Bold (The Handfasting) (6 page)

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.

Snow.
Maggie looked toward her destination, the small area surrounded by a low stone
fence, peppered with Celtic crosses.  It was the home to her ancestors, home to
all the family who had passed beyond this life.  Home to her brother, Young
Ian.  Her twin.

This
Samhain they would celebrate Ian’s glorious death in battle.  He would be
honored, praised for going as he had gone.  It was selfish of Maggie to wish it
any other way, but wish it she did.  She wanted to unwrap her plaid, lay it
upon his frozen bed, to warm him until the snow could play the part of
blanket.  But to do so would ignore the chance of his soul rising free of the
earth’s embrace.  She could not risk the insult.

It
didn’t take her long to reach his grave, to see the covering of heather she had
planted, gray in the moon's light, sparkling with the frost.  A part of her had
died with him.  Praise God that it wouldn’t resurrect, that her ability to love
so deeply would never claim her again.

She
thought of the MacKay, and his peculiar hold on her.  “I’ll not leave you,
Ian.”  She promised.  “Whatever The MacKay wants, it can’t take me away from
here.”  She fell to her knees, leaned to the side and supported her weight on
one arm.  “This is my home.” She picked at the heather. “This is where I
belong.  These are my people, our people.”

There
were no tears this time.  Normally, when she visited Ian’s grave, emotions
brimmed and spilled.  Perhaps she was getting used to his absence.

“Do
you know what it is he thinks?  Can you watch, from wherever you are?  Can you
see what’s happening?”  Maggie looked up at the sky, before studying the sway
of trees that surrounded the graveyard.  She’d often wondered if Ian watched.

 When
he was alive, she would have known what he was thinking without saying a word. 
The loss, an emptiness that could not be filled.

“You
would laugh, you know.”  Could hear her even if she couldn’t hear him.  “Our
warriors told tales and the Bold was daft enough to listen.  They turned-around
all I ever did to grieve them, until you would think I was the bravest and
wisest of women.  Really, they did! 

“Do
you remember the time I threw the rock and hit that Englishman dead on?  Och,
the look on Nigel’s face.  He slung me over his shoulder, as if I had caused
the battle, carried me past every warrior on the battlements, through all the soldiers
in the yard and into the crowd of the Great Hall.  He dumped me.  Like no more
than a sack of oats, he tossed me at our mother’s feet. 

“Aye,
you were there.  You laughed till your sides split, but it wasn’t funny.”  Maggie
would never forget how Nigel had stormed, “keep her out of our way.” 

She
was no warrior.

God
willing, the Bold would never know the depth of embarrassment flung at her when
he asked about the packets.  

A
silly impulse and a sleepless night produced them.  No more than ten years old,
she had imagined being lauded for those little pouches. One for each warrior
before he left for battle. They were to serve as a symbol of all they fought
for. 

They
brought no more than absent pats on the head and embarrassed chuckles.  Every
ounce of her pride had been gobbled up from that day to this, for she didn't
know how to stop it.  What she did for one, she had to do for the others or it
would be a sign of favoritism.  A Highlander would take great insult on such a
slight. 

 “What
would The MacKay think if he knew the truth of it?”  She asked as though her
brother could answer.

The
wind kicked up.  Maggie's sigh rode on it.

“If
you were here, Ian, you’d protect me, you’d sit by my side and keep the MacKay
at a distance.  Och, and the way he makes a body feel!”   Maggie fought for
words to explain and fisted her belly as though to press away the flutters
within. “Ian, be grateful that you’ll never have to feel the way he made me
feel.  You can't lose it.”

A
swift look over her shoulder, toward the keep, was reminder enough that she
needed to head back.

“Do
you think I could be missing the meal?”  She sighed against the hope, her eyes
focused on the gray slabs of stone that made up her home. 

A
movement, near the last tree of the orchard, caught her eye.  Two soldiers
stood there, watching her with steady interest.  In the meager light she could
not tell for certain, but she thought they were MacKays.

Ian’s
resting place pulled her once more. “What am I to do?”  She rose and dusted the
dirt from her plaid.  “Who can I get to sit with me if not you?”   She studied
his grave.  “It’s not like I have any great suitors to . . ." she paused,
her head high, as if to catch a sound.  "Ian, I have it.  Hamish.  Hamish
will sit with me, and then The MacKay will know that my affections are taken
and . . .” 

She
glanced over her shoulder to see the two men still watching her.

“They’ll
be leaving soon.” She comforted her brother, for he’d fret for her otherwise.
“And Hamish will be there for me, even if for naught but friendship.  We have
been friends for such a long time.”

Her
head snapped back to Ian's grave.  For the first time, since she'd lost him,
there was an inkling of thought traitorous enough not to be her own.

 “Don’t
you dare, brother!”  She wagged her finger at the heather upon the grave as it
swayed with a fresh breeze.  She could almost see her brother brushing his hand
over it, as he argued with her. “Don’t you dare start putting opinions in my
head now.  If I want to take Hamish to dinner with me, then I will."  The
niggle continued to tug at her decision. "You'd have me sit with him? 
With The MacKay?  You're no better than the others.”  She snipped, as she spun
away from her brother's memory.

“I’ll
not listen,” she hissed into the wind.

Defiant,
she stomped away, head high as she passed the two warriors.  MacKays, of course
they were.  The MacBedes would have left her to her mourning without notice.

Her
step quickened as she heard them turn to follow.  Nosey brutes.  This was her
home, with people milling about everywhere you turned.  She’d not come to
harm. 

“You’ve
no need to follow me,” she shouted over her shoulder.

 “We’ll
see you safely home.”

“This
is home.”  She informed them, and picked up her pace.

They
lengthened their stride to match her near run. 

She
had to lose them, for it would do no good to have them see her beg Hamish to
sup with her tonight.  “Go away.”

“We’re
to see to your welfare, Mistress Margaret.”

She
pivoted, faced them. 

“And
what makes you so happy?”  She bit out.

“You’re
a bonny lass.”

Humph. 
She started off again, through the inner yard, into the outer yard, down the
path until she came to the tailor's two story workshop and home.

She
banged on the door.

“One
of her puny choices?”  One warrior asked the other.

She’d
not turn around.

The
door opened a crack to show Colin, the tailor’s apprentice.  He tried to shut
the door on her.

“I’m
needing to see Hamish,” she blurted and shoved until the poor lad could do no
more than let her in.  She slammed the door on the two MacKay clansmen.  A loud
rhythmic creaking filled the room.  Maggie looked to the ceiling.

“Hhhhhe’s
nnot hhhhere.”  Colin stuttered, tried to get beyond Maggie to open the door
again.

Maggie
ignored him and moved to the ladder that led to the second story.  “Whatever is
that noise?”  She asked Colin before shouting, “Hamish!  It’s Maggie MacBede.
I’m needing to speak with you.”

Abruptly,
the creaking halted, replaced by smothered voices and the rustling of clothes.

Frantic,
Colin tried to stop her, “Mimimistress Mamargaret, I think . . .”

Someone
pounded at the door.

“Ignore
that Colin.”  She told the lad as Hamish’s long narrow foot and spindly ankle
came into view, followed by a hastily wrapped plaid.

“Ah,
Hamish,” Maggie waited, impatient for his descent.  The minute his foot touched
the ground she rushed up to him, gripped the front of his plaid where it
crossed his sunken chest.  “I’m needing your help!  Och, and it’s dire you aid
me!”

“Aye,
Maggie.” 

She
cocked her head at his tone, cringed as he patted her hands.  She hated to be
treated like a child with pat to her head or her hands.

The
pounding started up again.

“Go
away!”  Maggie shouted before turning back to Hamish.  “I need you to come sit
with me at dinner.”  She told him.

Bewildered,
Hamish looked from Maggie to the door.  “Colin, who's out there?”

“Nothing,
no one,” Maggie lied. “Just a couple of The MacKay's men.  Don’t think of
them.”

“Warriors?” 
He gulped.

“Hamish,
forget them, just promise me you’ll come to the hall to eat.  I’m needing you
to sit with me.”

Even
in the dark of the tailor's shop, Maggie could see his face turn ashen.  She
gritted her teeth, determined to convince him but was stopped as a woman’s
head, hair all tousled and loose, popped through the opening at the top of the
ladder.  “What are you about Hamish?”  Nora Bayne demanded.

“Nora?” 
Maggie frowned. “What are you doing here?  And what are you doing up there?”

“Now,
Maggie,” Hamish pulled on her arm, “You’re not to be thinking . ..”

“What
am I not to be thinking?”  She tried to glare at him, to look angry, but her
heart sank too deep to fuel her anger, her outrage.  Hamish was just another
man who didn’t want her.   “What is Nora to you Hamish?”

“Maggie,
now,” Hamish soothed, shooting wary looks at Nora, “you and I have been friends
for a long time.”

“And
what’s wrong with friendship, Hamish?”

“Well,
it’s just, you know, I’m not, I mean, well, the truth of it is, Maggie, I’m
planning to marry Nora.”

Nora’s
cooed, “Oh, Hamish,” was swallowed by Maggie’s keening, “Nooooo!”

In
all fairness, Hamish only reached out to comfort Maggie, and no more, when the
door flew open.  He didn't have time to pull away or surely he would have
before that sword was stuck to his throat.  Granted, it pricked only deep
enough to bring a spot of blood, but for Hamish, that was enough.

He
fainted.

Colin
wet himself.

Nora
squealed.

And
Maggie glared, as she swatted at the arm holding the offending sword.  “Put
that stupid thing away, man!”  She barked.

Nora,
wrapped in no more than a blanket, scurried down the ladder to pull Hamish's
head onto her lap.

Colin
raised a trembling finger to point at the men. “Maggie,” he stammered, “they’re
warriors, you shouldna’ be talking to them so.” 

“Of
course they’re warriors, Colin.”  Maggie said with no bit of respect, “But that
doesn’t give them permission to come barging in here when no one's done
anything wrong.”

“You
screamed,” One of the MacKay’s defended.

“Och.” 
She ignored him, turned to look down on Hamish whose head was nestled in the
soft pillow of Nora. “So you’ll not sit with me at dinner?”  It was more
statement than question, quiet enough to admit to the shame of asking in front
of these men.

Hamish
was beyond speech.

“He’s
mine,” Nora snipped. “And you’d best stay away from him, Maggie MacBede.”

“Oh,
aye,” Maggie pulled her plaid in tight around her. “I’ll stay clear of him, and
be happy of it.”  With chin lifted, she wrapped her embarrassment as tightly as
she wrapped her plaid, strode past the warriors, stepped over the threshold and
out the door.  The MacKay men fell in step.

 “Stop
following me.”

“We
have to see to your safety.”  They told her respectfully, though they did drop
back.  Unfortunately, it was not far enough to silence there banter.

“Aye,
she has spirit.”

“Feisty.”

“She’ll
not tame easily.”

"I'll
not tame at all." She snapped, her eyes on her destination.  Someone would
answer for this.

As
heads turned to watch the progress of the threesome, Maggie realized that she
would have to be the one to take matters in hand.  So she would.  Determined,
she spun around to confront them.