Bold (The Handfasting)(19)

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.”