Bold (The Handfasting) (14 page)

She
looked at him then, keenly.

“I
would like to Talorc, I would like to, but you’ve not given me much ground for
trusting you, if you ken my meaning.”

“Aye,”
he nodded, frowning.  It was true, he had cornered her into handfasting.  He
had skirted truths and played games to get her where he wanted her, but in the
end, it would all work out.  He said as much.

“We’ll
see,” she acknowledged with a touch too much defeat for his Maggie. 

That
weary wariness troubled Talorc, but there was no time to fret.  The men had
ridden on.  It was time Maggie and Talorc join them.  As safe as his lands
could be, bordering the MacBedes, there was no telling what the Gunns were
willing to risk for retribution.  She was his to protect now.  He’d not come
this far to lose her to his enemy.

Chants
rumbled on the breeze.  Shadows, from the flicker of torch flames, writhed
against monstrous standing stones, much as he expected the women would writhe
this night.

 His
blood throbbed in anticipation.  The steady stomp of his men’s feet, the
thumping of their wooden staffs, ensured they felt the same. 

Amid
the acrid scent of a burning carcass, leftovers from a feast, women moved with
solemn grace, circled a stone altar stained with the blood of sacrifice.  A
lamb led to slaughter, much like the youngest of the lasses this night, too
naïve and trusting to understand the trap set for them.

They
desired rituals of old, the promise of magic.  It was not the season of
Beltane, or dances of fertility, but they wanted celebrations.  He was not at
fault for turning their desires to his.

An
owl passed over low, a sign:  the wisdom of the ages looked down upon them. 
Fanciful superstition over no more than a predator looking for prey. 

He
withheld laughter.  There would be time enough for that, once he broke through
the circling, the twined lines of men in capes green of the forest, women wrapped
in the brown of earth.  The shades of their cloaks were faded, the hems ragged,
for they were outlaws, with no warm home and hearth full of spinning and
weaving.  All they had was wickedness and the power it gave them. 

Through
deeds so perverse there was no forgiving, clans banished them.  Sent them to
live in the wilderness, as if that diminished their threat.  As if they would
not find each other, these renegades.  As if they would not bond in their
despicable ways, and grow as any family would grow.

This
very night, they would dance a devils dance and prove the lassies of the
highlands no safer from outlaws banished than with them nestled in the bosom of
their kin. 

Nor
were the clans themselves safe, which was his doing.  He played mischief with
them, pitted one against another, never risked his own hide or that of his
people.  It was a deliciously devious plan.  He had used their own might, their
own vengeful selves, to create their demise. 

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 his 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.

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.