Bold (The Handfasting)

by Becca St. John

  A young lad moved between them, a tray of roasted meat held out in offering, reminding them both they were here for a feast.

  “Maggie,” Talorc explained as he served both of them from the tray, “When someone is sent with a call to arms, I’m already deep in the fray. There’s no time for me to leave a fight. Others, who are swift of foot, but not so handy with the sword, are sent to call for help. We all have our roles to play, don’t you see.”

  “Aye.” The word did not come easily, she didn’t want to understand, but honesty demanded she do so. Not that he had cleared himself of wrong doing, or that she would let him get off so easily.

  “Earlier I told you that Ian’s last words were of you, that his death would not sit well with you.” He touched her cheek. This time she allowed it, welcomed the warmth, needing the heat to balance the cold of her loss. How quickly that cold could come upon her, when she least expected it.

  “I want you to know your brother lost his life in an honorable battle, Maggie. He fought bravely, he saved others. The need to fight that fight will be proven when you still have food for your belly on winter’s edge of spring."

  "And that’s why you came. You believe you can convince me Ian needed to be there, with you, when the Gunn's don't come on to our land."

  He tsked, like a teacher to a student. "Don't fool yourself, Maggie, you know they've been in your fields, taken what's yours."

  She looked away, bit at her lower lip, hesitant for the first time. There was truth in his words. She was not so angry she would deny that. But her Ian's death was still a raw wound.

  “Aye, but we never lost as we’ve been losing these few years past.”

  Rather than insult, her words gave him pause. He nodded, admitting. “We were losing like the saints were against us. Aye, that is true. One ride out, the food didn’t go with us. Another, what we ate was tainted. Small raiders, neither Gunn nor clan, attacked when we least expected.”

  “You’re to expect everything.”

  “Aye.” He reached for her then, as though it were true, that he had an uncontrollable need to touch her. Fingers spread, he cupped her cheek, stroked it with his thumb. She didn’t stop him.

  “Maggie,” Talorc took her hands in his, “Do you know how you avenged Ian? Do you know the role you played in turning the tide, bringing abundance?”

  She pulled away, insulted. “Don’t use your words with me. That’s all they are, just words. I have done nothing. Nothing,” she snapped.

  “Aye, you have and the MacKays want to thank you. Come to Glen Toric with me.”

  She sat up, turning fully to confront him. "You ignore me all evening, then suddenly, quick as you please, you’re asking me to leave this place? This is my home, these are my people. I’ve no reason to leave.”

  “Ah, but you do, Maggie girl, you do,” he murmured as he bent to the platter of meat, cut-off a morsel, speared it. “You gave us an idea that we’re growing with. You are changing the need to battle for all we have.”

  Before the tip of his knife could get the meat to her lips, Maggie took it with her fingers. Moist and succulent, the stewed juices ran down her hand. She tried to catch the rivulet with her tongue.

  "Oh, no, Maggie. Let me." He caught her hand, pulled it to his lips and took the liberty of capturing the droplet with his mouth, licked the rivulet with a slow tongue.

  For a breath, a long breath that she held, Maggie didn’t move. The hall could have been empty, the noise pure music, before she caught herself and tugged her hand free. Talorc was not ready to let it go.

  “Stop.” She hissed.

  He looked into her eyes and with one bite, took the meat from her hand. “You taste better than the meat.”

  “Oh Lord.” She pulled free, stumbled, toppled her bench in a rush to be away from him. He reached to help her but she ignored his hand, scrambled to rise on her own.

  Nigel laughed. "You drunk already? It's still early lass."

  “Laugh all you wish, brother, for I’ll return the favor soon.”

  Quick as that, his amusement ended. “Have a care, Laird MacKay, for when she sets out for revenge, she could teach the lot of us a thing or two.”

  Maggie brushed at her skirts. “He’ll not have need to worry, brother, for why would I be wanting revenge on the likes of the Laird?”

  “Why indeed?” Talorc asked, as he reminded her, “I’ll be leavin’ on the morrow.”

  “Aye,” she acknowledged, trying to catch Nigel’s eye as she reseated herself. Nigel refused to look her way.

  "I want you to leave with me."

  She laughed. “Leave with you?” Patted his arm. The man had barely talked to her all evening. “I’ll think of it,” she lied, “and when next we see each other, I’ll consider your request.”

  “Not later, Maggie,” he caught her hand upon his arm, held it tightly in place, “tonight, this night. When I tell my story, if you truthfully find you cannot go with me, then I will accept your decision.”

  “Tonight? You want to tell me a story tonight and then expect me to leave in the morn?”

  “Aye. Tonight.”

  She laughed. “Does my father know of this?”

  “Aye, as does your mother.” He moved so they could both look to her parents, who watched with uncommon wariness.

  Their wariness made no more sense than anything had this day. Her parents knew that nothing could induce Maggie to leave her home, not tonight, not ever. And, as far as she was concerned, not with a warrior; especially not with a warrior. Her parents knew that.

  Talorc blocked them from Maggie’s sight. “But they don’t know the story, have yet to hear it. When they do, when you do, they’ve agreed to go along with your wishes.”

  “Even if I chose to go away with you?”

  “Aye.”

  Maggie relaxed. “You can save your breath. This is my home, my friends and family. If I left, I’d be leaving young Ian behind. I can’t be doing . . .” He stopped her with a finger to her lips.

  "Bold!" a man yelled from the far end of a table. "Tell us of the final victory! We want to hear the tale of the fight!"

  A chorus of agreement rang out. Maggie tried to get away, to leave him to his tales of battle but he wouldn't let her go. “This is the story I'm going to tell, Maggie," he said for her alone. "Hear my story, then tell me what you will or won't do.”

  “I’ll not go.”

  “Hear me out first.”

  She’d wanted to respond but there was no chance. The meal had wound down, musicians were playing. Soon the bard would entertain with his own tales of war and love and the strength of the clans.

  Talorc freed her hand as he stood. She thought he meant to excuse the two of them, so he could address her in private, away from the prying ears of the family, the clan and his warriors.

  Like a wave, solemn silence moved over the room. If Talorc had sought attention his timing was immaculate. He acted as if that was just what he wanted.

  This would be no private telling.

  The realization hit with the impact of a horse. Alarmed, Maggie tugged at his arm. Immediately he lent down, focused on her.

  “You know, I’ve no ken for large men?” She whispered, “I’ve vowed never to promise myself to a warrior.”

  “A solemn oath?” An oath was a sacred thing to a highlander.

  She swallowed. “Everyone's heard me say so.”

  He repeated his question. "Did you pledge this as an oath?"

  She shook her head. "Why should I? My mind is made up."

  “If you didn't pledge yourself, there’s nothing to fret over, lass. It's no more than dreaming of the future. Not for us to foretell.” He turned back to the tables lined with watchful clansmen, both MacKay and MacBede.

  “Oh Lord!” Maggie sent the plea heaven word. “Oh, lord, please help me here.” But she knew it was her own fault for wanting him to flirt with her. As usual, she had brought this on herself, over estimated her ability to deal with a situation.
>
  All eyes were focused on the Bold. He tugged on Maggie until she stood beside him, within the curve of his arm. Her legs trembled until she thought they couldn't possibly hold her upright. Talorc gave her waist a squeeze, as if that would reassure her. He was a fool if he believed that.

  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?”

  *****************************

  “Please, I beg of you.”

  “You beg?”

  “Anything, anything you want.” Roddie MacBede whimpered from beneath the foot of the man in green. Six other harsh, ragged men aimed spears to take him down should he try to rise.

  “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.” Roddie promised. “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, the limp form, and smiled. “Not do, did, to that child? Other children.”

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

  “Why not?” The whimsical question startled Roddie, The lilt of it skewed from reality just as his joy, in the process of destroying the small body was an emotion out of step. Wrong. He knew it was wrong.

  “Why not.” Whimsy turned hard, cold. “Why shouldn’t you have done what you did? You enjoyed it. Admit it.”

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

  “Can you find more children? Can you bring them to us?”

  For the first time Roddie looked up into the eyes of the man standing over him. Eyes darker more dangerous than Roddie had ever striven to be. Evil eyes.

  Roddi shivered, reluctant to nod his assent though he did in the end. “Aye.” Bile reached his throat for half of him still held better intentions. “Aye, I can coax more to my side.” Fantasies, that’s all they ever were. Urges not to be fed. Only, he had fed them, and this one, when he silenced his victim he was caught for the deed.

  The blade left his breast entirely, 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 their right arm over their chest, right hand to left shoulder and bowed low to Maggie. 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 them and immediately they silenced their appreciation. “I would like to hear what this is all 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. Sassenaches 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 death 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, just for 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 fist of his hand. Some so old, soil spilled from the worn fabric. Others were 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 the fear that 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.