The Handfasting (33 page)

He
frowned at his feet. Except for him, and her parents, who verged so close to
charging to her rescue they looked like racers waiting for the cloth to drop,
she and Seonaid had been given a wide berth.

She
pushed Bold toward her kin. "Go. Calm them.”

He
hesitated, for a moment, then did as she asked. Surprised, she blinked. His
compliance meant one of two things, either he really didn't care what happened
to her, or he trusted her to take care of herself.

That
didn’t matter right now. She needed to see Beathag. Questions about the cup
skirted her memory. So much rode on explaining what happened and how to keep it
from happening again.

Beathag
was not to blame, but the old woman might be able to help her grasp the evasive
answers. Besides, Maggie hated to see the old woman in such a fretful way, when
she had done nothing wrong. She wanted to help her find some peace.

There
were two doorways near where she’d been sitting, one to the hallway and all the
rooms beyond. The other door, an outer door, led to the kitchens. If the woman
had gone to the hallway, she could be anywhere in the keep. It would take less
time to search the smaller area of the kitchens, less time wasted if it was the
wrong choice.

Beathag
was there, rooted in the midst of preparations for a feast. Deep in thought,
she no longer shivered, ignored the busy women who muttered about her being in
the way. Maggie moved toward her, when suddenly, without warning, Beathag came
to life. She moved toward the sugar bin, stopped short, then acted as if she
were there, lifting the lid, chipping off a chunk, raising a piece to be
dropped in some invisible container.

The
old woman enacted the same parody for a spoonful of malt. From there, Beathag
crossed to the molasses cask, again she stopped short and mimed turning an
imaginary spigot, only to shut it off with the quick precise motion needed to
stop it in mid-flow. When she made to move to the yeast, Maggie cut her off.

"Beathag,"
Had this disaster set her beyond recovery? Was she now as lost within her mind
as she was within this community?

Eyes
bright, Beathag squeezed Maggie's hands then pulled away.

"What
is it, Beathag?” The older woman shook her head and went back to her routine,
until she put an imaginary object on a shelf. As she went to leave the kitchens,
she reacted as if something brushed against her. She stopped, cringed into
herself, and then looked over her shoulder. Her eyes followed the empty space
as though tracing the movements of the person who had bumped her. Her
expression changed from fear, to irritation, to a frown, and finally confusion.

She
swiveled, her hands on hips, tilting her head with a scowl.

"Beathag,
tell me.” Maggie tried, but it was Talorc who answered.

"She's
trying to remember what happened the day you fell ill.” He stepped further into
the kitchen. "I keep telling her it wasn't in the brew she made, but she
won't stop retracing her steps of that day. It's the only thing that stops her
shivering.” Beathag continued to re-enact her movements. "What did Seonaid
want with you?"

"Seonaid?”
Maggie didn't care about Seonaid.

"She
didn't bump into you by accident. It was deliberate. She had something to say,
and I'd like to know what it was."

Maggie
frowned and looked away, as she fought to capture an elusive thought. Something
Talorc said jogged an idea loose, but not loose enough to tumble into her
senses. It tickled at other ideas as if they were all hinged together.

He
had her by the arms. "What did she want?"

Maggie
pulled free. "Did you say bumped?"

"It
was done on purpose."

"No,"
she waved that away. "Someone brushed past Beathag when she went to leave
the room. Someone who did not belong there, and did something to anger
Beathag."

"Beathag
is too meek to get truly angry."

"No,
she's not.” Maggie's head snapped up, "She's not so much timid, as she's
aware this is not her place, her home, her position meager. She knew she
couldn't challenge, that didn't mean she fell in line with all that was done
and said."

Talorc
was not pleased. "We never sent her away, though we told her she could go
if she wanted. She chose to stay, and was accepted."

Maggie
snorted. "Accepted or tolerated?"

"We
were never unkind."

There
was no point in arguing the matter. Maggie resolved, right at that moment, that
she would give Beathag a home that appreciated her. "You would be amazed
at what she sees.” Which brought Seonaid to mind.

His
eyes narrowed. "Would I?” Then he looked at the older woman, as if to
witness what had been hidden from him. "Do you think she would harm
you?"

"Never.
But Seonaid is wary of what the old woman sees."

He
stilled. "Why would you say that, lass?

"I'm
not a lass any longer," she studied him, wanting to see a flicker of
reaction. "I'm a wife now, a full grown woman.” He glanced away.

Beathag
scuttled up to Maggie, tugged at her arm. "Up there, on the shelf.” With a
tenacious grip, she pulled Maggie further into the kitchen. "She changed
the cups."

"Who,
Beathag? Who?” Talorc joined them.

Exulted,
Beathag put her lips together, to name the culprit. There was a twang, a
snuffle of air and a thud. Beathag's words bubbled out on a gurgle, as an arrow
came through the front of her throat.

Stunned,
no one heard the second twang, the whir of an arrow. Shoved by shock, Maggie
stumbled backward. Talorc caught Beathag before she could fall, and shouted for
the nearest man to take her. Unloaded of his burden, he started to run toward
the back entrance.

Time
warped, moments slowed, actions dragged.

Mid-
stride, Talorc turned, spotted Maggie, his mouth opened to shout, but no sound
came. The determined gleam in his eye dulled to horror, his face churned with
fleeting emotions, as his body twisted in mid-air, as though it had lagged
behind thought, to follow the path of his gaze.

Maggie
shook her head. Talorc's spin took minutes, rather than seconds, as his
emotions bombarded her, huge waves of horror, anguish, torment, fury.

What
had she done?

His
silent bellow of fury erupted and time dropped back to reality in a swirl of
screams and shouts and chaos.

She
felt, rather than saw, her mother reach her and collapse in a faint. She felt
her father's arms on hers, the blast of his breath against her skin, as he
lifted her, shouting at the same time for Talorc to get the bastard.

She
was dazed. Numb to all but the sight of Beathag's empty stare, as she was led
away.

Did
she live?

Maggie
tried to ask, tried to turn to point but could not, which forced her to look
down, to see why she couldn't move. There was an arrow pinning her arm to her
side. She blinked, saw the end of it barely out of the entrance wound. Which
meant the arrow must be coming out her back. Clean through.

She
could not breathe, felt panic rise to swallow her, as darkness overtook.

* * * * * * * * * *

Talorc
raced from the keep out to the back gardens and stopped. He stood still, men on
either side of him. His heart beat so hard he thought it might fly from his chest.
With one gesture, the men fanned out and moved forward. Swift, but observant,
their eyes scanned for signs of fleeing feet, hidden figures.

The
drum of his heart, the race of his blood, urged to charge into a fray. Still, with
tremendous effort, Talorc held his ground and waited. His neck prickled, a
moment of confusion before he distinguished between reaction and instinct.

He
pushed down the sight of his wife, the memory of an arrow lodged in her body.
Time will come for recriminations. He had not kept her safe.

He
could not think of it. Not now. Now he had to act. He breathed deep, centered
himself on the pursuit and was rewarded. Musty air.

The
ground was fresh, with summer in the wind, yet a scent of damp earthiness
lingered. He turned toward the root cellar. It had been opened, recently.

More
men rushed out from the main building. He stayed them with a hand, motioned
toward a stick, which young Colban grabbed and tossed to him. Talorc used it to
reach for the metal handle of the door, to give distance should the enemy be
ready and aimed for battle, but before Talorc could lift the handle, it inched
upward, opened from the other side.

He
stood back, as did his men, out of view from the entrance as it was pushed
open. The weight of it slapped almost back in position, before caught by a
woman's backside, as she pushed through the opening, back bowed with the weight
of a heavy load. Once free from the low lintel, her head lifted and she turned,
wielding a basket of onions, her hair mussed, sweat dotting her brow.

"Deidre?"

Startled,
she looked at him. "Talorc?” Then at the men who formed a crescent around
where she stood, a mere woman on a domestic errand.

"Fetching
onions?"

She
lifted the basket and raised an eyebrow, as she turned to go back into the
kitchens.

"Did
you see or hear anyone, anything, while you were out here?"

"No.
Should I have?” She brushed past him, but he stopped her.

"Talorc,"
Deidre tried to pull away, her jerk loosened the pile of onions. The top ones
fell. "Look what you made me do.” She scolded, "Big Birtha is waiting
for these."

He
bent to help her.

"Bold!”
Padraig was anxious to get on with the search. Talorc nodded for him to go, but
not before he signaled, with his eyes, for someone to go into the caves.

"Leave
Nail and Sim with me.” He added.

Deidre's
head shot up. She glanced at the men leaving, the ones staying. She settled the
basket on her hip. "May I go as well?” It was a sarcastic question, she
was already aimed toward the kitchens.

"By
all means.” Talorc murmured. An infinitesimal nod had Nail following her.

Talorc
looked at Sim, who was already down on his haunches, checking the tracks that
traversed the courtyard outside of the kitchen.

"You
know what I'm thinking?” Talorc asked.

CHAPTER 9 – A WOMAN’S GAME

"Maggie!”
She heard the thunder of her brothers’ approach, lifted her lids and saw them,
as stormy as they sounded, bearing down on her.

But
her vantage point disoriented her. Where was she? In her father's arms? Just inside
the keep? Why?

She
blinked at all the faces that stared at her. Shock, terror . . . a bare breath
of sound escaped with awareness. She had fainted. Stout hearted, strapping
Scottish lass that she was, had fainted like some fragile Sassenach woman.

And
it all came back . . . the boy, too young to be left alone, yet not with
Seonaid at the keep . . . poisoned water. . . Seonaid's distraction. . .
Beathag lost and confused . . . switched mugs . . . arrows . . .

"Bold!"
She screamed at the top of her voice and, as she did the flash of another
memory flipped through her mind.

Talorc
spinning around, seeing the arrow, horror, fury, guilt. A moan of worry rippled
through her.

"Let
me down!" She cried, as a chorus of voices shouted.

"Maggie,
you've been wounded."

"Who
was the bastard?” Crisdean was yelling.

"Let's
go!” Feargus the younger led the charge. Voices rang around her, as her father
fought to keep her steady.

"Let
me down.” She screamed, and fought so hard her father was challenged to keep
her in his arms.

"Do
as she says, Da, before she does herself an injury." It was Douglas.

"She's
been . . . Maggie."

She
had jumped out of his hold, spun her back to her siblings and grabbed her
father's arm for support. "Break it off!" She commanded over her shoulder.
"Break the bloody arrow head off.”

Her
head spun, her heart pumped hard but it was the energy, the wild need to move,
that overtook everything. "Break the damned thing.” She was frantic,
refused to be calmed. All she could think of was Talorc's face, the horror, the
guilt. If she didn't show him she was fine . . .

Alec
snapped the arrows shaft, just short of where it left her back. "I think
it only caught the flesh." He smiled as he looked up at the others.
"Good thing she's a ripe one and not too scrawny. It merely took the extra
flesh!"

There
was no time to argue with his teasing. Pinch of flesh or no, the shock of it
shuttered through her. She refused to buckle, it was crucial that she not be
put in another sick bed.

Maggie
clutched the feathered shaft at her arm and yanked it free. "Let's go,”
she bit out, as she ran to the kitchens, through them and toward the door that
led to the courtyard beyond.

"Don't,
Maggie.” Douglas grabbed at her good arm, but she yanked it away to push
through to the outside. She didn't look, only ran straight into Deidre.

She
was coming to understand the intensity of battle, how the world slowed, as it
had when the arrows shivered through the air and as it did now. She could trace
every movement, each offering its own thought. She felt the force of the
impact, heard her own scream of rage and pain as though a slow, eerie cry. It
wove around Deidre's shout of fury.

A
basket flew up, as a shower of onions rained around them. There was a glint of
silver, an undulation of metal in the air as Deidre's arm reach out, to catch .
. .

A
dagger, shaped in the old way, with a wavy blade.

In
Maggie's mind, even as she screamed, even as she shuddered from the collision,
she thought, the dagger, lighter than the onions, flies higher, spirals . . .
mustn't let her have it. And as she thought, she lunged for Deidre, who lunged
for the weapon.

They
crashed as time converged on itself. Once again, moments flashed. They were a
tangle of skirts and arms and sharp burning scent of wounded onions.

Maggie
had twisted, to land atop Deidre, and learned the advantage to her extra size.
As much as Deidre squirmed and flayed, she could not pull free. Her fight
changed, she pulled at Maggie's hair, her teeth bit into Maggie's good arm, as
her fist swiped at the injured one.

Maggie
had pure mass on her side. Ignorant of her own pain, she hefted a mighty blow
to Deidre's side and felt the other woman deflate. She punched again, in the
same place, in case Deidre faked her weakness. She raised herself, her arm
across the woman's neck, pressed hard with all the angers inside her.

Anger
for her babe, gone before it barely made a mound of her belly, and poor
Beathag, and Anabal and Anabal's bairn, who lived for only two days. And for
all the others Deidre must have hurt. Maggie pressed with all she had, only to
weaken, as the blast of energy that propelled her out to the courtyard, and
into the fray, suddenly drained.

She
collapsed atop her prey.

Someone
grabbed her around the middle and tugged. She swung on them, a meager assault,
a last touch of aggression from a flow that had all but petered out. And then
she felt herself pulled in tight, with such care that her aches didn't ache so
terrible.

It
was Talorc's arms that comforted her, held her. Finally. She was safe, secure,
could let her tears fall. In her husband’s arms she mourned for a cherished
dream of a babe that was no more, for the pain that now threatened to swallow
her, and for the sorrow that he may never hold her this close again.

"It
was her, Talorc." She whispered, "It wasna' my fault."

"Shhhh,
my love, shhhhhh."

"She
poisoned your Anabal. She shot Beathag and me, and poisoned the water . .
."

As
someone wound a cloth around her wounded arm to soak the blood, his great body
rocked her. Maggie didn't look to see who intruded on this moment, but
cherished Talorc's tender embrace. Weariness engulfed her, dried up her tears.

She
leaned back, looked at her husband, to find grief staring back at her.

"Talorc?"

He
looked away, up to where her father was and rose. He did not carry her inside,
to their chamber. He passed her to her older brother. She fought the exchange,
at least had the will to do that.

"I'll
walk myself." She kept her head up. If there was nothing left of her, no
hope, no dreams, no warmth, at least she had her pride.

Her
family surrounded her. The people she had never wanted to leave, and now wished
gone. She loved them, but if they meant separation from Talorc, she would do
without.

With
shaking hands, her mother adjusted Maggie's bandage, to better staunch the
seepage, but what did it matter when her heart was bled dry. The pain was a
welcome distraction.

When
they reached the door, she turned to Talorc, who faced Deidre, now awake and
held by two huge men. "You know she was the one?” Maggie asked.

"Aye.
She's always been a good shot with the arrow, but no one has ever seen her
fetch for the cooks in the kitchen before. We found the bow in the root
cellar."

"She
switched the chalice. So when it spilled, people would think it was the cup
that Beathag always used. They would think it was Beathag's brew that poisoned
me."

He
nodded, his eyes focused on the slush of the courtyard. "I don’t
understand." He looked to Deidre. “Why? What harm has the clan ever done
to you?”

“You
stupid, foolish man.” Deidre railed, “You refused to see. Straight in front of
your face, it was!” Deidre stopped struggling once she had Talorc’s attention.
“I did it for Seonaid. So her son could claim the Laird’s place.”

“For
Seonaid?”

“No!”
The woman in question stepped out of the shadow of the kitchen, rushed to
Deidre, only to be held back by Padraig. “Not for me.” She sobbed. “I didn’t
want this.”

“Deidre!”
Ingrid ran from the castle, tried to reach her sister. “What have you done?”

For
a moment, Deidre faltered, the sight of her sister halting her. “You almost
caught me, Ingrid. But I’m glad you didn’t. You don’t belong in my world.”

“Deidre?”
Tears streamed down Ingrid’s cheeks.

Deidre
smiled at her, a small, sad shaping of her lips before she turned her anger on
Seonaid. “You were so blind! But I saw.” She nodded toward the Bold. “There he
was, all so good, all so grand, yet he never claimed his own son. He never
watched over or took care of his son’s mother!”

“No!”
Seonaid wailed and pulled free, fought her way to take Deidre’s face in her
hands.

“No,
my sweet love, the Bold is not the father of my child. Never.”

Deidre
looked from one to the other, as though trying to assess. “Of course he is.” But
Seonaid only shook her head, tears in her eyes.

“He
is,” Ingrid hissed, “but who can blame him for not wanting Seonaid. She’s more
man than woman.”

“Don’t.”
Deidre ordered.

“It’s
true.” Ingrid cried. “Why would you fight for what she’s not willing to fight
for?”

“He’s
the father of her son!” Deidre shouted.

“He’s
not,” Seonaid wilted, tears flowing.

“Then
who?” Deidre demanded.

Seonaid
kept crying. Big Birtha knelt beside her, wrapping the woman in her arms. “Och,
Deidre, it’s not pleasant things you talk of.” She cooed to Seonaid, stroking
her hair. “But it’s time they’re  spoken of.”

With
trembling hands, Seonaid swiped at her tears, nodded, as she pushed away from
the cook. “It was no’ the Bold, Deidre, it was my brother. Lochlan. That’s why
he was sent away. He raped me, Deidre, beat me and took me more often than I
can count.

“But
one time,” she shuddered with her tears. “One time he was careless, out in the
field. I was trying to run away and he caught me. That’s how Talorc found us.

“He
nearly killed Lochlan, but I stopped him. He was my kin. Shamed as I was,
shamed as I am, he was my kin.”

“No,”
Deidre’s eyes filled with confusion. “Not Lochlan, not him.”

“You’ve
yet to see the bad in him, but it’s there.”

“Oh,
aye, you call it bad, you call it evil or wicked, but he makes the blood rise.
He challenges a woman. He’s my husband, Seonaid. We’ve pledged our troth. No
doubt you wanted him for yourself but he’s not that kind.

“He
claims it was Talorc who was caught with you, that was why he was banished.” Deidre
snarled. “He’s planned it all so your son could be Laird.”

“His
son, Deidre, my boy is my brother’s son!” Seonaid snapped, before turning to
flee. Padraig stopped her with the bulk of his body. Just stepped in her path,
pulled her against him. She head bowed, she leaned against him, her body
shaking.

"Deidre,”
Maggie confronted, “you defiled your clan. Betrayed your family, your
people."

"You
know nothing.” Deidre argued.

Talorc
stepped forward. Maggie shook her head at him. This was women's business.
That's why he had been unable to protect her. He thought it was man's business,
strategy of his own kind.

"You
wanted Seonaid to wed Talorc, to put her son in line to be Laird." Maggie
said, "Only Talorc didn't wed her."

“He
was the traitor to his clan. Marrying a Gunn, turning our clan into measly
traders. He was to be destroyed and we nearly did it. His strength waned with
the loss of battles. One more and he would be cast aside, weakened, but then
you came!” She screeched, pointing her finger at Maggie. “You, from some tyke
of a family, fired his blood. You needed to be killed, sacrificed. Your power
for my power.

“A
second wife murdered, and no one would trust him. Not only would he have lost
the aide of the MacBedes, he would have gained them as an enemy. Other clans
would shift allegiance.

"And
the Bold, ah yes, he was pitiful in his need for you. Losing you, when you were
under his protection, would have broken him,” She pointed at Maggie and
sneered.  “already has and you're not even dead yet.”

"Enough!"
Talorc shouted, over the chaos of words flung in fury. "You will lead us
to the renegades and we will fight one on one, like true men. None of this
using women to play games.”

“Never.”
She sneered.

“Oh,
aye, you and your Eba, banned to live in the wilderness.”

“Banned?”
she snorted, “Not banned, left to be with my own.”

"The
renegades? Word will be sent to the Gunns. Together we will run you all to
earth for the vermin you are. United we will hunt you, track you, until you all
pay the price for what you did to our clan and those we protect."

With
Talorc's pronouncement the ground shook as feet stomped, hands clapped, a beat
of exile. Shouts wove a tune through the drumming, but Diedre’s crazed laugh
silenced them.

“You
are too late,” she shouted, eyes blazing. “All those lasses, stupid girls, lost
to their clans? Missing?” Her eyes scanned the crowd. “They were ours, we took
them!  We destroyed them. Whatever remains of their bodies, at the least their
heads, have been left at the borders of all those who lost them.”

Rigid
with stunned disbelief, all listened to the mad woman. “They were dumped with
empty bottles of MacKay whiskey and pieces of plaid that could only be dyed
from plants on our land.”