Bold (The Handfasting)(12)
“Anything, anything you want.” Roddie MacBede whimpered from beneath the foot of the man in green. Six other harsh, ragged men aimed spears to take him down should he try to rise.
“Anything?’
“Aye,” he sniffled, hiccupped a sob of fear.
“You’ve been cast from your clan.”
“No, no,” he stuttered as the man in green pressed his dirk further into his chest, between two ribs, above the heart.
“Why not.”
“No one knows.” Roddie promised. “I’ve not any chances left with the clan.”
The pressure of the dirk eased.
“No one knows what you do,” the man looked over at a bundle of fabric, the limp form, and smiled. “Not do, did, to that child? Other children.”
“I’ve never killed one,” Roddie cried. “I shouldna’ of done it, I know, I shouldna’ of done it, didn’t mean too, just wanted a little fun. She’s my sisters child, she was going to tell.” Once again, the dirk pressed hard.
“Why not?” The whimsical question startled Roddie, The lilt of it skewed from reality just as his joy, in the process of destroying the small body was an emotion out of step. Wrong. He knew it was wrong.
“Why not.” Whimsy turned hard, cold. “Why shouldn’t you have done what you did? You enjoyed it. Admit it.”
Roddie nodded, sure, now, the blade would pierce his black heart.
“Can you find more children? Can you bring them to us?”
For the first time Roddie looked up into the eyes of the man standing over him. Eyes darker more dangerous than Roddie had ever striven to be. Evil eyes.
Roddi shivered, reluctant to nod his assent though he did in the end. “Aye.” Bile reached his throat for half of him still held better intentions. “Aye, I can coax more to my side.” Fantasies, that’s all they ever were. Urges not to be fed. Only, he had fed them, and this one, when he silenced his victim he was caught for the deed.
The blade left his breast entirely, a hand offered. “Rise, join us. Let us make merry.”
CHAPTER 7 - A STORY TOLD
Talorc's hand rested upon Maggie's shoulders. Reassuring it was not, coming from a man too wild to anticipate, and far too confident. All evening he overlooked her and then, just like that, expected to convince her to go away with him, as though she had no mind of her own.
“To all you men who joined me in the battle against the Gunns," Maggie jumped as Talorc's voice blasted out across the hall. "Have we not failed to honor the one who pulled us through?”
A roar rose to the rafters matched by the thunder of stomping feet and fists that pounded table tops. Dishes clattered and shook, some fell to the floor. Maggie looked about, to see who they were honoring, but all the warriors faced forward, sights set on the Bold who shouted above the noise.
“I’ll do my telling,” He bellowed, “for everyone to hear the glory of our Maggie MacBede!”
Maggie MacBede? The thought of it nearly suffocated, as the cheers crescendoed. Her whole body trembled as warrior after warrior moved forward, crossed their right arm over their chest, right hand to left shoulder and bowed low to Maggie. Legs wobbly, Talorc had to help her stand.
She nodded to each man who offered obeisance to her, stunned by the clamor of the hall.
"Maggie, Maggie, Maggie . . ." They chanted.
She could take no more, held her hand out for them to stop. “Please,” she asked them and immediately they silenced their appreciation. “I would like to hear what this is all about.”
She stood firm lest they feel they’d frightened her, though frighten they did. And it was the Bold's fault. She was certain of that, because never before, no matter how many battles the MacBedes had fought, had personal honor come to her. It was a heavy weight she never asked for.
The men took to their seats again, stilled as the Bold had not been able to still them. Once again, Talorc sat her, a hand to her shoulder, before nodding to her parents, and again facing the tables of warriors before them.
“It is no secret that these past years have brought great sadness to the Highlands. Sassenaches have been trying to send their fancy Lords and knights to rule our land, our people. Men from the North, the powerful mighty Norsemen, have not ebbed in their pursuit of what is ours. Are the Gunns not more Norsemen than Scot?”
Belches and curses fouled the air just as the idea fouled their thoughts.
“Brave and glorious the Clan MacKay and all our septs, including the MacBedes, have faced great losses and grand great warriors. Our babes have cried with hunger ‘til our souls were torn apart. We’ve faced the mockery of the Sassenach who see glory only in the silver they eat with and the fancy cloth they wear.
They laugh at the way we live, as comfortable upon a bed of snow as a mattress filled with down.
“These English are men with no hearts, men who have no care for what we are, who we are and the land we breathe for. And yet they threaten to rule us.
“And so, with these sorrows and woes upon our hearts we battled the Gunns over disputes that were not of our making. We did this in search of food for our bairnes, to keep them safe and fed through the winter months.
"And we did this to avenge the deaths of the likes of the MacBedes’ Ian."
Maggie shifted with the unpleasant reminder that she had loudly resented Talorc's call to arms.
“The MacKays, the MacBedes, the MacVies, the Baynes and the Reays we all stood strong, charging into battle, our cries heralding the boast of victory.
“But victory did not come.”
Shoulders rounded against the burden of losses.
“Again,” Talorc continued, as mournful as the drone of a bagpipe, “grand men were lost, taken from us, dying honorable deaths but dying the same.”
The hall had grown so quiet Maggie heard the rustling of a mouse within the reeds, the spark of a fire-pit none too close. She looked to the men, their faces grim and sorrowful. Aye, it was a fact, the death of those they lost meant greater burden on those who survived.
She looked up at the MacKay, to see where his tale would go, only to find him studying her, a wistful smile upon his lips so contrary to the sorrowful faces of his men. She was glad to see he had the sense to wipe it from his mouth before facing the crowd.
“As was my way, after the second day of fighting, the second day of terrible loss, I walked through the shadows of the camp, looked to the men, fought for words to carry them past the grief.
"The MacBede men drew me. They were no different than the others, sitting before their fires. As brave as they are, worrying sorrow comes with a battle lost, that mayhap we would lose again. There had been too many defeats in too many years to bolster our spirits.
“That was when I learned of Maggie MacBede."
The use of her name didn't touch her at first. She was listening to a story that had naught to do with her. But then, as he stood in silence, his words ran back through her mind to suck the breath right out of her. He nodded, as though he knew, had waited, just for that reaction, before he continued.
“As I watched, as I fought for a way, any way, to encourage each and every man, as I felt the despair of my task pull me under, Conegell MacBede asked any who would listen. ‘Do ye remember the time young Maggie gave us our talismans?’
“Talismans, I thought, thinking of old hags and their mysterious witchcraft. But the man did not speak of an old hag, or of sorcery. Nay, straight on the heels of his asking, another chuckled. Oh, aye, he remembered the lass, no more than eight years, and there she was giving the men more strength in her little parcels than any drop of draught could do.
“I’m telling you now,” Talorc placed his hands flat on the table as he leaned out in his telling, “the curiosity alone drove away my wretched worries. I stood and listened as others were beginning to do, for the MacBede fire pit held the only voices to sound the sound of vigor. They chuckled, they spoke of strength being given. It was a night when all were hungry for such sounds.
“So, as the other men left their fires to stand around the MacBedes, the tales continued. I learned that an eight-year-old lass strode out to the courtyard as the MacBede warriors prepared to leave. She ignored wives and mothers and sisters who stood near their men, and approached each and every warrior to hand him a small parcel.
“It was a square of plaid, no more than a scrap, and inside that plaid she’d placed a piece of heather amid soil from the land. Then she told them, in her earnest child’s way, to carry that parcel with them for it would remind them of what they fought for; the land, the name and the wild glory of both.”
The cheers of earlier were no match for these which shook the very walls of the keep. And as Maggie looked out at the wild shouts she saw, to her amazement, that every MacBede man held his little packet of plaid and soil and heather in the fist of his hand. Some so old, soil spilled from the worn fabric. Others were bright and new.