Torn (The Handfasting) (12 page)

She
was a loner. Not a murderer. Possessive, not crazed.

As
Talorc guided Maggie down the staircase, she tried to see what he would have
seen, but failed. No one prompted her to fury. Not even Beathag, who stood on
the outskirts of the gathering alone, fearful. Some suspected her, but Maggie
did not.

She
glanced up at Talorc again. He refused to look at her. She stopped, mid-step. The
surprise forced him to glance her way, a frowning slant of a look, gone as
quick as it had come. It was the first time he had looked directly at her since
the poisoning.

He
was probably as reluctant to touch her.

Fine.

She
pulled her hand from his arm, lifted her skirts ankle high. He whispered her
name. Head high, she ignored him, made her own way down the stairs, with a
smile for everyone gathered below. As she moved, she noticed Beathag again. The
older woman sat huddled in the back of the great hall, her shivers visible from
across the smoky chamber.

"Excuse
me," Maggie nodded as she wove through the crowd, toward the pitiable old
nursemaid. She was halfway there when someone walked straight into her.

"Seonaid?"

"I'm
sorry, I didn't see you there before I moved."  The brunette swiped at her
plaid as if soiled from their encounter. Maggie stepped away.

"So,
you're better."  Seonaid's cold concern chilled Maggie's spine. "What
a shame that someone was fool enough to gather water and wild venomous plants
in the same place."

"Is
that what happened?"

"That's
what's said."

"Interesting." 
Maggie murmured and looked back at Beathag, only Beathag wasn't there anymore. Maggie
swiveled, tried to spot the older woman.

Seonaid
interrupted the search. "I knew you would not stay." 

"Oh,”
Maggie’s fury rose. “It is not I who chooses my leaving.”

"No?"
Seonaid frowned, leaned closer. "Perhaps I have not seen you in a true
light.”  Maggie raised an eyebrow. Seonaid continued. “Perhaps you and I should
speak."

"Now?" 
Stunned, Maggie looked up, half wondered if she was looking into the eyes of a
murderess. "It's a bit late for us to be talking."

"About
your going?" Seonaid gripped her hard, "You could come back."

"Aye.
I’ve a mind to" Maggie yanked free, confidence building. Talorc hadn't
been with her, but neither had he been confiding in the other woman. "If
you don't mind, I'm looking for someone."

"Beathag?"

Maggie
tilted her head, surprised by Seonaid's unusual persistence. "You don't
want to be talking to Beathag. She's so overwrought with what happened to you
that she can't even speak."

"So
I've heard, she just shivers and shakes. But it's not talking I mean to do, not
that it's any matter to you."

"The
woman's crazy. It's my thought she did poison you. She is a Gunn after
all."

"Is
she?  And why isn't she with them now?  Her charge, bless her soul, isn't here
anymore."

Seonaid
lowered her eyes, the frown grown deeper, marring the perfection of her brow. As
though to convince herself, she murmured.  "Beathag's nothing but a hag. I
doubt the Gunns want her any more than we do.”

"Who
says the MacKays don't want her?"

Rather
than answer her, Seonaid looked over her shoulder and Maggie knew Talorc was
there before he took her arm.

"Go
away."  She didn't bother to look at him.

"Maggie?" 
He tugged.

She
shrugged him off. "Go away."

"Whatever
you have to say to each other, you can say to me."

"I'm
thinking she doesn't look well, Bold," Seonaid lied. "She needs to be
going back to bed."

Talorc
had the grace to ignore her, but he did study Maggie. His gaze a sensation, it
rippled through her. She had missed it. But he was sending her away. "I'm
fine, Bold, better than when I was above stairs."

"I
don't want you upset, or bothered."

Maggie
looked anywhere but at him. "You're the only one who bothers me
now."  Which was true. Her eyes shifted back to his face, unable to stop
from filling up on memories.

He
frowned at his feet. Except for him, and her parents, who verged so close to
charging to her rescue they looked like racers waiting for the cloth to drop,
she and Seonaid had been given a wide berth.

She
pushed Bold toward her kin. "Go. Calm them." 

He
hesitated, for a moment, then did as she asked. Surprised, she blinked. His
compliance meant one of two things, either he really didn't care what happened
to her, or he trusted her to take care of herself.

That
didn’t matter right now. She needed to see Beathag. Questions about the cup
skirted her memory. So much rode on explaining what happened and how to keep it
from happening again.

Beathag
was not to blame, but the old woman might be able to help her grasp the evasive
answers. Besides, Maggie hated to see the old woman in such a fretful way when
she had done nothing wrong. She wanted to help her find some peace.

There
were two doorways near where she’d been sitting, one to the hallway and all the
rooms beyond. The other door, an outer door, led to the kitchens. If the woman
had gone to the hallway, she could be anywhere in the keep. It would take less
time to search the smaller area of the kitchen, less time wasted if it was the
wrong choice.

Beathag
was there, rooted in the midst of preparations for a feast. Deep in thought,
she no longer shivered, ignored the busy women who muttered about her being in
the way. Maggie moved toward her, when suddenly, without warning, Beathag came
to life. She moved toward the sugar bin, stopped short than acted as if she
were there, lifting the lid, chipping off a chunk, raising a piece to be
dropped in some invisible container.

The
old woman enacted the same parody for a spoonful of malt. From there Beathag
crossed to the molasses cask, again she stopped short and mimed turning an
imaginary spigot, only to shut it off with the quick precise motion needed to
stop it in mid-flow. When she made to move to the yeast, Maggie cut her off.

"Beathag,"
Had this disaster set her beyond recovery? Was she now as lost within her mind
as she was within this community?

Eyes
bright, Beathag squeezed Maggie's hands then pulled away.

"What
is it Beathag?"  The older woman shook her head and went back to her
routine until she put an imaginary object on a shelf. As she went to leave the
kitchen, she reacted as if something brushed against her. She stopped, cringed
into herself, and then looked over her shoulder. Her eyes followed the empty
space as though tracing the movements of the person who had bumped her. Her
expression changed from fear to irritation to a frown and finally confusion.

She
swiveled, her hands on hips, tilting her head with a scowl.

"Beathag,
tell me."  Maggie tried, but it was Talorc who answered.

"She's
trying to remember what happened the day you fell ill."  He stepped
further into the kitchen. "I keep telling her it wasn't in the brew she
made, but she won't stop retracing her steps of that day. It's the only thing
that stops her shivering."  Beathag continued to re-enact her movements. "What
did Seonaid want with you?"

"Seonaid?" 
Maggie didn't care about Seonaid.

"She
didn't bump into you by accident. It was deliberate. She had something to say,
and I'd like to know what it was."

Maggie
frowned and looked away, as she fought to capture an elusive thought. Something
Talorc said jogged an idea loose, but not loose enough to tumble into her
senses. It tickled at other ideas as if they were all hinged together.

He
had her by the arms. "What did she want?"

Maggie
pulled free. "Did you say bumped?"

"It
was done on purpose."

"No,"
she waved that away. "Someone brushed past Beathag when she went to leave
the room. Someone who did not belong there, and did something to anger
Beathag."

"Beathag
is too meek to get truly angry."

"No
she's not."  Maggie's head snapped up, "She's not so much timid, as
she's aware this is not her place, her home, her position meager. She knew she
couldn't challenge, that didn't mean she fell in line with all that was done
and said."

Talorc
was not pleased. "We never sent her away, though we told her she could go
if she wanted. She chose to stay, and was accepted."

Maggie
snorted. "Accepted or tolerated?"

"We
were never unkind."

There
was no point in arguing the matter. Maggie resolved, right at that moment, that
she would give Beathag a home that appreciated her. "You would be amazed
at what she sees."  Which brought Seonaid to mind.

His
eyes narrowed. "Would I?"  Then he looked at the older woman as if to
witness what had been hidden from him. "Do you think she would harm
you?"

"Never.
But Seonaid is wary of what the old woman sees."

He
stilled. "Why would you say that, lass?

"I'm
not a lass any longer," she studied him, wanting to see a flicker of
reaction. "I'm a wife now, a full grown woman."  He glanced away.

Beathag
scuttled up to Maggie, tugged at her arm. "Up there, on the shelf." 
With a tenacious grip she pulled Maggie further into the kitchen. "She
changed the cups."

"Who,
Beathag?  Who?"  Talorc joined them.

Exulted,
Beathag put her lips together, to name the culprit. There was a twang, a
snuffle of air and a thud. Beathag's words bubbled out on a gurgle, as an arrow
came through the front of her throat.

Stunned,
no one heard the second twang, the whir of an arrow. Shoved by shock, Maggie
stumbled backward. Talorc caught Beathag before she could fall and shouted for
the nearest man to take her. Unloaded of his burden, he started to run toward
the back entrance.

Time
warped, moments slowed, actions dragged.

Mid
stride, Talorc turned, spotted Maggie, his mouth opened to shout but no sound
came. The determined gleam in his eye dulled to horror, his face churned with
fleeting emotions, as his body twisted in mid-air, as though it had lagged
behind thought, to follow the path of his gaze.

 Maggie
shook her head. Talorc's spin took minutes rather than seconds as his emotions
bombarded her, huge waves of horror, anguish, torment, fury.

What
had she done?

His
silent bellow of fury erupted and time dropped back to reality in a swirl of
screams and shouts and chaos.

She
felt, rather than saw, her mother reach her and collapse in a faint. She felt
her father's arms on hers, the blast of his breath against her skin as he
lifted her, shouting at the same time for Talorc to get the bastard.

She
was dazed. Numb to all but the sight of Beathag's empty stare as she was led
away.

Did
she live?

Maggie
tried to ask, tried to turn to point but could not, which forced her to look
down, to see why she couldn't move. There was an arrow pinning her arm to her
side. She blinked, saw the end of it barely out of the entrance wound. Which
meant the arrow must be coming out her back. Clean through.

She
could not breathe, felt panic rise to swallow her, as darkness overtook.

* * * * * * * * * *

Talorc
raced from the keep out to the back gardens and stopped. He stood still, men on
either side of him. His heart beat so hard he thought it might fly from his
chest. With one gesture the men fanned out and moved forward. Swift, but
observant, their eyes scanned for signs of fleeing feet, hidden figures.

The
drum of his heart, the race of his blood, urged to charge into a fray. Still, with
tremendous effort, Talorc held his ground and waited. His neck prickled, a
moment of confusion before he distinguished between reaction and instinct.

He
pushed down the sight of his wife, the memory of an arrow lodged in her body. Time
will come for recriminations. He had not kept her safe.

He
could not think of it. Not now. Now he had to act. He breathed deep, centered
himself on the pursuit and was rewarded. Musty air.

The
ground was fresh with summer in the wind yet a scent of damp earthiness
lingered. He turned toward the root cellar. It had been opened, recently.

More
men rushed out from the main building. He stayed them with a hand, motioned
toward a stick, which young Colban grabbed and tossed to him. Talorc used it to
reach for the metal handle of the door, to give distance should the enemy be
ready and aimed for battle, but before Talorc could lift the handle, it inched
upward, opened from the other side.

He
stood back, as did his men, out of view from the entrance asit was pushed
open.  The weight of it slapped almost back in position, before caught by
woman's backside as she pushed through the opening, back bowed with the weight
of a heavy load.  Once free from the low lintel, her head lifted and she
turned, wielding a basket of onions, her hair mussed, sweat dotting her brow.