Tangled (Handfasting) (3 page)

“It’s
a broth.”

“So
I see. And what have you put in it, Beathag?”  Ealasaid leaned in to sniff at
it, “For you see, I’ve already been giving the lass a drop of tincture. We
wouldn’t want to confuse her poor, hurt head, by mixing up the wrong mixes,
now, would we?”

Beathag
gave a sharp shake. “Oh no, Ealasaid. We wouldn’t want to do that.”  And she
slipped back into the crowd, a mouse to a crack in the wall.

Ealasaid
shrugged her shoulders and rolled her eyes.

“Who
was she?”  Maggie was getting more alert. Talorc took her hands in his.

“Beathag,
an old nurse maid,” Her hands were too cold. He rubbed warmth into them.

“Talorc?”

“Aye?”

“The
rest?”  She lifted her chin toward the foot of her pallet. "And where am
I?"

He
had forgotten that the others were there, that her bed was here, a pallet upon
a table in the great room, before the fire. His clan, her clan now, formed a circle
around them.

“It’s
the Clan McKay, Maggie. But I wouldn’t be thinking you’d be ready to hear all
the names.”

Her
eyes closed as she shook her head gently. “No, not all, but some, I should know
some . . . the one with the cool cloths.”

"Ealasaid,
Maggie. She is as close to a ma as I have."

Ealasaid
flustered with the notice. “You’ll be needing another.”  Overly enthusiastic
she replaced the warmed cloth with a fresh one.

“Aye,
thank you Ealasaid.”  Maggie adjusted the rag that hung drunkenly over her
forehead. “And who whispered stories?”

Talorc
had erred before, he may have done so again with Una. She had the breath for a
tale, but it was gossip, aimed for drama, not reality. Talorc never thought
Maggie would remember what was said, only be urged by the voices. He realized
he should have listened, should have censured what the woman said.

 Una
scrambled up around to the fire side of Maggie's bed. “It was me. I could tell
you heard every word. No one else believed that you would, but you did, did ya
not?  Oh, you were sooo . . .”

Una
had been a mistake. Talorc nodded toward Conegell, Una's husband.

“Come
on woman.”  Conegell tugged at her arm. “Canna’ you see, she’s suffering from a
sore noggin?”  When his wife resisted, the calm man warned, “you’ll make it
worse if you don’t stop that chatterin.’”

"I'm
the one who woke her."

"No
you're not," Deidre snorted, "It was her dreams of the boy. The
Laird's son. She knew she had to come back from that."

Maggie
had gone back to sleep. Talorc lifted one of her eye lids.

“Just
resting, Bold,” she whispered, “just resting.”

Una
ignored her husband. “Do you want me to keep talking to her?”  Talorc shook his
head. “No, Una, that’s enough.” 

“Una?” 
Maggie whispered, “You remind me of a cousin.”

“I
do?  I remind her of her cousin.”  She preened to the crowd.

Leaning
down beside Maggie, Talorc murmured in her ear, “saucy wench. I’ve met your
cousins and I know exactly which you were speaking of. ‘Twas no compliment you
just paid Una.”

“Who's
to know?”  She whispered back.

“Aye.
You warmed her, you made her feel proud," he tucked the covers around her
as she fell back to sleep. He shot a look at Ealasaid, in question.

"Don't
you fret now, laird, she's fine to sleep. It's just the pain."

"She'll
wake again?"

"Oh,
aye, she'll wake again, now."  The older woman promised, as she shooed the
others away.

The
mighty Bold held onto his handfasted's hands, bowed his head to rest it next to
hers.

"You
gave me a scare girl. You gave me a good scare."  A shudder racked him
with the surge of fears he had kept at bay.

Maggie
returned to her dreams. Talorc was not so fortunate. He could do no more than
sit by her side and watch for the tussle of attraction. To see if she would
struggle to return to her brother.

In
the end, after she had been moved back to his bed chamber, after a night and a
full day of Maggie rising and falling between slumber and wakefulness without a
word of Ian, Talorc gave way to sleep.

* * * * * * * * * * *

The
MacKay woman stood at the top of the hill, her arms wide, hair caught on the
wind. He thought of her naked and willing on the slab of stone and grunted as
the cold whipped about him. She had been furious. So had he.

"Yes,
Cailleach Bheare,” She sang to the wind. “Fill me with your breath of
life."  She turned toward the setting sun, "I vow we will give you
blood. May the day set on the MacKay. May he fall below the horizon, give rise
to a new day, and an old way." 

He
watched her, his new plaid pulled tight, and smiled. They may not have succeeded
capturing the MacBede woman, lost good men in the effort, men they couldn’t
afford to lose. But they had a reward, the woman’s trunks. New clothes for his
men, fancy embroidered dresses for the lasses.

He
couldn’t wait to wear the MacBede plaid in an attack against the Gunns. Their
retaliation would be a stunning blow that would go far to balance out their
failure.

He
looked behind him. This time it was a small deer upon an altar, body dissected,
entrails removed. Someone read fortunes in the splay of its guts. It should
have been the MacBede lass's inners they were studying.

She
had power. She had broken the chain of loss he fought so hard to ensure.

The
MacKay woman had finished her supplications to whatever she called God. He felt
her reach him, the warmth of her body, the scent of her.

“You
failed.”  She sniped.

He
grunted, refused to respond.

“Despite
my invocations, she has survived. You know that?”

“One
loss,” he reminded her. “One loss.”

“Yes,
the only plan I was not a part of.”

He
turned on her then. “Careful.”  He warned.

“I
was the one who saw to it their food was spoiled. I was the one who ensured
their supplies would not travel with them. I have been the one to undermine the
MacKay.”

“Using
my ideas. You know what is to come. We will not fail in this.”

The
woman nodded, wrapped her arm around his. She had been right. The MacKay’s
success was due to the MacBede lass. One, unanticipated woman.

"I need to
return.  I need to be there, to see that she questions her place at Glen Toric,
his loyalty to her...”

He shared her
frustration. They had been so close. Patiently, with deliberate steps, they had
undermined the MacKay's confidence.
Just one
more sneaky little victory against the MacKay, and his glory would have turned
to rust. Insecurity would have destroyed his clan.

The
MacKays would have crumbled, blamed the Gunns, faulted their enemy. Pursued
nasty little revenges. The Gunns, pompous in victories not of their making,
would destroy themselves in arrogance.

All
the clan confidence they had worked so hard to destroy had flooded back because
of Maggie MacBede.

 But
they had one small victory, another fissure in the foundation of their security.
The Mackay warriors had found the altar in Dunegan's Woods. It scared them. They
didn't have the courage to destroy it. Fear was a grand weapon that weakened. The
weak made mistakes, left room for a new order.

Blood
lay in a pool below the altar. Soon, it would be her blood to bless them. For
now, the deer would do.

One
day.

Soon.

This
little band of outcasts would have their way.

Ealasaid
pulled at a sleeve too short for Maggie’s arm, gave up and brushed lint tangled
in the intricate weave of the finest embroidery.  “It fits well enough for
now.  We’ll see that you have something finer by tomorrow.”

Finer
could not be possible. A better fit would be good though.  One where she could
breathe without fearing a split seam. Looser, as woman wore in this day and
age.  Surely this had been from his mother which meant these people were
extravagant enough not to reuse the material.  Wasteful.

“All
my trunks were lost?” Her only link with home, her life, all gone.  No matter
how many times she asked, the answer never changed. 

“Aye,”
Ealasaid fussed about the room, tidying all the other garments Maggie had tried. 
“Such a shame.  No doubt you’ve a better hand with a needle, but there it is,
nowhere to be found.”

“Oh,
aye.” Maggie lied as she looked down at delicate treads of gold and silver. 
Threads her own people could ill afford.  She didna’ have to leave the room to
know Glen Toric was filled with riches beyond the reach of her people.  A fancy
carved bed, tapestries with enough detail to record an entire battle not just a
simple hunt or some singular meeting.

She
did not belong here.

"You
stay put, young lady," Ealasaid pointed a finger at a chair, "I'll go
find the Laird."

"I
can manage the stairs without him." Maggie argued, half-heartedly.  In
truth, she was happy to have Ealasaid leave, to give her time to herself.

With
a swipe of her hand, the older woman brushed Maggie’s argument aside and headed
out to the hall.  

 Alone,
Maggie stepped to the window, set deep with a seat beneath it.  The shutters were
opened earlier bringing in a cool breeze and bright sunlight, so often absent
this time of year.  Although it was not the sun she sought.

Ian
had come to her in a dream. All these months she had been waiting and now he
chooses to appear, each time as a warning or promise.  This was no promise.

What
was she to do?  How could she convince anyone to help her with no way of
knowing if the dreamscape was real or if the girl she had seen, frightened and
running, was truly lost?

She
scanned the land beyond the castle wall, the vista no match to what she had
seen in her dream.  A dream too easily inspired by too many highland lasses
missing. 

Only
a dream, that’s all it was, a simple if not tragic, dream.

But
if it was more? If Ian truly came to warn her, prompt her?

Och! 
There was no hope but to sneak out of the castle, find the stables and steal a
horse long enough to look.  Another horse journey, after she vowed never to get
on a horse again. 

She
looked to the courtyard below, the steady stream of people heading toward the keep,
which she could see from the window.  One more example of the wealth of the
Bold’s home.  His rooms weren’t even in the tall, square fortress but in a
separate wing altogether. 

She
leaned out further and saw the stable, along the wall, closer to the gates. 
Talorc emerged, with a tall lithe lad, deep in discussion, crossing the
courtyard quickly. He held the lad’s arm as they walked, bent in to listen.
Ealasaid’s voice rang cross the distance.  The two looked toward the castle. 

There
wouldn’t be much time.

Having
spotted the stables, but not the rise and fall of land she sought, Maggie
crossed the vast room.  On either side of the bed was another set of window
enclosures, which put this room on the corner of the building with an outlook
in two directions. 

Choosing
the furthest window she knew, even before she reached it, this was a view
beyond anything she had ever seen.  The sound, always in the background,
crescendoed, demanded recognition.  Waves crashed against huge boulders, pulled
back as new arches rose to fall in an angry splash of foamy white.  Beyond, it
smoothed into a sparkle of blue reaching to forever. 

The
ocean. 

Her
brothers told stories of this salty water that guarded one side of Glen Toric.

Pulled
as fiercely as the draw of tide she’d heard tales about, this was not the rise and
sharp drop of heather and gorse she so desperately sought.  With a shake of her
head she looked away from the fascinating beauty.

What
direction could it be?  Nothing looked like her dream, not the courtyard nor
the hillsides beyond. Certainly not the ocean. 

Hopeless
Maggie stifled urgency with practicality.  She would need a cape, something
warm. She turned back into the room and gasped.

A
small, bent woman with grizzled hair stood inside the doorway.

"She
left you alone did she?" So very tiny, this woman’s meager smile, was
stunted by timidity, disquiet etched in her face.

Maggie
crossed to the chair before the hearth, held on to the back of it. "Ealasaid
went to get the Laird."

The
small head popped up with interest. "She will be awhile then." With
surprising purpose she came into the room, closed the door behind her.

"My
name's Beathag. I'll watch over you. Mustn't leave you alone. We don't want him
to lose another wife. Not so soon anyway."