The Handfasting (9 page)

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 whiskey 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 creature, 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
soothe its 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, 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.

Pah! 
As if risking a life were not foolish in the extreme.

Oh
aye, and the Bold knew what he was about. Hadn't he taught her that? His timing
was impeccable, waiting until the whiskey had filled the men to just the right
point, until they were puffed-up with a false bravado, a sense of largesse, yet
not so far gone as to be sloppy, or to forget the Bold’s words.

Aye,
the men were seeing their world as a bigger and brighter and bolder place,
including one wee lass.

Even
knowing this, Maggie could not say no.

But
neither would she say yes.

“You’ve
given me little time, MacKay.”

“Aye.”

“Some
would say you’re trying to trap me.” She could feel the tension in the room
ease with the anticipation of a spat. They were highlanders; a fight no less
than entertainment, especially when they were certain of the outcome. They’d
not have respected Maggie if she let him have his way without a battle.

He
had wound them all in with his stories, but Maggie knew, just as well, how to
ease that coil, if not unwind it all together. Or so she hoped.

“Aye,
perhaps.” He admitted, answering her accusation of entrapment, “just as I once
cornered a horse crazed with fear. We were in a burning wood. Had I let him go,
at the least he would have burned to his own death.

“So
you see, Maggie, I trapped him to save him.”

He
was a more agile opponent than she had expected.

“And
you think to be saving me by trapping me?”

He
didn’t respond, nor were there the telling little quips coming from their
audience to boost her side of the quarrel. It was time to change tactics.

“How,”
she asked practically, “do you plan on wedding me when there isn’t a Priest
within the Highlands? It is nearly the Feast of Fleadh nan Mairbh, and no
decent man of the cloth would be found near folks who celebrate such things.”

“Does
it matter, Maggie?” He asked her gently, “Do we need a church man to make vows?
Are you not a Highlander? Is your word not strong enough without witness?”

Those
were fighting words, they were. Maggie narrowed her eyes.

“I
would like the blessing of a power greater than either of us, Laird. Surely you
can understand that . . . wait for that.”

“There
is no time, Maggie. We, the MacKay, and all her septs, need our wedding,” he
ran his finger along her cheek, caught her jaw in his palm when she tried to
pull away. “Just as they need the presence of our son.”

“There’s
no guarantee of that, Laird.” She defended.

He
laughed, threw his head back and laughed. Maggie kicked him.

“Oh,
Maggie,” he grumbled good naturedly, rubbed his shins to the raucous laughter
of the crowd. “Life never offers guarantees, but it can make promises. You’re a
healthy lass, a surprise blessing to a ma and da that had already born seven
sons. And should you bear me a daughter you’d not see more delight, for there’s
ne’er been a daughter in my line for three generations. Give me a son, or a
daughter, and fail that-- we’ll raise those of our clansmen, and teach them our
ways.”

He
was more of an opponent than she’d ever faced before. She was fighting for all
she knew, all she wanted in life, and yet he could come in and take it all from
her with one fell swoop of words.

She
admired him for it.

She
hated him for it.

She
willed the tears away, closed her eyes against them, as she fought for the only
argument he had yet to slaughter. “And you cannot wait, one season, for a
priest, a man of cloth, to bind us?”

Talorc
looked to the ground, muttered to himself, then looked up straight into
Maggie’s eyes. He was well aware that he pressured her, she could see it, and
she knew that he knew, with time she could break this thing.

If
he’d give her time.

“Maggie,”
he sighed, and she knew a concession was coming, “in the tradition of old, in
the ways of the Highlanders, we will clasp hands, vow to each other. If you
canna’ make vows for life, then promise yourself for a year and a day. Handfast
me, Maggie.”

Och, Dear Lord, God in Heaven, Help me. She cried
within, though no answering cry returned. Ian, if you’re there, help me, for no
one else will.

Talorc
reached out, took her hands in his, “Handfast me.”

Ian’s
voice failed to ring in her heart.

“I
couldna’” she tried to pull away, “it wouldna’ be right.”

“Why
wouldn’t it be right? We are Highlanders Maggie, this is our way. Are you so
different from the rest of us?”

The
flutter of panic in that poor bird’s wings so long ago, was no match against
the flutter of Maggie’s heart. She was trapped. She could feel it and the panic
overwhelmed her.

She
shoved the Bold straight aside, looked over at her parents, so she could
confront them, but her Da would not look at her. He looked to his plate in deep
contemplation. Her Ma, oh . . . Maggie’s shoulders slumped with what she saw
there. Her Ma’s heart was breaking. She had wanted Maggie to agree to the
wedding but if not, then even her Ma was willing to push her into a Handfast.

A
union where, in a year and a day, the Bold could walk out just as easily as
Maggie herself could.

“.
. . should you still not be certain of the match,” he continued,   “you can
walk away. No holds, no binds, you’re as free as that horse was, once I steered
him away from the fire.”

“We
know nothing of each other but tales told by others.”

“Maggie,
the Handfasting is for you, to give you the chance to walk away. ‘Tis not for
me. I’ve made that clear. But, I will also make it clear, should you give
yourself to me, between the end of the Handfasting and now, should you find
that there is no better for either of us, then the priest will bless the union,
whatever season he finds us.”

“Aye,
Aye”, the men cheered, the women sighed and wept, caught in the thrill of a
courtship unfolding.

“Ma?”
Maggie tried once more, but her mother only shook her head. It was Maggie’s
decision to make, and no other. In truth, she dinna’ have a choice.

“I
will think on it.” She hedged.

Talorc
shook his head. “No, Maggie, my people, our clan, they are waiting. They want
me to bring you back with me, to settle you in amongst us before the Feast.”

“It
is not possible,” she countered “I have to be here for Fleadh nan Mairbh. I
promised Ian.”

She’d
startled them all, judging by the mumbles and grumbles of the people.

“Maggie,”
Talorc watched her closely, “you do not invite the dead to come near.”

“He
was my twin.”

“You
have a right to your life. His time had come, do not invite your’s away.” Talorc
spoke with care, for everyone knew that the Feast of the Dead was a time of
caution. It was a time to hide from the folly of those passed beyond. No one
would court such danger.

“It
would be more to your purpose to create new life to fill that void. To give
your child the name of Ian, in his honor.”

“No."
She backed away from his words, as the snare of them tightened.

“The
two of us, together, this very night.”

“But.
. .”

“Marry
him, Maggie, Marry him . . .” The cheers rang through the hall, the stomping,
the clapping, the voices raised in unison, to billow and settle around her.

“Not
tonight.” She cried.

“Then
in the morn, Maggie, for we leave when the sun shows herself.”

The
chorus had died down, all eyes intent on Maggie and Talorc.

Maggie
turned to face them all. “It is what you want?” She cried out, one last plea to
the people.

“Oh,
aye, lass,” Old Padruig played the spokesman,   “there’s no better for you or
for him!”

“Do
you all agree?” She shouted, bringing on another resounding cheer. “Then I
shall do it.” She promised, with a nod of her head. “And the consequences be
upon your heads.”

Pivoting,
she faced Talorc, “In the morn. There is too much to do tonight, if I’m to
leave at daybreak.”

He
raised their hands high as everyone joined in cries of delight. As soon as she
could, Maggie spun away, headed toward the stairs that would take her up to her
room. Chairs and benches scraped back, as her mother and kinswomen hurried to
join her.

They
reached her first, though Talorc was not far behind, despite the delay of those
who wished to toast his victory.

“Maggie?”
He stopped her.

“Aye.”

“I’d
thought,” he leaned in, whispered for her ears alone, “that you would prefer to
have our first night together here, with your mother close by to attend you,
settle you.”

She
stared at him, at his lapse in conviction.

“Are
you saying I’m to be so terribly alone when away from here?” When, not if. She’d
given her word.

“No,”
he shook his head, frowned, “That’s not what I was saying, have no fears on
that count. It’s just that a mother is a mother . . .”

“And
you choose to take me from mine. So be it, if there’s any guilt in that, then
feel free to feel it.” She snipped.

His
frown deepened, though he failed to respond. With a tilt of her chin, she
swirled away, her entourage of relations a wake of women behind her.

“Tomorrow.”
Talorc shouted, when she was halfway up the stairs.