Bold (The Handfasting)

by Becca St. John

  “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 any more. 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 to 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 creagh’s, 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 was 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.”

  One tug and she was close enough for him to rest his hands upon her shoulders.

  “What I hadna' expected was the feel of you, Maggie MacBede, when your brother tossed you into my hands. ‘Twas a brilliant jolt. A shock of lightning coursin’ through me. I knew right then, I would marry you for the grand power of our mating and the bonny bright bairnes that would bring.

  “Marry me tonight, Maggie MacBede. Be my bride, for the strength of our clans and the future of our kinship. Do it for the land, for the name and for the wild glory of both!”

  CHAPTER 8 - TRAPPED

  She couldn’t say ‘no’ any more than she could dispel the wild thump of her heart. The wait for her response hung heavy as rain upon the room.

  With perverse irony, the pounding of her chest carried her to childhood, and a memory. She had been no more than a wee thing when she found a frantic little sparrow trapped within the stillroom, a dank dark place. How the bird managed to find its way inside the room heavy with the scent of malt and burning peat Maggie would never know.

  The thick oak door, framed in the opening of what was no more than a cave within the mountain, had been shut tight. The only light from a small window covered with a thin oiled sheet, its ledge as deep as a child’s arm was long.

  Maggie’s plan was to hide inside and hear how the whisky was made. She’d come ahead of the others, using all of her weight to get that monstrous door open a crack so she could slip inside. It was then she’d sensed the bird, feared it was a bat.

  But it wasn’t. It was a poor, helpless sparrow, startled by the light that the door offered. It dodged and darted, as frightened of Maggie as it was of its plight.

  She’d caught it then, held it gently within the palms of her hands, as she tried to sooth it’s trembling. The wild beat of its heart could be felt in her fingertips bringing prayers to Maggie’s lips. Over and over she begged God to be merciful, to allow the creature to live long enough for the men to arrive, for she daren’t let go of the sparrow in order to open the blasted door.

  She’d received a telling measure of censor, for being within that cavern, for being in a place that she never should have entered. But it dinna’ matter to her, the bird was free, flying off without a care, without so much as a circling thank you. It was free and that was gratitude enough.

  There was no one now, to hold her, comfort her and wait for an open door.

  She was trapped with no savior in sight.

  Her brothers, ever so quick to stall suitors, were obviously part of this plan. Her parents? Maggie knew, without even looking, the pride that would be shinning in their eyes and the eager hope that Maggie would succumb to this odd manner of courtship.

  And it wasn’t just them, her parents and her brothers, who had been caught in this man’s tales. The wretched beast had the whole of the clan in his hand. Maggie could see it, with one furious glance, the rapt anticipation, the delight that one of theirs would become the Great Laird MacKay’s wife.

  Talorc the
Bold was just the sort they would all want for her, a man who was larger than life itself. Larger even than the tales they told about Maggie. They all knew her, knew the truth behind each of the stories and yet they chose to believe his words, believe the testament of cheers that had rung through the hall but moments ago.

  They were fools. They were all fools.

  Warriors did this before a battle. They would stoke the fire of aggression with the fuel of former battles that grew far beyond reality. With each telling the stories became grander and bolder and more daring. A warrior who knew his way around words could convince his men of anything in those moments, even that to die in battle was a glorious thing.

  Pah! As if risking a life were not foolish in the extreme.

  Oh aye, and the Bold knew what he was about. Hadn't he taught her that? His timing was impeccable, waiting until the whisky had filled the men to just the right point, until they were puffed-up with a false bravado, a sense of largesse, yet not so far gone as to be sloppy, or to forget the Bold’s words.

  Aye, the men were seeing their world as a bigger and brighter and bolder place, including one wee lass.

  Even knowing this, Maggie could not say no.

  But neither would she say yes.

  “You’ve given me little time, MacKay.”

  “Aye.”

  “Some would say you’re trying to trap me.” She could feel the tension in the room ease with the anticipation of a spat. They were highlanders; to them a fight was no less than entertainment, especially when they were certain of the outcome. They’d not have respected Maggie if she let him have his way without a battle.

  He had wound them all in with his stories, but Maggie knew, just as well, how to ease that coil if not unwind it all together. Or so she hoped.

  “Aye, perhaps.” He admitted, answering her accusation of entrapment, “just as I once cornered a horse crazed with fear. We were in a burning wood. Had I let him go, at the least he would have burned to his own death.

  “So you see, Maggie, I trapped him to save him.”

  He was a more agile opponent than she had expected.

  “And you think to be saving me by trapping me?”

  He didn’t respond, nor were there the telling little quips coming from their audience to boost her side of the quarrel. It was time to change tactics.

  “How,” she asked practically, “do you plan on wedding me when there isn’t a Priest within the Highlands? It is nearly the Feast of Fleadh nan Mairbh, no decent man of the cloth would be found near folks who celebrate such things.”

  “Does it matter, Maggie?” He asked her gently, “Do we need a church man to make vows? Are you not a Highlander? Is your word not strong enough without witness?”

  Those were fighting words, they were. Maggie narrowed her eyes.

  “I would like the blessing of a power greater than either of us, Laird. Surely you can understand that . . . wait for that.”

  “There is no time, Maggie. We, the MacKay’s and all her septs, need our wedding,” he ran his finger along her cheek, caught her jaw in his palm when she tried to pull away. “Just as they need the presence of our son.”

  “There’s no guarantee of that, Laird.” She defended.

  He laughed, threw his head back and laughed. Maggie kicked him.

  “Oh Maggie,” he grumbled good naturedly, rubbed his shins to the raucous laughter of the crowd. “Life never offers guarantees, but it can make promises. You’re a healthy lass, a surprise blessing to a ma and da that had already born seven sons. And should you bear me a daughter, you’d not see more delight, for there’s ne’er been a daughter in my line for three generations. Give me a son, or a daughter, and fail that-- we’ll raise those of our clansmen, and teach them our ways.”

  He was more of an opponent than she’d ever faced before. She was fighting for all she knew, all she wanted in life, and yet he could come in and take it all from her with one fell swoop of words.

  She admired him for it.

  She hated him for it.

  She willed the tears away, closed her eyes against them, as she fought for the only argument he had yet to slaughter. “And you cannot wait, one season, for a priest, a man of cloth to bind us?”

  Talorc looked to the ground, muttered to himself, then looked up straight into Maggie’s eyes. He was well aware that he pressured her, she could see it, and she knew that he knew, with time she could break this thing.

  If he’d give her time.

  “Maggie,” he sighed, and she knew a concession was coming, “in the tradition of old, in the ways of the Highlanders, we will clasp hands, vow to each other. If you canna’ make vows for life, then promise yourself for a year and a day. Handfast me, Maggie.”

  Och, Dear Lord, God in Heaven, Help me. She cried within, though no answering cry returned. Ian, if you’re there, help me, for no one else will.

  Talorc reached out, took her hands in his, “Handfast me.”

  Ian’s voice failed to ring in her heart.

  “I couldna’” she tried to pull away, “it wouldna’ be right.”

  “Why wouldn’t it be right? We are Highlanders Maggie, this is our way. Are you so different from the rest of us?”

  The flutter of panic in that poor birds wings so long ago, was no match against the flutter of Maggie’s heart. She was trapped. She could feel it and the panic overwhelmed her.

  She shoved the Bold straight aside, looked over at her parents, so she could confront them, but her da would not look at her. He looked to his plate in deep contemplation. Her ma, oh . . . Maggie’s shoulders slumped with what she saw there. Her ma’s heart was breaking. She had wanted Maggie to agree to the wedding but if not, then even her ma was willing to push her into a Handfast.

  A union where, in a year and a day, the Bold could walk out just as easily as Maggie herself could.

  “. . . should you still not be certain of the match,” he continued, “you can walk away. No holds, no binds, you’re as free as that horse was, once I steered him away from the fire.”

  “We know nothing of each other but tales told by others.”

  “Maggie, the Handfasting is for you, to give you the chance to walk away. ‘Tis not for me. I’ve made that clear. But, I will also make it clear, should you give yourself to me, between the end of the Handfasting and now, should you find that there is no better for either of us, then the priest will bless the union, whatever season he finds us..”

  “Aye, Aye” the men cheered, the women sighed and wept, caught in the thrill of a courtship unfolding.

  “Ma?” Maggie tried once more, but her mother only shook her head. It was Maggie’s decision to make, and no other. In truth, she dinna’ have a choice.

  “I will think on it.” She hedged.

  Talorc shook his head. “No, Maggie, my people, our clan, they are waiting. They want me to bring you back with me, to settle you in amongst us before the Feast.”

  “It is not possible,” she countered “I have to be here for Fleadh nan Mairbh. I promised Ian.”

  She’d startled them all, judging by the mumbles and grumbles of the people.

  “Maggie,” Talorc watched her closely, “you do not invite the dead to come near.”

  “He was my twin.”

  “You have a right to your life. His time had come, do not invite yours away.” Talorc spoke with caring, for everyone knew that the Feast of the Dead was a time of caution. It was a time to hide from the folly of those passed beyond. No one would court such danger.

  “It would be more to your purpose to create new life to fill that void. To give your child the name of Ian, in his honor.”

  “No." She backed away from his words as the snare of them tightened.

  “The two of us, together, this very night.”

  “But. . .”

  “Marry him Maggie, Marry him . . .” The cheers rang through the hall, the stomping the clapping the voices raised in unison to billow and settle around her.

  “Not tonigh
t.” She cried.

  “Then in the morn, Maggie, for we leave when the sun shows herself.”

  The chorus had died down, all eyes intent on Maggie and Talorc.

  Maggie turned to face them all. “It is what you want?” She cried out, one last plea to the people.

  “Oh aye, lass,” Old Padruig played the spokesman, “there’s no better for you or for him!”

  “Do you all agree?” She shouted, bringing on another resounding cheer. “Then I shall do it.” She promised with a nod of her head. “And the consequences be upon your heads.”

  Pivoting, she faced Talorc, “In the morn. There is too much to do tonight, if I’m to leave at daybreak.”

  He raised their hands high as everyone joined in cries of delight. As soon as she could, Maggie spun away, headed toward the stairs that would take her up to her room. Chairs and benches scraped back as her mother and kinswomen hurried to join her.

  They reached her first, though Talorc was not far behind, despite the delay of those who wished to toast his victory.

  “Maggie?” He stopped her.

  “Aye.”

  “I’d thought,” he leaned in, whispered for her ears alone, “that you would prefer to have our first night together here, with your mother close by to attend you, settle you.”

  She stared at him, at his lapse in conviction.

  “Are you saying I’m to be so terribly alone when away from here?” When, not if. She’d given her word.

  “No,” he shook his head, frowned, “That’s not what I was saying, have no fears on that count. It’s just that a mother is a mother . . .”

  “And you chose to take me from mine. So be it, if there’s any guilt in that, then feel free to feel it.” She snipped.

  His frown deepened, though he failed to respond. With a tilt of her chin she swirled away, her entourage of relations a wake of women behind her.

  “Tomorrow.” Talorc shouted when she was halfway up the stairs.

  Maggie stopped, looked down at the man she would handfast in the morning. “Tomorrow,” she promised with a grim determination, so at odds with the enthusiasm he obviously felt.

  Tomorrow she would be promised to a man, bold in his battles, both on the battlefield and off. Life would never be easy. If she thought getting her own way was difficult with her brothers and a bear of a father, winning concessions with this man would be all the harder. Hadn’t tonight proved that?