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 asit was pushed open. The weight of it slapped almost back in position, before caught by 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!" Paraig 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.
&
nbsp; "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 challis. 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 William. “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 asses. “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 it’s been 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.”
“He’s my husband, Seonaid. We’ve pledged our troth. He claims it was Talorc who was caught with you, that was why he was banished.” Deidre whispered. “He’s helped with the planning, says your son has a right to be laird.”
“His son, Deidre, my boy is my brother’s son!” Seonaid wailed then fled the courtyard, the people, the shame.
"You defied your clan." Maggie accused.
"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. His strength was waning with the loss of battles and then you came. You needed to be killed. A sacrifice. Your power for my power.
“A second wife murdered, and no one would have trusted 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 weak in his need for you. Losing you, when you were under his protection, would have broken him. It nearly 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, or your Eba will be banned with you.”
“Banned?”
"You turned to renegade, you will go to the renegades. Word will be sent to the Gunns and 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 people stamped their feet and clapped their hands to a beat of exile, their shouts weaving a tune through the drumming.
"Come, lass," Feargus pulled Maggie toward the keep.
Maggie tried to twist around, to see her husband. "I should be by his side."
"Later love," Fiona crooned as she had when Maggie was a child. But Maggie was no longer a child. She was a woman. She had been wed.
"Bold." She called, but her voice was a meager thing, next to the noise of the crowd.
"Maggie," Feargus took her by the shoulder. "You’ll be coming home with us."
"I'm a married woman."
"He's allowed it's not so."
"We said our vows. We've promised."
"No man nor woman is held to vows made under force, and not from the heart."
She had known this, she had known they were going to play this game. She could not fight it with her family.
"We will wait until he returns from fighting the renegades." She said and watched as her father caught her mother's eye. They wouldn't wait. They would take her before she could confront him.
And suddenly she understood just how Deidre felt to be wed with no husband to claim her.
CHAPTER 10 – CONFRONTATION
Seonaid stood on the battlements, looking out over the land she’d called home the whole of her life.
She had not ridden out with the men. Her son was here. Her brother’s son. The clan now knew of her humiliation, her family’s shame. The evil that ran in Lochlan’s blood. The same blood that ran in her viens.
Every day she feared that evil, that it would rise to consume her. She watched young Deian, for some sign, but all she saw was a playful lad with a huge heart. Had Lochlan ever been like that? Something besides a clever bully?
Early on she sought ways to focus anger, fear so it would not turn on those she loved. She donned men’s clothes, she learned to fight as a man learned to fight. She fought against the softness in herself, the vulnerable.
No m
ore. She was tired. Deep inside tired and somehow the revelations allowed her to sink into that depth, to stop fighting, to stop bracing herself with secrets.
She had to think of Deian.
“You’re wearing a bliaut.” Paraig’s deep voice flowed over her as soft as a breeze, making it worth it to have on the garb of a woman.
“Aye.” Men’s clothes had been a shield, given her a sense of power. A futile gesture. She had no power.
“It becomes you.”
She turned to him then, grateful as she always was to this man. “Thank you.”
He flushed, shrugged, concentrated on the view she had been looking at. “It’s land worth fighting for.”
“Aye,” she didn’t know what else to say to him, knew better than to speak the truths she felt. That she hungered for him, cared for him. “Impossible.” She admitted and put a hand to her lips as though she could stop the words that already slipped out.
“What’s impossible?” He asked.
She shook her head, then thought to confide in him. “I will be leaving on the morrow, with Deian. We are going to a place in the west, were a society of women healers live.”
“You’re what?” Quiet, harsh, he faced her.
“If they’ll have me,” She continued. “and Deian. I’m no healer but I can help protect them. And though he’s a male, Deian is young, they should not mind.”
He took her shoulders. “There’s no reason for you to leave.”
Stunned, she stared at him. “Have you lost your senses, man? I bore my brother’s child! I’ll never live past that. Worse yet, Deian will never be able to live past that.”
“You could marry me.”
You could marry me. She would never forget his offer, the harsh hope in his voice.
But she could not marry him. She could never marry anyone. Oh, but that he asked, a mere four words she would cling to for the rest of her life.
Sadly, she shook her head. “No,” she huffed out on a weary sigh, “I canna’ marry you.” She touched his cheek. “But I’m that grateful that you asked.” And she walked away.
Torn (The Handfasting) Page 9