The Handfasting (4 page)

“You
weren’t made to be the wife of a runt.”

Harder
and harder she turned the dough until it was a circle so fine you could see
through it. She placed her latest effort on the pile of finished tart shells
and tried to break the flow of humor. “You know,” she tilted her head, the
shrill crack of her voice the only sign of irritation, “I think it was not
exaggerating you were up to, Neili!  I’m thinking you spoke the truth!  I do
have a fine hand with the dough.”

“Oh,
do you?” Roz elbowed Neili.

“Aye,
I’m thinking that my pastry shells are the best.”

“Well
then, whatever you say, Mistress Margaret.” Neili winked at Roz. “And as you
are the best,” Roz sidled away, “you should do them all!”

“You
wouldn’t.” Maggie hurled the pastry at the giggling girls.

Like
a spirit, appearing from nowhere, Fiona caught the dough in mid-air. The room
stilled. Out of the corner of her eye, Maggie noted that the men stood
straighter, their smiles wiped clean.

Fiona
sighed at Maggie. “Enough of chattering and playing, daughter. You need to be
getting yourself ready.”

“Ready
for what?” Nosy Muireall asked.

“For
The MacKay, of course.” Fiona answered. "He is to be our guest.”

"What
does that have to do with me?” Maggie snapped, not that she wanted to know. Not
that she wanted any one to know. But she had opened her mouth and the worst
came out. Quiet settled on the room. Maggie sighed.

One
of the MacKays, so silent up until now, spoke. "Lady MacBede, you speak as
if you know what the Bold is here for?”

Fiona
shook her head. “Nay.”

The
man accepted that as answer enough. This time Maggie's sigh was full of relief.

Fiona
turned to Simon, "Have some lads send more hot water up to my chamber. I’m
going to see to the men’s baths.” She faced Maggie again, "And you, young
lass,” she took Maggie’s shoulders, looked her up and down with a shake of her
head. "Look at the state of you. Your hair is naught but a tangled mass.
You need to be seeing to yourself.”

“But
Ma.”

“No
buts, daughter. I'm not knowing the why of it, but the MacKay is here to see
you.” She turned to the men, "Is that much not so?"

Their
stupid grins were back in place. "Aye, mistress, 'tis a fact."

"Well
then, child," Fiona flipped a strand of Maggie's hair from her shoulder,
"you’d best make yourself worth seeing!”

Nothing,
absolutely nothing, moved within the room except Fiona. Oblivious to the
reaction she’d created, she swept past the other women.

The
frozen state lasted for as long as one woman could hold her breath, then all
manner of chaos erupted.

“The
MacKay?”

“Oh,
aye, isn’t that a ripe one.”

“Our
Maggie?”

“You
don’t say? Well, it’s about time.”

“And
here she had us all thinking she was sweet on Hamish the tailor.”

“Och,
wouldn’t the MacKay be just the one for our Maggie?" Letice looked to the
MacKay men, who nodded their agreement. Slyly she added,  "He’d not die in
her womanness.”

“He’d
thrill to it.”

“Rise
to it is more the way of things.” One of the men blurted out.

"Ohhhhh!”
The stunned laughter swallowed Maggie, as all the women gathered around,
pushing her hair from her face, pinching her cheeks, taking as close a look as
they did when she was a wee babe, barely born.

No
one had looked at her that closely in as long.

It
was better that way.

She
was none too happy with the attention now.

CHAPTER 4 - A STORY
PROMISED

Talorc
moaned with pleasure, as he eased into one of two bathing tubs set before the
fire. “Ah man, ‘tis weeks since I’ve bathed in anything other than a frigid
stream or a frozen loch.”

From
the other tub, his host, Feargus MacBede, chuckled. “Keeps a man strong.”

“Aye,
it does.” Heat curled around Talorc, as he settled deep, knees bent until they poked
out from the surface. Better cold knees than a cold neck.

He
glanced around at the soft sound of a door opening, but couldn’t see beyond the
bathing screen.

“It’s
my wife.” Feargus explained. “She’s a great hand when it comes to washing hair
and backs, don’t you wife?” Fiona moved within the light of the fire. “Can near
put you to sleep, she can.”

“Och,
flattery, that’s what you’re doin’,” she teased, as she ran her fingers through
her husband’s thick head of white hair.

Talorc
watched, curious. His own father had always said, look to the mother to see
what the daughter would become. Fiona was tall and regal, her movements smooth
as a gliding falcon. There was a hint of mischief in her smile.

Without
warning, she dunked her husband until his entire head was drenched.

More
than a hint of mischief!

Feargus
came up sputtering. “I hope you don’t treat our guest like that!” But his
grumble was lost in a sparkling glance. The man had known it was coming.

It
was good to still be playing games when you had eight grown children . . .
correction, there were only seven now. He knew that well.

Talorc
closed his eyes, his head against the rim of the tub. The couple’s
companionable banter lulled as gently as the warm water within his bath.

 “MacKay?”
Feargus butted into his thoughts. “The Gunns grow more vicious of late. Foul as
they are, they are not the sort to come at us like they’ve been.”

“Aye,”
Talorc nodded. “There’s no understanding to it. They get angry with no ill
treatment from us, burn our crofters’ homes, steal in a way that leaves a clan
starving. Hunger we know how to live with.” He gripped the sides of the tub,
“But now someone’s been thieving young lasses out from under their parents’
care.”

Feargus
grunted. “Aye. One of our crofter’s daughters has gone missing. Young Alicia.
No sign of her for months now, and we searched.”

“The
same tale can be heard from the Raeys and the Bainses.”

The
older man bent his head. “Many a loss, these years past. Young females, good
fighting men.”

“The
glory of the fight does not take away the sorrow of loss. It was a sad day when
Ian fell to the sword.” Talorc reached for his soap, as he searched for words
not easily found. “These battle losses are mine to bear.” He admitted. “I call
the men to fight. They trust me. But there have been too many problems, too
many things gone wrong.”

He
looked to the older man. “Feargus, you fought with my father, you’ve raised
strong men who don’t shy from the fight. Our families have been united for
generations. There’s no other man in the highlands I would trust more than
you.”

“The
MacBedes have always done their part.”

“Aye,
more than their part. You’ve offered good counsel. So I am telling what I’ve
told no other. I think we have a traitor in the clan.”

“Impossible!”
Feargus barked. “It’s the Gunns, that black hearted Angus Gunn!  You know, I
know, it’s him.”

“Oh,
aye, the Gunns play a part.” A traitor was unthinkable but not impossible. Clan
loyalty was taught from the cradle, instilled in every highlander. Still, it
was possible.

He
tried to explain. “There are those thrown out of the clans, the outlaws.” Feargus
nodded slowly, as Talorc continued. “Some still have family inside our care.
Loyalties can be divided.”

It
cleared his mind to finally speak of this. “For the life of me, I can’t think
of who would turn against us. There’s only one MacKay who has family with the
outlaws and there was no love lost when he was banned.”

Soap
in hand he lathered his chest, his arms, drawn to the smell of it, pine and bay
with a touch of spice. A fine odor for a man to wear.

“Laird,”
Feargus argued, “you have it wrong. We are not a people for turning on our own.
And the Gunns have been there to fight when we go out. They’d not fight the
renegade’s battles.”

The
room quieted but for the crackle of the fire, the soft splash of water, as
Fiona scrubbed her husband’s back.

Feargus
broke into the silence. “Your wife was a Gunn, rest her soul. I’ve heard they
think you murdered her. Anger festers and grows. Do you think that’s what
causing these problems?”

“Aye,
they claimed I murdered her,” Talorc agreed, “but that was grief speaking and
too long ago to still be fighting over.”

 “She
died in childbirth.” Fiona remembered. “That’s no uncommon thing.”

The
weary rustle of his breath shuddered through the room. “She was a wee thing, my
Anabel.” A petite lass, who tended towards floral soap for man and woman alike.
With her gone, the soap of his keep smelled of lye and fat. A man needed a wife
for such things.

 “If
I failed to get her with child, the union would have been for naught. If I did
get her with child, well then, what happened could happen. I lost Anabel to the
birthing. It was that desperate, we were, that we didn’t want to lose the babe,
as well, so I cut her open.”

“That’s
not so strange. We’ve done the same.” Fiona encouraged.

“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.