The Handfasting (13 page)

Diedre
grabbed her arm, pulled her toward the edge of the outcropping, a sliver of
space where no one fought. Maggie pulled hard, brought Diedre around, revealing
a wild man behind her. Maggie grabbed the knife still clutched in Diedre’s
hand, aimed it so the two of them stabbed. As he fell, Deidre twisted free,
revealing the swing of the man’s club, already high to bring down on Deidre’s
head. It crashed down on Maggie’s instead, as he fell on top of her.

Talorc
charged toward them, too far to catch her, close enough to hear the crack, as
her head hit the rocky ground. Talorc tore the man off her as if he was no more
than a blanket. Dead, he was dead. The Bold spun around, blood pumped with
violence, looking to lash out, finding only stillness.

One
moment there were too many attackers, then, suddenly, none. Noise, commotion
ended as quickly as it started. The battle an illusion except the sight and
smell of wounds, of death, of Maggie, a crumpled heap upon the ground, blood
pouring down her face, the dead man’s club beside her head.

She
had killed the man, avenged herself, when Talorc should have kept her safe.
Vowed to keep her safe.

Talorc
fell to his knees, oblivious to the stunned silence surrounding them, the
sudden halting of those returned from the chase. He lifted her lifeless form,
curled her body into his heaving chest. He shut his eyes against the fear her
body would stay that way forever.

Diedre
approached. The only one with the courage to do so.

“Let
me look.” She eased Talorc toward a boulder, to sit, as she gently pulled
Maggie back from his shoulder. Blood streamed from the wound to her forehead, a
wound that would soon grow large and dark with bruise.

“You
should leave her here, Bold. Let the carrion get her, let those sods come back
for her”

Talorc’s
head snapped up. “Are you mad?” He hissed.

Diedre
stood firm. “At best, she’ll die from that wound. Worse, she’ll be a half-wit.
She’d not thank you for saving her for that. Leave her here, tell her kin she
ran away, straight into this band of men. Tell them you tried to retrieve her,
to save her.”

Douglas
approached. “Laird,” his eyes focused on the wound. “You’ve seen it before,
wounds to the head. This is a bad one and if anyone knows the consequences,
it’s Diedre.”

“No.”
Talorc stood, shaken from shock. “I’ll not tell the MacKays I left her dead on
the road.”

Diedre
leaned in, forced him to focus on her. “You wed her for life, Bold. You did not
give her half a vow but the whole of it. She refused that. She refused you, has
done her best to be free of you. Let her death be measured by that.”

“Aye,”
Douglas argued, “you’ve not joined. You’re free to leave her.”

The
woman nodded. “There’s another you could marry, Bold. You know it, we all know
it. Give this one up before you return and the breach between the two of you
can be crossed.”

Give
this one up? When he’d just found her. For what? To appease gossip of the past?
Gossip that held no truth? There was no other but Maggie. Never would be.

Tired
of the old pressure, Talorc ignored it. “I’ll not leave her here for those
heathens to dishonor.” He brushed at Maggie’s hair, locks coated in blood. Too
much blood.

“And
if she’s a half-wit?” Diedre challenged.

“Then
she will be my half-wit.” He vowed for life. He would honor that vow.

Diedre
tried to speak, Douglas stopped her with a shake of his head. Talorc understood
their exchange. Maggie suffered a double crack to the head, worse than the blow
that widowed Diedre. “My half-wit.” Talorc echoed and strode off with Maggie in
his arms.

Dedication

To my husband for sweeping
me off my feet and leading me into a land of mists, castles and history rich
enough to inspire dreams. Love you boyfriend.

CHAPTER 1 – GLEN TORIC

Maggie’s
head spun, her inners heaved and surged. Bile, bitter and hot, stung her
throat. She fought against it.

What
wretched thing roused her, when all she wanted was to go back, deep, into
darkness. She must be on a boat with its pitch and sway, seasick and in a pain
so sharp it hurt too bad to think.

She
licked lips, dry as ash. Thirst. She was thirsty, and incapable of doing
anything but moan. Surely her mother was near.

“Maggie?”
A deep voice vibrated against her throbbing head.

Not
her Ma.

Someone
shifted her. She groaned, flinched as sunlight pierced the veil of her cocoon.

The
boat stopped. Voices floated like jetsam in a harbor.

“Is
she awake?”

“Ah,
the lass is goin’ to be alright!”

“Eh?”

“Shhhh,”
that deep voice hushed all others. Comforted by the protection, she snuggled
back toward the warmth of the body that held her.

“Maggie
girl,” his voice gentled. “We’re almost there.” The rocking started again. She
hated boats, and this one smelled of horses. Sounded of them to, the clump of
hooves, the snort of breath, close, too close. The boat lurched, the stench. .
.

“Oh,”
she tried to push free, “I’m going to be sick.”

Guided
over the flank of a horse, she heaved, eyes shut as shattering pain racked her
head. It lasted too long, and then it was done. She clutched at a wet cloth put
to her mouth, pressed it there to hold back agony, and opened her eyes.

A
foot, dripping with sick, hung below her head. She snapped her eyes shut,
disoriented, as she was swung back up, into the arms of the man with the voice.

A
drinking bladder pressed against her lips but, thirsty as she was, all her
fuzzy mind could register was the horse. She was on a horse, not a boat.

“Drink
up lass. It will make you feel better.”

“Aye,
Talorc.” She froze. Her mouth acknowledging what her fuzzy mind refused. Talorc
the Bold, the man her clan pushed her to Handfast, to marry for a year and a
day.

A
man the whole of the highlands idolized and she just christened his foot but
good. Shame mingled with her moan, and then she remembered. This man took her
from her home, the place she loved, the people she knew, where she was safe.

Humiliation
be damned.

She
struggled to speak. “What happened?” but the words slurred, the effort to try
again so beyond possible she gave up thinking altogether.

“You
caught a rock between the eyes. You’ve a nasty lump and you’ve slept for the
time it took to reach Glen Toric.”

The
horse started forward again, jarred her stomach, jolted her head. She sounded
the ache, clear from the depths of her.

“I’m
sorry, Maggie mine, but we are in sight of the castle, and I dare not stop. You
need to be tended to.”

She
would not answer to Maggie mine. It would hurt too much to try.

“I’m
going as slow as possible.”

“I
don’t want to be sick again.”

“Nobody
would blame you if you were.”

The
vibration of his voice rumbled through her. If he just put her on the still
ground, left her to die, she would be happy. He wouldn't though. He would push
her again, force her to wait to die, or at the least make her wait for
unconsciousness.

He
said they reached Glen Toric, his home, her home for the next year. These
people would be her people. She refused to disgrace herself by meeting them in
a dead faint. She would stand on her own two feet.

Only,
just now, it was an improbable goal.

Curse
the man for bringing her here, and the dizzy hum from a voice so deep she felt
it as much as heard it. “Do you ken the slant of our climb? Glen Toric sits atop
a steep mound. Bruce rode ahead to tell them you are with us. They are all
coming out the gates to greet you, Maggie.”

"With
sick all over me."

"You
were injured in battle, lass. There's honor in that."

"Who?"
Snippets of memory rolled through her awareness, as much dream as reality.

His
hold tightened. "They wore no plaid, and we took no prisoners. The dead
offered no recognition, but we think they were renegade Gunns."

"MacKays
safe?"

“We
lost some good men.”

The
horse stumbled, Maggie whimpered and remembered. "I killed."

Talorc
snorted. "At least one and good on you.”

"Wish
more."

His
bark of laughter shocked a cry from her.

“Sorry,
Maggie, I’ll try to stay quiet.” Quite right, he should sound contrite.

She
tried to peek at his face, but only saw plaid. The slope of the ride forced her
to sink against him, a solid cradle that rocked with the lure of sleep.

“Maggie,”
a voice nudged at her consciousness. “Are you awake, lass?”

Leave
me be. All she could do was groan.

The
hem of her skirt tugged. “She’s a strapping lass.”

“Hey
now, give her room. She’s injured, y’ know.”

“The
poor thing.”

“Take
care.”

In
the hush, whispers crept through the milling crowd.

"Is
this what the dream meant?”

“Och,
couldna’ be, she’s alive.”

“But
a crow, on a bride’s shoulder.”

“She’s
not a bride, she’s a Handfast.”

“Who
dreamt it?”

“Hilde
heard it from Seonaid. The lassclaims someone dreamt it.”

“Aye,
I heard the same.”

"She'll
live," Talorc snapped, silencing the whispers.

Bully,
Maggie thought. Death would be a sweet welcome, would stop the spinning, the
churning of her stomach and the anvil’s pain of her head.

"Seonaid
didna' say what bride.” Another hissed, and the murmurs resumed.

Maggie
could only catch bits of the exchanges, could make little sense of the import.

“Did
she really save your life, Bold?”

"Bruce
said she took a sword and used it."

"Every
stone she threw hit its mark."

"Aye,
a fine lass, boy. Fine woman to have by your side."

Talorc's
lips brushed her ear, “You've impressed them, lass."

“Easily
fooled.” She breathed.

“Oh,
they’re wise ones, they are,” he told her, as the buzz of curiosity grew.

Their
movement ceased. “We’re at the steps, Maggie. It’ll jar you a might, getting
down, but I’ll be as easy as I can.”

“I’ll
stand,” she goaded herself with the declaration.

“No,
you’ll not stand.” Talorc slipped her from his lap to the horse’s back so he
could dismount, then eased her into his arms.

The
man robbed her of her pride.

“Let
go, Talorc.” He held her closer. “I’m needing to be sick.”

Close
to the truth, the fib worked. Talorc set her down, eased her around. Braced
between his back and arm, he kept her from collapsing on wobbly legs.

Maggie
blinked. A swarm of features moved before her, as vague as a reflection in a
murky pond.

“Give
her room.” He barked, and the blur shifted.

He
eased a lock of hair away from her eyes. A collective gasp thundered at Maggie.
She fought to keep upright, as the sound pummeled her.

“Would
you look at that?” It asked with reverent horror.

She
pushed into Talorc's hold.

Another
nearby reached out. Instinctively, Maggie jerked her head back as Talorc
clasped the woman’s wrist just shy of Maggie's face.

“Steady
now, leave her be.”

“She’ll
be needing some cold against that, Laird. And belladonna for the ache of it.”

“Aye,
Laird, she’ll need tending.”

“They
clipped her good.”

“Filthy
heathens."

Another
rumble of sound, as shapes moved, leaned toward her. She reached to explore a
prickle on her head. A piece of hair? Drop of moisture? Perhaps a spider had
fallen down on her. She tried to touch it, brush it away but found, instead, a
fist sized lump, stuck right in the middle of her forehead. Split and wet. She
held her fingers before her eyes, saw a dozen fingers instead of five and
blood.

Blood?

Too
stunned to feel at first, sensation returned with a blast. One moment Maggie
stared at her hand, the next pain ricocheted, violent, aggressive, against her
skull. Blessed darkness answered. Like a rag doll she crumbled.

“At
least she didn’t see it, Bold.” Thomas offered, as he looked at the hideously
purple protrusion.

An
old lady tsked. “Or know that she has two great black eyes to go with it.”

“Aye,”
Old Micheil sported. “She’s a fine lass, boy, a fine lass indeed.”

* * * * * * * * *

Talorc’s
shadow shifted across the shale floor, as he turned from the fire to look back
at the bed behind him. Ealasaid, drenched sponge in hand, bent over Maggie,
dripping water into her mouth.

 “Go
on down to the celebrations, Laird. It’s the eve of Samhain. You've reason to
be thankful, the larders are full, you won a difficult battle. Your clan wants
to celebrate the feast with their Laird. They can't do that if you stay here,
and look only at what might be lost."

She
walked over to him, placed her hands on his arms, as she looked into his eyes. "You’ve
been here for as long as she, and naught has changed. Go on down, see to your
people. I’ll send for you. . . “   Ealasaid hesitated.

“When
she wakes.” Talorc finished.

“Whatever
happens,” the old woman answered honestly. “You have to accept, Bold. Since
she's been with us, the lass has done no more than breathe. She might not be
wakin’ at all.”

“She’s
not to die.”

“Bold,”
the old woman snapped, then gentled, patted his chest, where his heart beat. “It’s
life’s way. We live and we die without any say of our own.”

He
thought of whispers of dreams, of crows, the messenger of death, of Seonaid. "What
do you think Seonaid's playing at?"

Ealasaid
snorted and left Talorc for her patient. "You know as well as I, Bold. You
grew up together, you were close. Seonaid was never one to share."

"I
was never hers, she was never mine, and I know her well enough to be certain
she does not have the sight.”

"She
talks of dreams often enough, though she never claims them as her own."

Bold
studied the woman who had raised him when his own mother died. "You don't
believe her dreams any more than I do."

"No,"
she sighed, "no, but the others do. This crow could just as easily be the
brother of your Handfasted. His death is still new, and there's a bond with
twins."

He
shoved off the bench, crossed to the window and opened the shutters. Shouts and
laughter swept into the room. Bonfires, to celebrate the eve of Samhain,
backlit odd grotesque shapes of people covered in animal skins, some with horns
perched upon their heads. Others dressed in their plaids, their faces and
bodies painted to disguise against spirits who had free reign to roam the land this
night.

Honor
the dead, but don’t let them take you back with them. That was the way of
Samhain, when the spirit of those gone, those to come, walked among the people.

Ealasaid
spoke as though she heard his thoughts. "Even without Seonaid's dream, the
eve of Samhain is a dangerous time to be hanging on to life. It's too easy to
go and frolic with the dead. To leave this world."

"She's
not to die. I feel it in my bones. She is mine, my chosen, mate of the
soul."

"There
is no finer means of death than battle. She would be honored."

He
looked at Maggie's still form and remembered the night he proposed the Handfast.
I have to be here for Fleadh nan Mairbh. I promised Ian.
As though Ian
couldn't find her here. Talorc rather thought Ian might.

 He
had never fought a ghost before.

"Seonaid
doesn't worry me. But Maggie's twin does."

"There's
naught you can do.” Ealasaid smoothed Maggie's hair, like mother to child.

Talorc
understood action, it was this waiting that broke him. He would not wait.

“Ealasaid,”
He stalked toward the door, “talk to her, even if you think she does not hear.”
Why had he not thought of this sooner? “I want her mind full of the sounds of
Glen Toric. We will take her down to the celebrations."