Torn (The Handfasting) (9 page)

It
had all been true. Talorc had done that and more for all his people. He checked
on all those who lived in remote areas. It was part of who he was as laird. As
for talking, well, Talorc knew what he could talk about and what it was best
not to speak of.

"Come
on Laird, Aed's about talked out."  Paraig and William led the way out of
the sweating room, into the early gloom of the afternoon and down to the
stream.

Talorc
joined them in their roars as the cold water washed over steam dampened skin.

"Oh
Aye."  William shouted, as he sloughed water over his face, his head,
"Firms a man up."

          Paraig
laughed. “And shrivels his privates.”

"Speak
for yourself."  Talorc charged as he sloshed from the water, his back to
the others.

The
sweat had eased his muscles, cleared his head but couldn't wipe away the worry that
someone, out there in his clan, caused trouble. The stories hadn’t helped. There
wasn't much he could do about it now. Maybe it would be his turn to dream up
answers in the night.

He
threw his shirt over his head, and wrapped his plaid around his waist then up,
over his shoulder.

"Come
on men, I think we'll have a bit of fun before we go back. Let's have a tug of
the rope with the keep guard."

William
grinned. "How many to a side?"

"Six
of them to our three," Talorc looked at Aed, "Unless you want to join
us."

"No,"
the storyteller backed off, "but I'll tell the tale of it after we
sup."

They
headed up the slope, shouted to the warder guard, on the wall that protected
the keep.

"Any
men for a game?  Tug of war?"  Paraig shouted. "Six warders on one side,
Your Laird, William and myself on the other."

"Aye,"
one of the guards shouted down, "and if it took six of us to beat your
three than a sorry lot we would be. Fair odds, here. Kenneth, Liam and Colban
to you three, and I'll bet my best harness!"

"Oye,
what about me?"  Adam shouted from above, "Why can't I put a hand
in?"

"I
could do better than Liam!"  Cal argued.

Talorc
punched Paraig, "Go get Naill and Sim, find Bruce, and anyone else you can
find. If they want even odds . . ."

A
wild screech tore through air.

Talorc
froze.

They
all froze, William, the warder guard. Before any could react Talorc was off and
running.

"Maggieeeeeeeeeee!"
he roared, because no one, no living body in this world would scream for him
with such pain and terror but his Maggie. Her voice rocked his world, pummeled
his belly. And as he ran he called, the sound of a wild, stricken mate
determined to let its partner know help was coming.

He
hit the hall to chaos, people running, others standing immobile and frightened.
Again, that eerie wail.

"Up
here, Laird!"  Nora called from the balcony, "Up here!"

He
charged for the stairs, took them three at a time and barreled into his room to
be confronted by a wall of women, their backs to him, busy as a hive of bees.

"Where
is she?" he roared, because he could do no other.

Ealasaid
turned. Faithful calm Ealasaid. "Out!" she ranted at him, "Be
gone with you!  We haven't time for you."  But with her back turned, she
had opened a gap, where he could see Maggie, her face scrunched with pain, her
hair wet and plastered to her skin. She looked up, a wounded animal on the
verge of hysteria, and reached out an arm. She mouthed it, though no sound came.
She wanted him, needed him, more than any other.

Then
she was gone, scrunched up around her belly. Her plaid, her dress, hiked up
indecently, with all the women there, mopping and pressing and blood, so much
blood. Puddles of it, pools, a near loch’s worth of blood streaming from
between her legs.

He
didn't care what Ealasaid said, he didn't care if this was women's work. It was
his wife, in the same pain as his last one had been and look where that got her.

He
reached Maggie's side, wrapped his arms around her, so she could lean over the
one, the other a brace to her back. He kissed her head, his tears blending with
the sweat that formed in large droplets on her forehead.

She
moaned, a keening sound, and he heard her gag. Again, nothing came out. She
wasn't there, really, she was caught inside her pain, a long way from where
they all were. Her eyes were glazed with shock, her skin pasty from loss of
blood.

"There's
no more babe, Laird."  Ealasaid huffed, and then he heard her voice hitch
to a sob. "And if we don't stop the blood, there'll be no more
Maggie."

In
all the turmoil the store rooms, and in turn the caves, were empty.  No guards
at the front, anyway.  She slipped in, as quick as a snake and slithered
through the rooms. She knew where she was going, hoped her man would be there waiting,
though he probably wouldn’t be.  To many guards these days, watching too close for
a man to pass as a woman, for anyone without taking note of who they were and
when they passed.

Oh,
aye, but she needed to see him, to celebrate, excitement running high in her
veins, between her legs.  She had killed the child, probably the mother too. 
There had been so much blood.

Och,
and the Bold, poor thing, was in torment.

She
bit back a laugh, afraid of the echo, and rounded a corner into the body of a
man whose smell she knew oh so well.  Her man.

“Did
you bring food?”  He whispered into her ear causing her to heat even more.

“In
the basket.”  She lifted her arm, showing the large woven basket she carried,
holding up a candle in the other hand so he could see.  “But I’m hungry too.” 
She offered.  

He
looked over his shoulder.  The darkness shifted, revealing at least three more
men.  “Me first?”  He asked then turned away to pull a hunk of cheese from
beneath the cloth that covered her wares.

“Not
here,” she hissed.  They were too close to the store rooms, too close to where
bored guards would hunt down any sound.

As
he bit into the cheddar his other hand cupped her breast.  “I thought you were
hungry?”

And
she was, damn him, and ready for all he offered, even to the others.  The
thrill of danger spiked the heat in her.  “You’re not a silent lot when you get
going.”  She charged.

“No,
I suppose not.”  He smiled against her face, “but neither are you.”

“Go
on, the lot of you,”  she pushed at his shoulder, “lead me out of here to where
I can tell you just how bad it is in the castle.  To where we can laugh and
make merry at the torment caused.”

He
slapped her backside.  “I’ll make you scream.”

“Oh,
aye, you always make me scream just as I make you beg.”

She
saw his frown  but she didn’t care.  She had the power, stolen from the Bold, one
loss too many for the man. 

There
had been a time when she thought the MacBede wench had broken him by leaving. 
But he brought her back and with her a brewing babe. The man was too full of
himself with all that.  He deserved to be brought down.

She
accomplished that.  The arrogant bastard would be no more.  His heart would be
broken, his spirit trampled and his reputation shredded.

Oh,
aye, she had the power now.

"If
you're staying, be useful. Lift the girl, get her to the bed," Ealasaid
commanded, and suddenly Talorc pulled from his stupor.

He
lifted Maggie in his arms, held her as Ealasaid bustled forward, her commands
cutting through his stupor as she pulled back sheets. "Gerta, get that
hide on here, so she doesn't ruin the bed, and Caitrina, help your mother, move
the pillows to where we'll lay her hips. They need to be higher."

Talorc
tilted his burden, hips higher than head, as Deirdre held a sheet, once white,
now scarlet, between Maggie's legs.

Too
much blood. Too much bloody blood. "We need cold.”  He commanded. “There's
ice at the pond but not down by the stream, don't waste time with that." 
He looked about the room, caught his cousin Seana standing in a shocked stupor,
"Go tell the men, we need ice and now!"

He
was glad to see Seana run, to do his bidding, to escape a smell sharp with
scent of battle. It was the blood, Talorc told himself. Not a battle, not an
attack. It was a matter of nature.

He
felt useless, helpless as he stood there, pushing against the pressure of
Deirdre who pushed hard with the sheet, against the apex of Maggie's thighs. The
bed was readied, a hide down, fur side up for comfort, a cool sheet over the
top. He laid her down carefully, with pillows under her hips. As soon as he
did, Ealasaid pushed forward, to lift Maggie up and over as she placed a
twisted sheet under her.

"What
are you doing, woman?  Moving her about so."

"You
ever use a tourniquet on a man?"  Ealasaid barked at him. "Well leave
us to our own devices."

"Don't
let her die."

Ealasaid
stopped, her beefy arm swiping at the sweat on her forehead, her eyes on her
patient. "Your Maggie is stronger than Anabal was, Bold. She's stronger,
there's a greater chance she'll make it."  She bent to her task again. Talorc
lifted his wife, so the woman could get everything where it needed to be.

Maggie's
head lolled from side to side. He thought of her concussion, of the temptation
to go to her twin, and jostled her. "Maggie, wake-up, don't die on me. Don't
you dare put me through this again."

"Stop
it, Laird," Gerta tugged on his arm. "Let us tend to her. She's
better sleeping against the pain."

Pain.
For the second time, in the short time they had been together, she lay upon
their bed, near death.

"Why,
Gerta?" He asked as though there were an answer. "Why does this have
to happen?" 

The
old woman clammed up, her lips pressed so tight they nearly turned blue. There
was an answer, when he expected none. No one could explain nature. But wrong
doing was another thing, entirely.

Something
was wrong.

Talorc
whirled on Ealasaid, "What happened here?" his fury tinged with panic.
"Why is she bleeding like this?"

"She
lost the babe. She's a red head. Put the two together and you've got blood. Lots
of it. So get out of the way." Ealasaid refused to look at him, though he
heard the choke of a sob. "This is no time for talk!" 

Gerta
tugged at his arm, again, someone pushed gently at his back. A man collided
with him, at the door, a slab of ice in his arms. Helpless, Talorc watched as
the ice was passed to the women and the man scurried out of the room. Away from
the tragedy. Talorc followed, crushed by his inability to be of help.

There
was nothing he could do. When Anabal had been in this state, he had mourned,
but at the same time he had the hope of a babe. But there would be no babe this
time, no chance of one. That was already gone. Now, his only hope was that
Maggie live.

Please,
God, let her live.

He
slid down the wall, elbows braced on his knees, head in his hands. The hallway
filled with quiet murmurs as clansmen joined his vigil. Old Micheil pressed a
goblet of whisky into his hand.

Talorc
could not swallow. "Give it to Maggie; see if it fires up her life."

"I
did that first. They've poured it down her throat."  Micheil urged him to
drink, but the threat of tears, lumped in his throat. He turned away.

His
Maggie, his feisty spirited girl, now limp as a doll and as pasty as raw dough
lay on the other side of that door. She had not chosen to come here. He used
her own family against her, fueled the MacBede clan to add pressure and added
the hefty weight of a battle won to cap it. He thwarted her own wishes and
connived to handfast her. He seduced her to child, allowed her to think it was
her brazen nature and not his hunger to spill his seed in her womb. He trapped
her, against her own ideals, against her sense of time. He'd rushed her, when
he could have waited, should have waited.

And
now, here she was, the child lost, her reason for staying with him gone.

I vow she shall never be harmed by me or mine, in any manner.

Twice
she lay near death under his roof, amid his people. He had promised
differently.

"Laird,"
Conegell hunkered down before him, "Something's wrong."

Talorc's
head snapped up. "Aye, my wife is losing blood. That's wrong.

"Like
your first wife."

He
turned away. "You don't have to be telling me what I know.” He was cursed,
there was no doubt now.

"It
was a drink she took and it was no different for your Anabal. She fell ill with
a drink."

Drink? 
The same as Anabal?  He hadn't known that, but now, two wives, years apart, at
different stages of carrying a bairn, lost babes by the same means.