The Handfasting (8 page)

As
though they were alone, as though the whole world were not watching, he bent
over her and whispered. “Will you listen to my plea now?”

**********************

Not
all the MacBedes made it to the dinner. Far from the keep, beneath the full
moon, Roddie MacBede whimpered, “I beg of you anything, anything you want,” he
pleaded from beneath the foot of the man in green. Six other harsh, ragged men
raised spears, anticipating any attempt to flee.

“Anything?’

“Aye,”
he sniffled, hiccupped a sob of fear.

“You’ve
been cast from your clan.”

“No,
no,” he stuttered, as the man in green pressed his dirk further into his chest,
between two ribs, above the heart.

“Why
not?”

“No
one knows, but they all hate me,” he slobbered, “I’ve not any chances left with
the clan.”

The
pressure of the dirk eased.

“No
one knows what you do,” the man looked over at a bundle of fabric barely
disguising the limp form beneath it. “Not what you do,” he shook his head, “but
what you did, and to a child? Other children?”

“I’ve
never killed one,” Roddie cried. “I shouldna’ of done it, I know, I shouldna’ done
it, didn’t mean to, just wanted a little fun. She’s my sister’s child, she was
going to tell.” Once again, the dirk pressed hard.

“Why
not? Why not do it? “

The
question startled Roddie, the lilt of it skewed from reality. Wrong. Just as
his joy in destroying the small body was out of step. Not real, except she
would not wake.

 “Tell
me? Why not kill the lass?” Whimsy turned hard, cold. “You enjoyed it. Admit
it.”

Roddie
nodded, sure, now, the blade would pierce his black heart.

“The
bairn would have destroyed you if ya’ had not destroyed her.”

Roddie
nodded.

“We
can find you more lassies who will fight you and lose. Would ya’ like that?”

Roddie
shivered against a flicker of excitement. He looked up into eyes dark with the
same lust he fought and knew he’d met the devil. He hadna’ meant to do it. He
was a better man than that, he knew he was.

“Well?”

“Aye,
I would like that.” Whimsical thoughts, that’s all they ever were. Urges not to
be fed. Only he had fed them, and this one time, when he silenced his victim,
he was caught for the deed.

The
blade left his breast, a hand offered. “Rise, join us. Let us make merry.”

CHAPTER 7 - A STORY TOLD

Talorc's
hand rested upon Maggie's shoulders. Reassuring it was not, coming from a man
too wild to anticipate, and far too confident. All evening he overlooked her
and then, just like that, expected to convince her to go away with him, as
though she had no mind of her own.

“To
all you men who joined me in the battle against the Gunns,”  Maggie jumped as
Talorc's voice blasted out across the hall. "Have we not failed to honor
the one who pulled us through?”

A
roar rose to the rafters, matched by the thunder of stomping feet and fists
that pounded table tops. Dishes clattered and shook, some fell to the floor.

Maggie
looked about, to see who they were honoring, but all the warriors faced
forward, sights set on the Bold, who shouted above the noise.

“I’ll
do my telling,” He bellowed, “for everyone to hear the glory of our Maggie
MacBede!”

Maggie
MacBede? The thought of it nearly suffocated, as the cheers crescendoed. Her
whole body trembled, as warrior after warrior moved forward, crossed right hand
to left shoulder and bowed low to Maggie. Her legs wobbly, Talorc had to help
her stand.

She
nodded to each man who offered obeisance to her, stunned by the clamor of the
hall.

"Maggie,
Maggie, Maggie . . ." They chanted.

She
could take no more, held her hand out for them to stop. “Please,” she asked, and
immediately they silenced. “I would like to hear what this is about.”

She
stood firm lest they feel they’d frightened her, though frighten they did. And
it was the Bold's fault. She was certain of that, because never before, no
matter how many battles the MacBedes had fought, had personal honor come to her.
It was a heavy weight she never asked for.

The
men took to their seats again, stilled as the Bold had not been able to still
them. Once again, Talorc sat her, a hand to her shoulder, before nodding to her
parents, and again facing the tables of warriors before them.

“It
is no secret that these past years have brought great sadness to the Highlands.
Sassenachs have been trying to send their fancy Lords and knights to rule our
land, our people. Men from the North, the powerful mighty Norsemen, have not
ebbed in their pursuit of what is ours. Are the Gunns not more Norsemen than
Scot?”

Belches
and curses fouled the air, just as the idea fouled their thoughts.

 “Brave
and glorious the Clan MacKay and all our septs, including the MacBedes, have
faced great losses and grand great warriors. Our babes have cried with hunger
‘til our souls were torn apart.

We’ve
faced the mockery of the Sassenach, who see glory only in the silver they eat
with and the fancy cloth they wear. They laugh at the way we live, as
comfortable upon a bed of snow as a mattress filled with down.

“These
English are men with no hearts, men who have no care for what we are, who we
are and the land we breathe for. And yet they threaten to rule us.

“And
so, with these sorrows and woes upon our hearts, we battled the Gunns over
disputes that were not of our making. We did this in search of food for our
bairnes, to keep them safe and fed through the winter months.

"And
we did this to avenge the deaths of the likes of the MacBedes’ Ian."

Maggie
shifted with the unpleasant reminder that she had loudly resented Talorc's call
to arms.

“The
MacKays, the MacBedes, the MacVies, the Baynes and the Reays, we all stood
strong, charging into battle, our cries heralding the boast of victory.

“But
victory did not come.”

Shoulders
rounded against the burden of losses.

“Again,”
Talorc continued, as mournful as the drone of a bagpipe, “grand men were lost,
taken from us, dying honorable deaths but dying the same.”

The
hall had grown so quiet Maggie heard the rustling of a mouse within the reeds,
the spark of a fire-pit none too close. She looked to the men, their faces grim
and sorrowful. Aye, it was a fact, the deaths of those they lost meant greater
burden on those who survived.

She
looked up at the MacKay, to see where his tale would go, only to find him
studying her, a wistful smile upon his lips so contrary to the sorrowful faces
of his men. She was glad to see he had the sense to wipe it from his mouth
before facing the crowd.

“As
was my way, after the second day of fighting, the second day of terrible loss,
I walked through the shadows of the camp, looked to the men, fought for words
to carry them past the grief.

"The
MacBede men drew me. They were no different than the others, sitting before
their fires. As brave as they are, worrying sorrow comes with a battle lost,
that mayhap we would lose again. There had been too many defeats in too many
years to bolster our spirits.

“That
was when I learned of Maggie MacBede."

The
use of her name didn't touch her at first. She was listening to a story that
had naught to do with her. But then, as he stood in silence, his words ran back
through her mind to suck the breath right out of her. He nodded, as though he
knew, had waited, for just that reaction, before he continued.

“As
I watched, as I fought for a way, any way, to encourage each and every man, as
I felt the despair of my task pull me under, Conegell MacBede asked any who
would listen. ‘Do ye remember the time young Maggie gave us our talismans?’

“Talismans,
I thought, thinking of old hags and their mysterious witchcraft. But the man
did not speak of an old hag, or of sorcery. Nay, straight on the heels of his
asking, another chuckled. Oh, aye, he remembered the lass, no more than eight
years, and there she was giving the men more strength in her little parcels
than any drop of draught could do.

“I’m
telling you now,” Talorc placed his hands flat on the table, as he leaned out
in his telling, “the curiosity alone drove away my wretched worries. I stood
and listened as others were beginning to do, for the MacBede fire pit held the
only voices to sound the sound of vigor. They chuckled, they spoke of strength
being given. It was a night when all were hungry for such sounds.

“So,
as the other men left their fires to stand around the MacBedes, the tales
continued. I learned that an eight-year-old lass strode out to the courtyard,
as the MacBede warriors prepared to leave. She ignored wives and mothers and
sisters who stood near their men, and approached each and every warrior to hand
him a small parcel.

“It
was a square of plaid, no more than a scrap, and inside that plaid she’d placed
a piece of heather amid soil from the land. Then she told them, in her earnest
child’s way, to carry that parcel with them, for it would remind them of what
they fought for; the land, the name and the wild glory of both.”

The
cheers of earlier were no match for these which shook the very walls of the
keep. And, as Maggie looked out at the wild shouts she saw, to her amazement,
that every MacBede man held his little packet of plaid and soil and heather in
the grip of his hand. Some so old, soil spilled from the worn fabric. Others,
bright and new.

They
had kept them? They had not tossed them in a stream as they left the land? They
had not laughed at her, or thought her so foolish that they could not answer
her?

 “As
you can guess, the men were stunned beyond words for fear tears might fall. That
a child, a mere little child, bonny as she was, could speak what each needed to
hear . . . ah, she was a one to be remembered.”

Maggie
slumped upon her bench, startled by what she was hearing, seeing.

“But
it did not stop there, Maggie girl,” Talorc said, directly to her, though his
voice filled the entire hall.

“Nay,
it did not stop there. For tales abound of the young girl, Maggie MacBede, of
her throwing a rock and downing a Sassenach, of topping an enemy who tried to
climb over the wall.

“There’s
talk of a little bairn, six years at the most, making a nuisance of herself on
the battlements, carrying water and lugging pebbles, whatever she thought the
warriors would need.

“My
heart swelled with the hope that one day I would have such a daughter, when the
stories turned, and this wee lass was not so wee anymore. No, she had grown, in
the space of the telling, into a strapping lass whose honor was much sought
after. It took all seven of her brothers to keep suitors at bay.”

“There
were not so many!” Maggie snapped, slapping her hand over her mouth in
embarrassment.

The
Bold laughed, an audacious bellow.

“You
think not, lass?” He calmed enough to ask,   “And why do you think you're left
with nothing but puny men to look to?” Maggie could do naught but shake her
head. She wanted to say that puny men were all she wanted, but she could not,
so Talorc continued. “The rest, my sweet, the men more worthy of you, have been
warned away. Which pleases me no end.” Talorc confided to the whole of his
audience. “For I mean to make her my own.”

“No!”
She screamed, pushed beyond control by his bluntness.

No
one took any notice. No one cared that her hands shook at the way he was openly
courting her, putting her in a place she didn’t want to be. A place she might
not be able to extract herself from.

The
Bold continued his tale. “I am The MacKay, the Laird of our clans, and yet this
woman, your fine, gentle and true Maggie MacBede, rounded the men with spirit
and fire.

"The
following day was dark with the omen of death, but it was not a fearful day for
us, nor was it our deaths the day spoke of. Hearts full of tales of Maggie
MacBede, we stood tall and bold, strong in the face of battle, and shouted our
warrior’s cry,

“For
the land . . .

"for
the name . . .

"for
the Wild Glory of each!"

The
men started to stomp, in unison, a pounding of feet like a drum roll. Talorc's
voice rose above it, clear to the rafters . . .

"And
for Our Maggie MacBede!” His cry echoed through the keep, rained emotion strong
enough to wring tears and shouts of triumph from all who listened.

Maggie
could see the testament upon her mother’s cheeks and she wanted to weep herself.
Not for the glory, but for the foolishness of it all. She was no saint to be
worshiped. She was no grand person to be bowed to. She was just Maggie, daughter
of Feargus and Fiona. Daughter of this home, this piece of land. As passions
grew within the room, Maggie felt her own wither and die.

Talorc
continued, though to Maggie his voice came from very far away. “With ease, we
won that battle, and each one that followed. We went on to greater victory on
the creaghs, bringing food enough to feed our people for more than a winter. And
we did all, fueled by the strength and loyalty of one wee woman. Maggie
MacBede.”

She
sat, waiting, knowing deep in her bones that she did not want what was to
follow. Her strength, her loyalty, were for the MacBedes and her home. She did
not want to leave this place, her clan, to go off with a stranger no matter how
peculiar he made her feel.

As
though he sensed her need for thoughts, Talorc waited, watching her, before he
spoke again.

“And
so I ask you, Maggie MacBede, come with me to my home.”

Her
heart sank.

“Be
my bride.”

Fear
spiraled.

“Birth
me daughters.”

Her
stomach plummeted.

He
continued, “Wee lasses, as loyal and stout of heart as their mother, and
valiant, brave sons to fight by my side.

"I
need you, Maggie MacBede. The Clan MacKay needs you, and all of her septs. Come
with me as my bride and together we will save the whole of the Highlands from
the Norsemen and the Sassenachs.”

How
could she deny him?

“Be
my bride.”

He
stood, his hand held out to her. She had no choice but to take it, to allow
that tug that had her standing by his side, though her limbs quaked, her hands
trembled.

“I’m
not what you would think.” She whispered, for pride kept her from speaking to
all those who listened eagerly.

“Aye,
you are, Maggie.” He told her softly, “you are everything I think. It is you
who knows not what you are.”

Looking
directly into his eyes, all too aware of his bold assurance, she allowed him to
see her fear. With a gracious force she had never thought to conjure, she
replied. “I will think on what you have said, Laird MacKay. By spring, you will
have your answer.”

He
began to shake his head, before she had even finished her telling.

“Maggie,
I knew you were the one by the first victory. It was then that I vowed to wed
you for the clans. But today, when I saw you running through the courtyard,
your plaid flapping like a flag, your auburn mane flying behind you. It was
then that I knew I would be wedding you for myself.”