Bold (The Handfasting)

by Becca St. John

  “The Gunns claimed I tried to take it from the mother while she was fit and fine and waiting for the pains. But I don’t believe that’s the thorn that’s causing our problems. I think we have a canker of another sort. I just can’t fathom what it is.”

  Both men sat, frowning as they held their own counsel. Fiona moved over to Talorc, eased him forward to wash his back, “Your late wife, Anabel, did you love her?” She asked, as she’d lulled him to peace.

  “Loved her?” Talorc scowled.

  Feargus sputtered and barked. “Don’t be ridiculous woman, everyone knows The MacKay married for his clan, not for foolish notions of love.”

  “No,” Talorc argued, “women wish to know these things, although in truth, I don’t know.” He admitted, adding, “Holding my wife was like embracing a delicate flower. Your heart swells with the beauty, but you fear you’ll bruise it. No,” he shook his head against the memory. “It would take a stronger lass to win my heart, I’m thinking, one who could meet me on my terms.” He looked over his shoulder at Fiona. “Your Maggie is a strapping lass.”

  With one hefty push, Fiona shoved him under.

  “I didna’ say anything,” Talorc sputtered as he surfaced, “that you dinna’ know.”

  “Oh, aye.” Fiona admitted sweetly.

  “Did you dunk me for speaking of your daughter?”

  “Why would I do that?” Fiona hedged, adding, “but I was wondering, if it’s true, are you here because of our Maggie?”

  “Aye.” Talorc admitted.

  The fire crackled, water splashed as he reached for a sheet on a stool by the side of the tub. Standing, he wrapped the long sheet around his waist, used another for drying.

  Husband and wife looked to each other. ”You don’t know much of our Maggie if you’ve come for her.” Fiona warned.

  “Do you mean that she likes her men puny?” Talorc vigorously rubbed his hair.

  “Aye,” They both frowned.

  “She’s not meant for a puny lad, you know.” He tossed the extra sheet over his shoulder. “And I’ve a mind to help her understand such things.”

  The MacBede stood from his own bath scowling. “How do you mean to do that?”

  Talorc pulled a shirt over his head, his words caught in the folds of fabric. “Well, MacBede,” his head popped out of the opening, “with your permission, I’ll marry her. She’ll come to understand in time.”

  Fiona shoved a warmed sheet at her husband. “You’ll not get her to understand after the wedding, Laird or no, you force Maggie to marry and she’ll make your life a misery. You’ll never win her that way.”

  “I mean to have her agree to the wedding.” Talorc defended.

  Fiona laughed.

  Talorc argued. “You could help persuade her.”

  Feargus slumped on a stool. “It’s more than that, Laird MacKay. You’re a fine man, I couldna’ hope for such a grand husband for my lovely Maggie, but she’s more stubborn than the lot of us. She doesn’t want a warrior.”

  “You’re her father. You could make her.”

  “Oh, aye, I could force it on her, but my Fiona is right. We won’t send her to the altar in tears, and if she goes against her will, there will be tears aplenty.”

  “From a lass such as Maggie?” Talorc was appalled.

  MacBede chuckled, “Aye, strapping lass that she is, she’s still a female.”

  Fiona ignored the understanding that passed between the men and nodded at her own thoughts. “You know,” she said, “you might make it work, if you could spend some time with her, win her over and then stay away when she says nay to a marriage. She’ll pine for you, then come around.”

  “There’s no time for that. I want to take her with me tomorrow.”

  “Tomorrow?” Feargus stormed. “Never lad. I’ll see her settled in her feelings first.”

  “Timing, MacBede. You know, I know, timing is everything. It has to be now.”

  “Why?”

  “You’ll understand tonight when I tell my tale.”

  “You’ll be telling me now.”

  “No.” Fiona's soft words broke through. “No, he is right, husband. Maggie doesn’t need time to come up with excuses and reasons not to marry him.”

  “You can’t be serious, wife?”

  “Aye, I am, and as her mother, with your approval, I will give my blessing if he can convince her to marry him on the morrow.”

  “He’ll never do it.”

  “Perhaps not. But I’m thinking, if he fails, it will be our Maggie who will lose in the end.”

  “I’ll not fail.” Talorc claimed.

  Fiona nodded at his confidence. “Fail or no, I’ll not grant my blessing until you promise me two things.”

  “Aye.”

  “You'll not force yourself on her. She has to give of herself willingly otherwise we'll not accept the marriage.”

  Talorc agreed. “Neither would she, and I know that, but I also know she'll come around. The bond is there already, she just doesn't recognize it.”

  “Aye, well and good.” Feargus nodded. "But you know, if she doesn't come around, if she keeps her distance, we expect her back in the same pure state she'll have left us. I'll not see her returning with a kerchief on her head for the whole world to know she's not a maiden anymore."

  "Aye." Talorc agreed. "I'd want no different for my own daughter, if I'm ever blessed to have one."

  “You will also vow," Fiona continued, "never to hurt my daughter, to strike her or beat her or punish her in any physical manner.”

  “I vow to you she shall never be harmed by me or mine, in any manner. If I fail in that, I will return her to you.”

  “So be it. If you can convince her to say yea, you may have my daughter.”

  “Oh, for a certainty, she will say yea. She’ll have no other choice or she’s not the woman I think her to be.”

  CHAPTER 5 - BETRAYAL

  It was a clear night with a full moon, eerie shadows and the shimmer of silver light that teased of spirits lurking. It was the season for Lughnassadh, the time for the summer sun to loosen her hold to Tannist, the stingy winter's day. It was a season of the festivals of old.

  Talorc the Bold, The Laird MacKay, would be leaving soon for the Samhain. At least he should be, for no Laird of any worth would be away from home when the spirits of the ancients walked freely upon the earth; when the clan would celebrate those newly deceased as well as those to be born.

  Maggie hurried past the gardens, grateful that the souls were not yet free to roam in the fey light of a full moon. The only ghosts here were the shadowed furrows of the vegetable beds, empty of all but the withered rubble of a harvest now past. Today's bitter northern wind brought frost, prelude to a carpet of snow.

  Snow. Maggie looked toward her destination, the small area surrounded by a low stone fence, peppered with Celtic crosses. It was the home to her ancestors, home to all the family who had passed beyond this life. Home to her brother, Young Ian. Her twin.

  This Samhain they would celebrate Ian’s glorious death in battle. He would be honored, praised for going as he had gone. It was selfish of Maggie to wish it any other way, but wish it she did. She wanted to unwrap her plaid, lay it upon his frozen bed, to warm him until the snow could play the part of blanket. But to do so would ignore the chance of his soul rising free of the earth’s embrace. She could not risk the insult.

  It didn’t take her long to reach his grave, to see the covering of heather she had planted, gray in the moon's light, sparkling with the frost. A part of her had died with him. Praise God that it wouldn’t resurrect, that her ability to love so deeply would never claim her again.

  She thought of the MacKay, and his peculiar hold on her. “I’ll not leave you, Ian.” She promised. “Whatever The MacKay wants, it can’t take me away from here.” She fell to her knees, leaned to the side and supported her weight on one arm. “This is my home.” She picked at the heather. “This is where I belong. These are my people, our people.�
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  There were no tears this time. Normally, when she visited Ian’s grave, emotions brimmed and spilled. Perhaps she was getting used to his absence.

  “Do you know what it is he thinks? Can you watch, from wherever you are? Can you see what’s happening?” Maggie looked up at the sky, before studying the sway of trees that surrounded the graveyard. She’d often wondered if Ian watched.

  When he was alive, she would have known what he was thinking without saying a word. The loss, an emptiness that could not be filled.

  “You would laugh, you know.” Could hear her even if she couldn’t hear him. “Our warriors told tales and the Bold was daft enough to listen. They turned-around all I ever did to grieve them, until you would think I was the bravest and wisest of women. Really, they did!

  “Do you remember the time I threw the rock and hit that Englishman dead on? Och, the look on Nigel’s face. He slung me over his shoulder, as if I had caused the battle, carried me past every warrior on the battlements, through all the soldiers in the yard and into the crowd of the Great Hall. He dumped me. Like no more than a sack of oats, he tossed me at our mother’s feet.

  “Aye, you were there. You laughed till your sides split, but it wasn’t funny.” Maggie would never forget how Nigel had stormed, “keep her out of our way.”

  She was no warrior.

  God willing, the Bold would never know the depth of embarrassment flung at her when he asked about the packets.

  A silly impulse and a sleepless night produced them. No more than ten years old, she had imagined being lauded for those little pouches. One for each warrior before he left for battle. They were to serve as a symbol of all they fought for.

  They brought no more than absent pats on the head and embarrassed chuckles. Every ounce of her pride had been gobbled up from that day to this, for she didn't know how to stop it. What she did for one, she had to do for the others or it would be a sign of favoritism. A Highlander would take great insult on such a slight.

  “What would The MacKay think if he knew the truth of it?” She asked as though her brother could answer.

  The wind kicked up. Maggie's sigh rode on it.

  “If you were here, Ian, you’d protect me, you’d sit by my side and keep the MacKay at a distance. Och, and the way he makes a body feel!” Maggie fought for words to explain and fisted her belly as though to press away the flutters within. “Ian, be grateful that you’ll never have to feel the way he made me feel. You can't lose it.”

  A swift look over her shoulder, toward the keep, was reminder enough that she needed to head back.

  “Do you think I could be missing the meal?” She sighed against the hope, her eyes focused on the gray slabs of stone that made up her home.

  A movement, near the last tree of the orchard, caught her eye. Two soldiers stood there, watching her with steady interest. In the meager light she could not tell for certain, but she thought they were MacKays.

  Ian’s resting place pulled her once more. “What am I to do?” She rose and dusted the dirt from her plaid. “Who can I get to sit with me if not you?” She studied his grave. “It’s not like I have any great suitors to . . ." she paused, her head high, as if to catch a sound. "Ian, I have it. Hamish. Hamish will sit with me, and then The MacKay will know that my affections are taken and . . .”

  She glanced over her shoulder to see the two men still watching her.

  “They’ll be leaving soon.” She comforted her brother, for he’d fret for her otherwise. “And Hamish will be there for me, even if for naught but friendship. We have been friends for such a long time.”

  Her head snapped back to Ian's grave. For the first time, since she'd lost him, there was an inkling of thought traitorous enough not to be her own.

  “Don’t you dare, brother!” She wagged her finger at the heather upon the grave as it swayed with a fresh breeze. She could almost see her brother brushing his hand over it, as he argued with her. “Don’t you dare start putting opinions in my head now. If I want to take Hamish to dinner with me, then I will." The niggle continued to tug at her decision. "You'd have me sit with him? With The MacKay? You're no better than the others.” She snipped, as she spun away from her brother's memory.

  “I’ll not listen,” she hissed into the wind.

  Defiant, she stomped away, head high as she passed the two warriors. MacKays, of course they were. The MacBedes would have left her to her mourning without notice.

  Her step quickened as she heard them turn to follow. Nosey brutes. This was her home, with people milling about everywhere you turned. She’d not come to harm.

  “You’ve no need to follow me,” she shouted over her shoulder.

  “We’ll see you safely home.”

  “This is home.” She informed them, and picked up her pace.

  They lengthened their stride to match her near run.

  She had to lose them, for it would do no good to have them see her beg Hamish to sup with her tonight. “Go away.”

  “We’re to see to your welfare, Mistress Margaret.”

  She pivoted, faced them.

  “And what makes you so happy?” She bit out.

  “You’re a bonny lass.”

  Humph. She started off again, through the inner yard, into the outer yard, down the path until she came to the tailor's two story workshop and home.

  She banged on the door.

  “One of her puny choices?” One warrior asked the other.

  She’d not turn around.

  The door opened a crack to show Colin, the tailor’s apprentice. He tried to shut the door on her.

  “I’m needing to see Hamish,” she blurted and shoved until the poor lad could do no more than let her in. She slammed the door on the two MacKay clansmen. A loud rhythmic creaking filled the room. Maggie looked to the ceiling.

  “Hhhhhe’s nnot hhhhere.” Colin stuttered, tried to get beyond Maggie to open the door again.

  Maggie ignored him and moved to the ladder that led to the second story. “Whatever is that noise?” She asked Colin before shouting, “Hamish! It’s Maggie MacBede. I’m needing to speak with you.”

  Abruptly, the creaking halted, replaced by smothered voices and the rustling of clothes.

  Frantic, Colin tried to stop her, “Mimimistress Mamargaret, I think . . .”

  Someone pounded at the door.

  “Ignore that Colin.” She told the lad as Hamish’s long narrow foot and spindly ankle came into view, followed by a hastily wrapped plaid.

  “Ah, Hamish,” Maggie waited, impatient for his descent. The minute his foot touched the ground she rushed up to him, gripped the front of his plaid where it crossed his sunken chest. “I’m needing your help! Och, and it’s dire you aid me!”

  “Aye, Maggie.”

  She cocked her head at his tone, cringed as he patted her hands. She hated to be treated like a child with pat to her head or her hands.

  The pounding started up again.

  “Go away!” Maggie shouted before turning back to Hamish. “I need you to come sit with me at dinner.” She told him.

  Bewildered, Hamish looked from Maggie to the door. “Colin, who's out there?”

  “Nothing, no one,” Maggie lied. “Just a couple of The MacKay's men. Don’t think of them.”

  “Warriors?” He gulped.

  “Hamish, forget them, just promise me you’ll come to the hall to eat. I’m needing you to sit with me.”

  Even in the dark of the tailor's shop, Maggie could see his face turn ashen. She gritted her teeth, determined to convince him but was stopped as a woman’s head, hair all tousled and loose, popped through the opening at the top of the ladder. “What are you about Hamish?” Nora Bayne demanded.

  “Nora?” Maggie frowned. “What are you doing here? And what are you doing up there?”

  “Now, Maggie,” Hamish pulled on her arm, “You’re not to be thinking . ..”

  “What am I not to be thinking?” She tried to glare at him, to look angry, but her heart
sank too deep to fuel her anger, her outrage. Hamish was just another man who didn’t want her. “What is Nora to you Hamish?”

  “Maggie, now,” Hamish soothed, shooting wary looks at Nora, “you and I have been friends for a long time.”

  “And what’s wrong with friendship, Hamish?”

  “Well, it’s just, you know, I’m not, I mean, well, the truth of it is, Maggie, I’m planning to marry Nora.”

  Nora’s cooed, “Oh, Hamish,” was swallowed by Maggie’s keening, “Nooooo!”

  In all fairness, Hamish only reached out to comfort Maggie, and no more, when the door flew open. He didn't have time to pull away or surely he would have before that sword was stuck to his throat. Granted, it pricked only deep enough to bring a spot of blood, but for Hamish, that was enough.

  He fainted.

  Colin wet himself.

  Nora squealed.

  And Maggie glared, as she swatted at the arm holding the offending sword. “Put that stupid thing away, man!” She barked.

  Nora, wrapped in no more than a blanket, scurried down the ladder to pull Hamish's head onto her lap.

  Colin raised a trembling finger to point at the men. “Maggie,” he stammered, “they’re warriors, you shouldna’ be talking to them so.”

  “Of course they’re warriors, Colin.” Maggie said with no bit of respect, “But that doesn’t give them permission to come barging in here when no one's done anything wrong.”

  “You screamed,” One of the MacKay’s defended.

  “Och.” She ignored him, turned to look down on Hamish whose head was nestled in the soft pillow of Nora. “So you’ll not sit with me at dinner?” It was more statement than question, quiet enough to admit to the shame of asking in front of these men.

  Hamish was beyond speech.

  “He’s mine,” Nora snipped. “And you’d best stay away from him, Maggie MacBede.”

  “Oh, aye,” Maggie pulled her plaid in tight around her. “I’ll stay clear of him, and be happy of it.” With chin lifted, she wrapped her embarrassment as tightly as she wrapped her plaid, strode past the warriors, stepped over the threshold and out the door. The MacKay men fell in step.