Bold (The Handfasting) (10 page)

“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!”

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..”