean there
isn’t some goodness to them.”

“Oh,
aye, Maggie, I’m certain you have the right of it.” Caitlin eased.

“Besides,”
Maggie swallowed pride to loyally defend her men, “it was I who was not good
enough for them.”

“Don’t
be daft.” Sibeal snipped.

“Aye,
it’s fact," back straight, chin up against the humiliation of reality
Maggie admitted. "Not one of those men would have me now, would they?” The
silence of the room told her what she already knew. It was the truth.

“Ach,
lassie,” Muireall sighed, “you should be praising God that you weren’t landed
with those boys.” Maggie kicked the fire's coals.

“Come
on now, Maggie girl,” Neili and Roz beckoned her, “Don’t be listening to them.
We’ve need of your light hand with the pastry here.”

Fine
ones to talk, those two. The same age as Maggie and they'd been married for
years and before that they'd been courted by a number of good, decent men.
Warring men. They could have them.

“Flattery
now?” Maggie mumbled, but she went to help them as two men sidle in through the
back doorway. Maggie snorted. If they wanted to be invisible, let them try, but
with their size, their sex, and the fact that they were MacKay Clansmen, and
therefore unfamiliar, they weren't likely to be overlooked in a roomful of
women.

 “Are
you so lazy you want me to help you?”  She asked the two pastry workers.

Neili
and Roz took no notice of Maggie or her taunt. No one did. The only response to
her words was the spit of the fat dripping into the fire. Unlike Maggie the
others couldn't carry on once two strange men had walked into their spheres.
Huge grins gleamed white against tanned faces, the only features discernible in
the shadow where they stood.

Predictable
as ever, Muireall preened. Maggie grunted and chuckled to herself with a quick
glance to see what the men made of her cousin. Only they didn't look at
Muireall, didn't seem to notice her at all. They had their sights fixed firmly
on Maggie. She swallowed her chuckle, grabbed a dollop of dough. The feel of it
a familiar distraction, she bent her head to the task, worked the lump of dough
smooth, turning it round and round in her hand. The men may as well stand right
behind her, breathing down her neck, for the way it prickled.

Fortunately,
Muireall was not one to be ignored. She went into action, grabbed two mugs from
the counter, splashed ale into them from the pitcher on the table. "Is
there anything you'd be wanting?" she asked them, her voice husky with
innuendo, as she moved about. "Drop of ale?" She lifted up the mugs.
"Bannock cake, perhaps?” She swiped some off the cooling rack, and stood
in front of the men, mugs filled, a plate of steaming cakes on offer, before
they could answer.

Maggie
tried to watch from the side, her eyes cast down. Muireall stayed with the men,
one hand at her waist, the other holding the pitcher of ale braced on her hip,
her head tilted flirtatiously. She was a site, for certain. Men rarely ignored
Muireall, but though the three talked in low murmurs, the men never dropped their
sights from Maggie. She was trapped in a web that made no sense. They were the
Bold's men. They were there in his interest.

Enemies,
to her at least.

Muireall
left them against the far wall and sashayed back to the table. The women
resumed their work. The men whispered to themselves, bannock cakes gone in a
bite, ales sipped slowly. Stilted silence hung over the room, testament to
their presence.

Sibeal,
who would not, could not, let a conversation drop, broke the moment to lean
over and pat Maggie's shoulder. Maggie jerked back in horror even though Sibeal
managed to keep her voice lowered.

“Maggie,"
Sibeal whispered, "it wasn’t that those boys were better than you. They
just knew what we already know.”

With
a hard shake of her head, Maggie tried to stop the conversation. "Leave it
Sibeal, you don't understand.”

Propelled
by the humiliation, Maggie worked the pastry flatter and flatter between her
palms. People teased her, as if her choices were a joke, a bit of fun. No one
understood the shame of it, of knowing what you want, who you want and knowing
that they didn't want you in return.

 “Maggie,
don't you see?" Sibeal continued. "You’re just too much for
them."

"Stop
it." Maggie shot a quick glance to see if the strangers had heard.

"She's
right," Neili countered. "There's nothing to those men, not in body,
not in mind. You're just too much woman for them.”

“Oh,
aye,” the others chorused in comforting whispers.

“Too
much spirit.” Caitlin chimed in a bit louder. Maggie shot her a silencing
frown.

Muireall,
who loved to have an audience, ignored Maggie's distress. “Maggie lass,"
she boomed, "Take a look at yourself!  Don't you know, you're just too
much," she hefted her own bosom, "body.” The word exploded in the
room, followed by a barrage of earthy squeals.

Maggie
glared. Her curves were no more than God's way of balancing her height, keeping
her in proper proportion. There was naught she could do about that.

“Oh
aye.” Leitis trilled, discretion forgotten. “Can you not hear the gossip ‘Puny
Hamish the tailor dies with a smile on his face. Drowns in the full- bodied
womaness of Maggie MacBede.’”

Hoots
filled the air. Even the MacKay men, who tried so foolishly to blend with the
wall, boomed their amusement. People would hear it across the loch. You’d think
the kitchen was full of rough and rowdy men rather than a passel of women. And
what did any of them know?

“They
were a disgrace measured next to you.” Leitis offered, as she fought to catch
her breath.

Maggie
pressed dough in her hands, thinner and thinner, her head bent to her task,
anger building with each round of pastry.

These
women knew nothing. Look at Muireall, who angled for a brute of a warrior
having already lost one husband to the fight. Didn't they see what they were
asking for? Did they all wish to feel the loneliness that Muireall suffered?