Bold (The Handfasting)(7)

With one hefty push, Fiona shoved him under.

“I didna’ say anything,” Talorc sputtered as he surfaced, “that you dinna’ know.”

“Oh, aye.” Fiona admitted sweetly.

“Did you dunk me for speaking of your daughter?”

“Why would I do that?” Fiona hedged, adding, “but I was wondering, if it’s true, are you here because of our Maggie?”

“Aye.” Talorc admitted.

The fire crackled, water splashed as he reached for a sheet on a stool by the side of the tub. Standing, he wrapped the long sheet around his waist, used another for drying.

Husband and wife looked to each other. ”You don’t know much of our Maggie if you’ve come for her.” Fiona warned.

“Do you mean that she likes her men puny?” Talorc vigorously rubbed his hair.

“Aye,” They both frowned.

“She’s not meant for a puny lad, you know.” He tossed the extra sheet over his shoulder. “And I’ve a mind to help her understand such things.”

The MacBede stood from his own bath scowling. “How do you mean to do that?”

Talorc pulled a shirt over his head, his words caught in the folds of fabric. “Well, MacBede,” his head popped out of the opening, “with your permission, I’ll marry her. She’ll come to understand in time.”

Fiona shoved a warmed sheet at her husband. “You’ll not get her to understand after the wedding, Laird or no, you force Maggie to marry and she’ll make your life a misery. You’ll never win her that way.”

“I mean to have her agree to the wedding.” Talorc defended.

Fiona laughed.

Talorc argued. “You could help persuade her.”

Feargus slumped on a stool. “It’s more than that, Laird MacKay. You’re a fine man, I couldna’ hope for such a grand husband for my lovely Maggie, but she’s more stubborn than the lot of us. She doesn’t want a warrior.”

“You’re her father. You could make her.”

“Oh, aye, I could force it on her, but my Fiona is right. We won’t send her to the altar in tears, and if she goes against her will, there will be tears aplenty.”

“From a lass such as Maggie?” Talorc was appalled.

MacBede chuckled, “Aye, strapping lass that she is, she’s still a female.”

Fiona ignored the understanding that passed between the men and nodded at her own thoughts. “You know,” she said, “you might make it work, if you could spend some time with her, win her over and then stay away when she says nay to a marriage. She’ll pine for you, then come around.”

“There’s no time for that. I want to take her with me tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow?” Feargus stormed. “Never lad. I’ll see her settled in her feelings first.”

“Timing, MacBede. You know, I know, timing is everything. It has to be now.”

“Why?”

“You’ll understand tonight when I tell my tale.”

“You’ll be telling me now.”

“No.” Fiona's soft words broke through. “No, he is right, husband. Maggie doesn’t need time to come up with excuses and reasons not to marry him.”

“You can’t be serious, wife?”

“Aye, I am, and as her mother, with your approval, I will give my blessing if he can convince her to marry him on the morrow.”

“He’ll never do it.”

“Perhaps not. But I’m thinking, if he fails, it will be our Maggie who will lose in the end.”

“I’ll not fail.” Talorc claimed.

Fiona nodded at his confidence. “Fail or no, I’ll not grant my blessing until you promise me two things.”

“Aye.”

“You'll not force yourself on her. She has to give of herself willingly otherwise we'll not accept the marriage.”

Talorc agreed. “Neither would she, and I know that, but I also know she'll come around. The bond is there already, she just doesn't recognize it.”

“Aye, well and good.” Feargus nodded. "But you know, if she doesn't come around, if she keeps her distance, we expect her back in the same pure state she'll have left us. I'll not see her returning with a kerchief on her head for the whole world to know she's not a maiden anymore."

"Aye." Talorc agreed. "I'd want no different for my own daughter, if I'm ever blessed to have one."

“You will also vow," Fiona continued, "never to hurt my daughter, to strike her or beat her or punish her in any physical manner.”

“I vow to you she shall never be harmed by me or mine, in any manner. If I fail in that, I will return her to you.”

“So be it. If you can convince her to say yea, you may have my daughter.”

“Oh, for a certainty, she will say yea. She’ll have no other choice or she’s not the woman I think her to be.”





CHAPTER 5 - BETRAYAL



It was a clear night with a full moon, eerie shadows and the shimmer of silver light that teased of spirits lurking. It was the season for Lughnassadh, the time for the summer sun to loosen her hold to Tannist, the stingy winter's day. It was a season of the festivals of old.

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.