Bold (The Handfasting)

by Becca St. John

  They would destroy each other and he would rise up to have his way with the highlands just as he would have his way tonight.

  He looked to the woman who stood opposite him, a deceitful, cunning and blasphemous whore. He licked his lips, his body aching for release.

  She was the one who promised power from the old ways, taught the women to move as the sun and the moon, east to west, knowledge to intuition. She explained how the men, with their cocky strides, were to travel from earth to strength, north to south.

  She was a willing partner in these dances, eagerly enticed young lasses to join their troupe for she knew his taste. The rebellious, the lonely, the insecure were sweet succor to his band.

  The moment was ripe. It was time. As the Green Man, he stepped inside the circle, horns upon his head, a wooden staff in hand. She stood opposite, a large vessel cradled at her hip.

  It was a familiar game. Catch me if you can, she teased. He was willing to be diverted. He knew how the night would end.

  The human chain stopped in place, swayed and chanted, captured by the story unfolding before them. They expected the portrayal of his death and rebirth, unaware it was the ruin of innocence they would witness.

  He used his staff as a shepherd’s hook, he worked to corral the woman, head her toward the altar. They sidled one way, then another, adversaries. He smiled again. He rather liked this sport, becoming The Green Man. It was a shame the season was wrong and he couldn’t create a mask of leaves and branches.

  He swung out with his rod. Nimbly she jumped, twisted and taunted, beckoned as she did so, managing to hold her distance. He allowed it, drawing out the reckoning.

  The wind toyed with their cloaks. The moon, as though in tune, played its game of light and dark. With a dip off his head, he showed off his antlers, a stag's crowned achievement, and held his ground.

  The wench stood at the mouth of the south, vessel on hip, offered a saucy smile. The south was his place, the man’s place.

  Melodic tinkling foreshadowed the emergence of her arm covered in silver bracelets. The other women raised their adorned limbs, shook them, for a musical backdrop to the sensuous dance.

  His woman wove hers through the air, a cobra’s salute to the pipers tune. Mesmerized, he startled when she jammed that sensuous limb deep within the vessel.

  The women of his troupe rang tiny bells of encouragement soon matched by the young lasses who watched and learned; the men stomped their feet, their curdled cries riding on the night wind.

  Perhaps there was something to these rituals after all.

  Oblivious to the blood draped altar behind her, his night’s mate laughed as she lifted her hand high, fingers coated in thick, viscous, honey. Riveted, he watched as slowly, ever so slowly, heavy rivulets trailed down her hand, along her arm. Head angled, she watched him as she caught syrupy globules with her lips, followed its path with her tongue, darted flickers for taste, wide swaths for hunger. She traced the honey up, up, up to the tip of her fist.

  Fight though she did, the fist did not fit in her mouth, it was too big. So she suckled each finger in turn, drew hard, her cheeks no more than shadowed hollows.

  He groaned. All the men groaned as the women chimed their bells. Enough was enough.

  "You will be as the earth!" He bellowed. "My seed will feed your womb upon the blood of our victim."

  Startled, her sensuous sucking stopped. She settled her hand light on her breasts.

  "It's a cold night for such things." Sticky fingers slipped inside the opening of her cape. He knew what ripeness was hidden within that cloak, imagined suckling their honeyed sweetness. He loved honey.

  "I will make you burn." He advanced.

  "You will make me burn," She trilled as lightly as the jingle of her bracelets. Despite her twirls and sways, he was pleased to see she moved closer before she stopped just outside the reach of his staff.

  One moment a soft female, the next a forceful presence, up she went, high on her toes, vessel raised to the skies. He swung his staff left then right. Nimbly she jumped each swipe.

  Without warning she hurled the honey pot straight at him. One mighty swing and he shattered her vessel with the knotted head of his staff.

  "I will flame your fire."

  Bracelets jangled as she clapped. "May the power of my essence incite your passion as I bear your strength."

  He knew the younger lasses, the newcomers, were uneasy with the turn of play. They shifted, eyed each other, looked to the older women, but they could not run. His men clamped hands upon their shoulders, for it was their fight, not his, to keep the lasses from running. Foolish girls to trust strangers, to believe they could ever go home again to be comforted by mother or father, sibling or cousin.

  One act of disobedience and they chose their destiny. It was their own folly that led them to the service of his band. To become outlaws. That is, if they survive this night.

  Their restless movements, the terror in their faces, provoked a lust that had already burgeoned. He pawed at the earth, tilted his head, a stag in rut, and charged. Shoulder to belly, he swooped, lifted, carried.

  The men’s chants thickened, heightened by the game, over riding cries of terror.

  Not to be undone, his woman arched her back, rode him like a ships mast, opened her cape, offered her nectared breasts. "I give succor to your strength. Taste of my sweetness."

  Greedily he accepted, licked and suckled as he carried her through their arena. His laughter rode the night, echoed by the tiny tinkle of bells as he dropped her upon the altar, hips on the edge, legs dangling.

  "You must pay a price!" She commanded.

  He chuckled. She was in no position to be making commands, but he would humor her.

  "Vixen," he turned to his audience, "Is she worth a price?"

  The men stomped and bellowed. "Plunder, plunder, plunder!"

  "Honor her, honor her, honor her." Bells jangled as the women countered the men, some frantic in their pleas.

  He was the Green Man, he would make the choice.

  Slowing his pace, drawing out the tension, he ran his hands along the sweet curve of her thigh. They were full and round, would embrace his hips with softness. Just the thought, enflamed by the narrowing of her eyes, a sure sign she was ready to challenge him, made him hungry for more.

  Without warning he gripped her legs, splayed them, revealing the shadowed opening to her womb.

  Despite her tries to wiggle free, to negotiate the cost of this privilege, he held her firm. Let her know who had the power.

  "What price?"

  "The MacKay," She inched back, away from the edge of the altar. "I've helped you weaken the MacKay," voice sultry as a promise she lifted, leaned back on her hands, breasts tantalizing mounds in the moonlight. "You've set the Gunns toward failure. But all could be lost."

  "I will not lose."

  She scrambled onto her knees. "There is one who has turned the tide away from us." Her finger trailed a path from his lips to his chest. "You must kill her," she leaned closer, "kill her," she licked his lips, "kill her!" swung her legs around, encircling his waist.

  He was swollen and greedy, more than ready to finish this. "Who is this woman?" He grunted as he ground against her softness bringing a moan for his efforts.

  Still, she did not leave her plea. "Maggie MacBede." Another moan. “We cannot risk a child born to her.”

  "You want her blood?" He spread her cloak, lowered it so all could see as his touch roamed mounds and valleys, squeezed and soothed in turn. Her buttocks were cradled in his arms, her legs wrapped about his waist, her breasts a breath away from his lips as he strode the perimeters of the circle. A boastful male.

  "She wants me to destroy the MacBede girl, daughter of a Chief." He shouted.

  Brushing her chest against his mouth, she pleaded. "Promise me The MacKay will have no heir."

  Ah, so that was it.

  "I want to kill him." He grabbed her bottom, raised her up, to slide her down along h
is rigid need before placing her, once again, on the altar. "Torture him.”

  "Her, kill her." She scrambled on the blood slick stone to kneel before him.

  He shoved her down, onto her back, her hair tangled in blood, and leaned over her, master of what he beheld. She griped his arms, as though she knew he would soon leave this subject. "He must live to be humiliated, to see his own destruction. She is in the way. She can die. Must die."

  "Devil’s harlot." His chuckle was lost as he teased her nipple. "Perfect.”

  "You promise."

  "Oh, my lusty earth bride. I promise, with pleasure. Here, on this altar, we will slice her slowly, little by little. Her screams will make my blood rise. I will want to take you for days afterward. But now, tonight, all bargaining is done. We will think of nothing else, but my plundering you."

  Arching his neck he shouted, "Take your wenches men! Seed their bellies!"

  He was too late. Two lines had become one thick writhing cord as bodies sank to the ground, chants turned to moans of pleasure mingled with screams and cries. Cloaks opened, flesh meshed, male to female, a time old chain of fertility.

  CHAPTER 11 - A MEANS OF ESCAPE

  Days filled with the land opening up to forever. They skirted the mountain, rode at the base of foothills, across open stretches that dipped and fell. Rugged terrain at a rugged pace, on horseback when Maggie had never ridden as much as a morning before.

  Many of their group walked. Talorc refused to let Maggie join them. She wouldn’t forgive him for the pain of it, riding, when she was not accustomed to such things.

  Strong boned and buxom, Diedre, rode up and reached over, giving Maggie’s arm a comforting pat. “Don’t fret now lass, the time will fly.”

  Diedre, a MacKay companion for Maggie. A woman who convinced the Bold that Maggie would need one for the ride. Female companionship in the likes of the MacBede’s Muireall, the widow. Proof the women at Glen Toric would not be so different to back home. Thoughtful of the Bold. Generous of Diedre, for they were in a troop of men. She rather suspected that was Diedre’s reason for joining the adventure.

  As for Maggie? She was more than used to the company of men, especially warriors. Probably more comfortable with them than women.

  Still, she appreciated the gesture especially as the woman did not hover but left Maggie to herself often enough.

  Open and friendly one minute, too close another before Deidre would go off, flirting with the men as widows were wont to do, sneaking off with one or another. Plenty of men on this ride and only two women. Muireall would have liked those odds herself.

  “The Bold may be a great man, but he’s also a man. Can’t be around one without some ill feeling festering,” Diedre claimed, an old mother hen even thought they were of an age. “Best to get bad thoughts out of a body or they sour the soul.”

  Off with someone the night before, Maggie didn’t have to wonder about the smile the woman wore.

  “Sore?” Diedre asked.

  Maggie mumbled not as comfortable with complaining aloud as Diedre. “Aye. Don’t know why he won’t let me walk.”

  “He’s the Laird. He’s used to telling others what to do.”

  “And they all listen.”

  Diedre nodded. “Of course. Like lambs and a shepherd.”

  “Lambs are slaughtered.” Maggie countered and they both laughed. Only it wasn’t funny. She was being led as though she had no will of her own.

  What had happened to her dignity, to her self-respect? Who was he to tell her she couldn’t walk, when riding for days was not natural. She may not be able to walk, if she didn’t get down off this beast soon.

  Still, she kept the litany to herself, decided to deal with the issue her own way. She halted her horse on the downward slope, lifted her leg gingerly over its neck and slowly eased off.

  “Are you needen’ to freshen up?” Diedre frowned. They had only just remounted from a short break. “It would be better if we wait until we reach the bottom of the hill. There’s a wee stream down there. See?” And she pointed.

  Maggie had seen it, a thin thread winding through the valley floor. “Aye.” It took a few moments to straighten her legs against aches in places she didn’t know a body could ache.

  William rode up. “Is there a problem?”

  “No.” Maggie handed him her reins before he could refuse them. “I’d rather walk, if you don’t mind.”

  “The Bold says you’re to ride.”

  “He can do as he pleases. I will do as I please.”

  She didn’t want to argue, she didn’t want to be persuaded, or treated like a recalcitrant child. She just wanted to walk, so she turned away and strode down the hillside taking a path with large boulders, difficult for a horse to follow.

  “Wait!” Diedre called, but Maggie kept moving as sounds of the other woman closed in on her.

  “You needn’t run from me.” Diedre huffed, out of breath. “If you ask me, he’s too high handed by half with you.”

  “He is that.” Maggie snapped.

  “The man just up and took you from your home.”

  “He did that.” Maggie lifted her chin. “Just pulled me from my home, my people, what I wanted and then makes me ride that bloody . . .”

  Diedre put a hand on her arm. “He has his reasons, I’m sure. And he’s a handsome man, no?”

  “I’m not blind.”

  “And you feel something for him?”

  Maggie pulled away, looked at the mountains, honest enough to keep silent rather than admit the truth. Aye, she felt something for him but it was such a muddled mess there was no explaining it.

  “You’re set on leaving him, are you?”

  Was that an insult to his people? She didn’t mean it as such. “I didn’t want to leave my own.”

  “No.” Diedre sat on a boulder. Maggie turned to see her motioning someone away. Another glance confirmed it was the Bold.

  Diedre continued. “You didna’ want to leave your home, but you can go back. Just keep that in mind. You can have yourself a fine adventure and then go back. We’re not so bad, you see. You’ll like the folks of Glen Toric.”

  “My brothers say the keep is built on caves.”

  Diedre smiled and nodded. “Aye, scary if you ask me. But they’re down there, underneath us, dark and full of the echoes of whatever creatures are hiding in there.”

  Maggie shivered, pulled her plaid closer around her. “I’ve never been in a cave, but I don’t much care for the dark.”

  “Hmn,” the other woman considered that. “The men are waiting for us.”

  “Then let’s move on down, so they can move as well.”

  “I think the Bold is going to join us.”

  Maggie looked, and sure enough, the man was finding his way between the rocks. Agile for such a big man. She would give him that much. He was just too good at everything. He was a fool if he thought they were a match. Foolish and impetuous was what she was, a far cry from good at everything.

  Her biggest fear was that she would be foolish and impetuous with him.

  “He’s a fine warrior, Maggie. I know you’re afraid he will be killed, but he’s lived to now.”

  “Aye, until now.”

  “My husband, bless his soul, was a warrior.”

  Talorc gained on them. Hoping for a few more moments on foot, Maggie grabbed Diedre’s arm and aimed them both further down the hillside.

  They were of an age, yet Diedre had already been married, birthed a child and been abandoned as a widow. That was the problem with warriors, they did things like that. Maggie kept silent. The woman didn’t need reminding of what was.

  “You may have the right of things. I don’t think I would marry another warrior. It’s too much of a worry. Waiting for days, weeks when they go out for the fight. It eats at a body.”

  “Aye.” Maggie nodded, glad she had Diedre, that the Bold had thought to bring her.

  Diedre stopped, pulled Maggie around so they spoke face to face, e
ye to eye. “Just don’t let him near. Stick with the women folk and don’t let him near. Then you can have a high time with us, and return home to anyone you want.”

  Wise words, only she didn’t know if she wanted to hear them. Contrary, that’s what she was. One minute enjoying the man’s company, the next, angry that he took all her choices away from her.

  “You would help me?”

  “Aye.” Diedre nodded, but didn’t have a chance to say more, for the Bold had reached them.

  Maggie fought to hold to Diedre’s idea through days of travel, despite the aches of the forced ride she was drawn to the Bold. Though she kept her tongue sharp, whenever he was near, she hungered for those moments. Feared he would acknowledge her hardness and leave her be.

  “Are you enjoying Diedre’s company, lass?’ A shiver of awareness shot through her as the Bold pulled alongside of her.

  “Aye, I believe we will get on.”

  “Good.” He nodded.

  Her people were not ones for aimless chat. She had been relieved to see that neither were Talorc or his men.

  After a time he took her arm, signaled to stop and be quiet.

  They had just breached a small rise that looked over a narrow valley. Below, a herd of deer grazed along a stream that cut through one side of the flat land.

  “See them.” The warmth of his hand intoxicated. She pulled free only to have him lean in, one hand braced behind her on the horse’s rump, the other pointing. Diverted by the strength of his hand, the sinewy strength in his arm, she failed to see what he was showing her.

  “See him?” He jolted her to look where he pointed. “That’s Bruce, moving in.”

  She sucked in her breath, surprised. Below them, blending in with the heather and the rock, a hunter crouched, edging ever closer to the herd, so much a part of the land that it was hard to place him.

  She held her breath, as though even that small sound could be heard, and watched, waited, wondering how the Bold could tell, from this distance, who was who.