Bold (The Handfasting)(13)

They had kept them? They had not tossed them in a stream as they left the land? They had not laughed at her, or thought her so foolish that they could not answer her?

“As you can guess, the men were stunned beyond words for the fear that tears might fall. That a child, a mere little child, bonny as she was, could speak what each needed to hear . . . ah, she was a one to be remembered.”

Maggie slumped upon her bench, startled by what she was hearing, seeing.

“But it did not stop there, Maggie girl,” Talorc said directly to her, though his voice filled the entire hall.

“Nay, it did not stop there. For tales abound of the young girl, Maggie MacBede, of her throwing a rock and downing a Sassenach, of topping an enemy who tried to climb over the wall.

“There’s talk of a little bairn, six years at the most, making a nuisance of herself on the battlements, carrying water and lugging pebbles, whatever she thought the warriors would need.

“My heart swelled with the hope that one day I would have such a daughter when the stories turned, and this wee lass was not so wee any more. No, she had grown in the space of the telling, into a strapping lass whose honor was much sought after. It took all seven of her brothers to keep suitors at bay.”

“There were not so many!” Maggie snapped, slapping her hand over her mouth in embarrassment.

The Bold laughed, an audacious bellow.

“You think not, lass?” He calmed enough to ask, “And why do you think you're left with nothing but puny men to look to?” Maggie could do naught but shake her head. She wanted to say that puny men were all she wanted, but she could not, so Talorc continued. “The rest, my sweet, the men more worthy of you, have been warned away. Which pleases me to no end.” Talorc confided to the whole of his audience. “For I mean to make her my own.”

“No!” She screamed, pushed beyond control by his bluntness.

No one took any notice. No one cared that her hands shook at the way he was openly courting her, putting her in a place she didn’t want to be. A place she might not be able to extract herself from.

The Bold continued his tale. “I am The MacKay, the Laird of our clans, and yet this woman, your fine, gentle and true Maggie MacBede rounded the men with spirit and fire.

"The following day was dark with the omen of death, but it was not a fearful day for us, nor was it our deaths the day spoke of. Hearts full of tales of Maggie MacBede, we stood tall and bold, strong in the face of battle, and shouted our warrior’s cry,

“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!”





CHAPTER 8 - TRAPPED



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.