The Handfasting (14 page)

"You're
mad!"

"Aye,
well, so be it. You get her ready, talk to her as you do, of everyday things,
of life among the MacKays. We need to make her want to wake to us. I will see
that a pallet is brought. We'll move her on that.

"You
could kill her in the move."

"No."
Talorc shook his head. "If a move would do that, she'd be dead now."

"She'll
not be freer of her brother in the hall."

For
the first time in days, Talorc smiled, the same grin he wore in anticipation of
a battle well- planned. "You could be right, Ealasaid, but down there the
MacKays’ call will be louder than any damn ghost."

CHAPTER 2 – CLAN MACKAY

She
could hear the flute, and the sound of voices in harmony. Laughter, mugs
clinking and someone full of tittle-tattle whispering in her ear. Pain
overshadowed her dreams, great standing stones hard and menacing, like the ones
in the field. Gray things, she tried to skirt around, hide from, as she
searched for the merriment.

Every
time she moved, those stones shattered, shot piercing pieces straight to the
center of her head. Desperate, she tried to twist away from the explosions, but
something held her still, kept her from moving and the pain, unerringly, found
its target.

So
powerful was that hurt, it turned to sound, billowed from her depths, to be
purged. Somehow it worked. The sound turned her from the stones to face a wide
stream. Water, cool comfort, enticing her far, far away.

“Maggie
. . .” The whisper floated on the wind.

“Ian.”
 She looked, searched the opposite shore.

“Maggie
. . .” his voice touched her shoulder. She snapped her head to the side, to
see, but the result was a shatter of sensation that blinded her.

“Shhhh,
quiet Maggie.” It was another voice, a deep rumble.

Water
washed across the source of suffering. More dripped onto her lips, into her
mouth. Greedily, she licked at them, which earned her another refreshing taste.

Comfort
of the stream drew her, the pleasure of submerging in its depth for relief. “Ian?”
He had drawn her to it, could help her find it again. “Ian?” She willed him to
return, brushed at the merry making. The noise of feasting too insistent, loud,
it interfered, stopped her from hearing the whispers.

A
gossip poured urgent words into her ear. Maggie pulled away, cringed against
the squelch of noise. “Ian, come back.”

He
did.

He
stood on the far bank. He stood there and smiled, but he was not the man she
last remembered. Instead, he stood as a small child, different but like her
twin of years before.

“Mamamaggie.”
He reached out with chubby arms, for her to come and lift him. His smile wide,
but changed from what she remembered of her brother. And his hair had gone
dark, the redness not so strong. Ian’s hair a brighter red than Maggie’s own.

“The
water.” She said. She tried to walk to the stream on weighted legs. She wanted
to go where the hurt could be washed away, cleanse her to join the child Ian. But
the child was no longer alone, with him was Ian the man.

She
did not understand.

"Stop."
She begged the boisterous party makers. She wanted the calm of the river, the
man, the child.

Her
brother picked-up the boy, held him in his arms.

“The
bairn will stay with me until you’re ready.” He told her.

She
tried to crawl to the water, but a fierce hold on her shoulders kept her close
to the pain, too close to the pain.

“My
namesake, Maggie. You’ll give him my name.”

“Ian,
help me . . .” again, she wanted the relief of the stream but someone slapped
her cheek hard. She cried out, not from the pain, but from a different hurt. Loss.
The world of Ian vanished, naught but a huge hole in her heart.

“Maggie,
wake-up, girl. Come on now, open your eyes.”

“Ian?”

**********************

Talorc
closed his eyes in relief. She may have called to her brother, but this time
she was awake, eyes wide and bewildered mayhap, but open.

"Ian?”
Like thistle down, she touched Talorc's jaw, as though she were afraid he would
dissolve.

Damn
straight. That's exactly what should happen to a spirit. "Ian's dead,
Maggie. You are here, at Glen Toric, with me, with the clan MacKay.”

 She
tried to jerk free of him only to wince with the pain. “You sent him away.”

He
tightened his hold on her. “You’ve no place with him, Maggie. He’s dead and
gone.”

“Talorc,”
she squirmed and whimpered with the movement, “You’re hurting my arms.”

Stunned,
he looked, “Och, Maggie," he eased his bruising hold. "I’m sorry.” And
let go, though he could not pull away. Instead, he slid one arm around her
shoulders, to hold her upright and awake. "I was afraid you’d hurt
yourself.”
I was afraid,
he didn’t tell her,
that you would leave me
for your brother, go to a land of no return.

Ealasaid
reached behind Maggie, to fluff and arrange the pillows.

“Lay
her back, Laird.” The older woman commanded, as she filled a mug with water.

He
was loath to release her, wanted her to feel him near, to sense his presence
and let go of dangerous dreams.

"Go
on now, lad," Ealasaid chided, "those pillows are softer than your
arm.”

As
he eased her back, she whispered. “Ian was here. I saw him."

 “Ian
is dead, Maggie. You are not.”

"He
was here." Her hands flew to her head.

"No
Maggie."

“Dead
or no, I saw him, Talorc, talked to him and the boy, the wee one.”

“The
wee one?” Talorc's sight jerked to her eyes. Eyes dulled by a sorrow that ran
too deep.

“Ian
wants me to take the babe . . .” her lashes feathered down.

“No,
no, no, Maggie,” fear clutched at his inners. She’d already slept too long,
“wake-up, think about what you said.”

“Talorc,
stop . . .” she groaned, "let me sleep, let me go back to the boy."

 “Oh
no, Maggie,” harsh and loud, he insisted, “listen," her eyes opened,
"listen to me. A wee one. It’s Samhain, time for those who have passed on,
and time of those to be born." He shook her shoulders, jostled her to wake.
"To be born, Maggie! It was our babe. Who else would pass that child on to
you, but Ian?” He could barely get his breath, as he moved in close, so only
she would hear as he begged her to listen. “The wee one, it has to be ours,
girl. Our babe.”

The
brush of her lashes against his cheeks alerted him. She had heard. He pulled
back to study her. Her dream told it all, she would live, have his child.

“He
didna’ say it was yours, Talorc.”

He
laughed, he couldn’t help it. Weak and aching, she could still tussle with him.
“Are ya’ sure now, lass? Are you absolutely certain, he didna’ say the boy was
mine?”

Her
brow wrinkled and she shook her head. “Oh!  Talorc.” Gingerly, she touched the
bruise. “I do ache.”

Contrite,
he leaned back, made room for Ealasaid to move closer.

“You
just lie there, lass, leave the pain to me.” As the older woman turned to rinse
the cloth, to cool it again, another, smaller woman, offered a steaming bowl.

“Beathag?”
Talorc tried to frown away his late wife’s nursemaid.

Full
of worried innocence, the small woman looked at him, offered the bowl. “I’ve a
broth for her.” Talorc tipped back, horrified that she might try to pour the
stuff down his throat. Not bloody likely. Not from her.

Even
his late wife had been leery of Beathag’s concoctions, and she was the one to
bring the rodent of a woman to Glen Toric. She was a small thing who slipped
nervously along the edges of a room. Slight, aye, timid, true, but as
determined as a mouse to cheese. Talorc was never certain how to deal with her.

Thankfully,
Ealasaid took over. “Beathag, what have you made here?” Ealasaid’s brusque,
robust way managed to soothe with practicality.

“It’s
a broth.”

“So
I see. And what have you put in it, Beathag?” Ealasaid leaned in to sniff at
it, “For you see, I’ve already been giving the lass a drop of tincture. We
wouldn’t want to confuse her poor, hurt head, by mixing up the wrong mixes,
now, would we?”

Beathag
gave a sharp shake. “Oh no, Ealasaid. We wouldn’t want to do that.” And she
slipped back into the crowd, a mouse to a crack in the wall.

Ealasaid
shrugged her shoulders and rolled her eyes.

“Who
was she?” Maggie was getting more alert. Talorc took her hands in his.

“Beathag,
an old nurse maid,” Her hands were too cold. He rubbed warmth into them.

“Talorc?”

“Aye?”

“The
rest?” She lifted her chin toward the foot of her pallet. "And where am
I?"

He
had forgotten that the others were there, that her bed was here, a pallet upon
a table in the great room, before the fire. His clan, her clan now, formed a
circle around them.

“It’s
the Clan MacKay, Maggie. But I wouldn’t be thinking you’d be ready to hear all
the names.”

Her
eyes closed as she shook her head gently. “No, not all, but some, I should know
some . . . the one with the cool cloths.”

"Ealasaid,
Maggie. She is as close to a ma as I have."

Ealasaid
flustered with the notice. “You’ll be needing another.” Overly enthusiastic,
she replaced the warmed cloth with a fresh one.

“Aye,
thank you, Ealasaid.” Maggie adjusted the rag that hung drunkenly over her
forehead. “And who whispered stories?”

Talorc
had erred before, he may have done so again with Una. She had the breath for a
tale, but it was gossip, aimed for drama, not reality. Talorc never thought
Maggie would remember what was said, only be urged by the voices. He realized
he should have listened, should have censored what the woman said.

 Una
scrambled up around to the fire side of Maggie's pallet. “It was me. I could
tell you heard every word. No one else believed that you would, but you did,
did ya not? Oh, you were sooo . . .”

Una
had been a mistake. Talorc nodded toward Conegell, Una's husband.

“Come
on woman.” Conegell tugged at her arm. “Canna’ you see, she’s suffering from a
sore noggin?” When his wife resisted, the calm man warned, “you’ll make it
worse if you don’t stop that chatterin.’”

"I'm
the one who woke her."

"No
you're not," Deidre snorted, "It was her dreams of the boy. The
Laird's son. She knew she had to come back from that."

Maggie
had gone back to sleep. Talorc lifted one of her eyelids.

“Just
resting, Bold,” she whispered, “just resting.”

Una
ignored her husband. “Do you want me to keep talking to her?” Talorc shook his
head. “No, Una, that’s enough.”

“Una?”
Maggie whispered, “You remind me of a cousin.”

“I
do? I remind her of her cousin.” She preened to the crowd.

Leaning
down beside Maggie, Talorc murmured in her ear, “saucy wench. I’ve met your
cousins and I know exactly which you were speaking of. ‘Twas no compliment you
just paid Una.”

“Who's
to know?” She whispered back.

“Aye.
You warmed her, you made her feel proud," he tucked the covers around her,
as she fell back to sleep. He shot a look at Ealasaid, in question.

"Don't
you fret now, laird, she's fine to sleep. It's just the pain."

"She'll
wake again?"

"Oh,
aye, she'll wake again, now.” The older woman promised, as she shooed the
others away.

The
mighty Bold held onto his Handfasted's hands, bowed his head to rest it next to
hers.

"You
gave me a scare girl. You gave me a good scare.” A shudder racked him with the
surge of fears he had kept at bay.

Maggie
returned to her dreams. Talorc was not so fortunate. He could do no more than
sit by her side and watch for the tussle of attraction. To see if she would
struggle to return to her brother.

In
the end, after she had been moved back to his bed chamber, after a night and a
full day of Maggie rising and falling, between slumber and wakefulness, without
a word of Ian, Talorc gave way to sleep.

* * * * * * * * * * *

The
MacKay woman stood at the top of the hill, her arms wide, hair caught on the
wind. He thought of her naked and willing on the slab of stone and grunted as
the cold whipped about him. She had been furious. So had he.

"Yes,
Cailleach Bheare,” She sang to the wind. “Fill me with your breath of life.” She
turned toward the setting sun, "I vow we will give you blood. May the day
set on the MacKay. May he fall below the horizon, give rise to a new day, and
an old way.”

He
watched her, his new plaid pulled tight, and smiled. They may not have
succeeded capturing the MacBede woman, lost good men in the effort, men they
couldn’t afford to lose. But they had a reward, the woman’s trunks. New clothes
for his men, fancy embroidered dresses for the lasses.

He
couldn’t wait to wear the MacBede plaid in an attack against the Gunns. Their
retaliation would be a stunning blow that would go far to balance out their
failure.