The Handfasting (31 page)

He
threw his shirt over his head, and wrapped his plaid around his waist then up,
over his shoulder.

"Come
on men, I think we'll have a bit of fun before we go back. Let's have a tug of
the rope with the keep guard."

William
grinned. "How many to a side?"

"Six
of them, to our three," Talorc looked at Aed, "Unless you want to
join us."

"No,"
the storyteller backed off, "but I'll tell the tale of it after we
sup."

They
headed up the slope, shouted to the warder guard, on the wall that protected
the keep.

"Any
men for a game? Tug of war?” Padraig shouted. "Six warders on one side,
Your Laird, William and myself on the other."

"Aye,"
one of the guards shouted down, "and if it took six of us to beat your
three, then a sorry lot we would be. Fair odds, here. Kenneth, Liam and Colban
to you three, and I'll bet my best harness!"

"Oye,
what about me?” Adam shouted from above, "Why can't I put a hand in?"

"I
could do better than Liam!” Cal argued.

Talorc
punched Padraig, "Go get Naill and Sim, find Bruce, and anyone else you
can find. If they want even odds . . ."

A
wild screech tore through air.

Talorc
froze.

They
all froze, William, the warder guard. Before any could react, Talorc was off
and running.

"Maggieeeeeeeeeee!"
he roared, because no one, no living body in this world would scream for him
with such pain and terror but his Maggie. Her voice rocked his world, pummeled
his belly. And as he ran, he called, the sound of a wild, stricken mate
determined to let its partner know help was coming.

He
hit the hall to chaos, people running, others standing immobile and frightened.
Again, that eerie wail.

"Up
here, Laird!” Nora called from the balcony, "Up here!"

He
charged for the stairs, took them three at a time, and barreled into his room
to be confronted by a wall of women, their backs to him, busy as a hive of
bees.

"Where
is she?" he roared, because he could do no other.

Ealasaid
turned. Faithful calm Ealasaid. "Out!" she ranted at him, "Be
gone with you!  We haven't time for you.” But with her back turned, she had
opened a gap, where he could see Maggie, her face scrunched with pain, her hair
wet and plastered to her skin. She looked up, a wounded animal on the verge of
hysteria, and reached out an arm. She mouthed it, though no sound came. She
wanted him, needed him, more than any other.

Then
she was gone, scrunched up around her belly. Her plaid, her dress, hiked up
indecently, with all the women there, mopping and pressing and blood, so much
blood. Puddles of it, pools, a near loch’s worth of blood streaming from
between her legs.

He
didn't care what Ealasaid said, he didn't care if this was women's work. It was
his wife, in the same pain as his last one had been, and look where that got
her.

He
reached Maggie's side, wrapped his arms around her, so she could lean over the
one, the other a brace to her back. He kissed her head, his tears blending with
the sweat that formed in large droplets on her forehead.

She
moaned, a keening sound, and he heard her gag. Again, nothing came out. She
wasn't there, really, she was caught inside her pain, a long way from where
they all were. Her eyes were glazed with shock, her skin pasty from loss of
blood.

"There's
no more babe, Laird.” Ealasaid huffed, and then he heard her voice hitch to a
sob. "And if we don't stop the blood, there'll be no more Maggie."

CHAPTER 5 – GRUESOME CELEBRATIONS

In
all the turmoil the store rooms, and in turn the caves, were empty. No guards
at the front, anyway. She slipped in, as quick as a snake, and slithered
through the rooms. She knew where she was going, hoped her man would be there
waiting, though he probably wouldn’t be. Too many guards these days, watching
too close for a man to pass as a woman, for anyone, without taking note of who
they were and when they passed.

Oh,
aye, but she needed to see him, to celebrate, excitement running high in her
veins, between her legs. She had killed the child, probably the mother too.
There had been so much blood.

Och,
and the Bold, poor thing, was in torment.

She
bit back a laugh, afraid of the echo, and rounded a corner into the body of a
man whose smell she knew, oh, so well. Her man.

“Did
you bring food?” He whispered into her ear, causing her to heat even more.

“In
the basket.” She lifted her arm, showing the large woven basket she carried,
holding up a candle in the other hand so he could see. “But I’m hungry, too.” She
offered.

He
looked over his shoulder. The darkness shifted, revealing at least three more
men. “Me first?” He asked, then turned away to pull a hunk of cheese from
beneath the cloth that covered her wares.

“Not
here,” she hissed. They were too close to the store rooms, too close to where
bored guards would hunt down any sound.

As
he bit into the cheddar, his other hand cupped her breast. “I thought you were
hungry?”

And
she was, damn him, and ready for all he offered, even to the others. The thrill
of danger spiked the heat in her. “You’re not a silent lot when you get going.”
She charged.

“No,
I suppose not.” He smiled against her face, “but neither are you.”

“Go
on, the lot of you,” she pushed at his shoulder, “lead me out of here to where
I can tell you just how bad it is in the castle. To where we can laugh and make
merry at the torment caused.”

He
slapped her backside. “I’ll make you scream.”

“Oh,
aye, you always make me scream, just as I make you beg.”

She
saw his frown, but she didn’t care. She had the power, stolen from the Bold,
one loss too many for the man.

There
had been a time when she thought the MacBede wench had broken him by leaving.
But he brought her back and with her a brewing babe. The man was too full of himself
with all that. He deserved to be brought down.

She
accomplished that. The arrogant bastard would be no more. His heart would be
broken, his spirit trampled and his reputation shredded.

Oh,
aye, she had the power now.

CHAPTER 6 – DEVIL’S CLAN

"If
you're staying, be useful. Lift the girl, get her to the bed," Ealasaid
commanded, and suddenly Talorc pulled from his stupor.

He
lifted Maggie in his arms, held her as Ealasaid bustled forward, her commands
cutting through his stupor, as she pulled back sheets. "Gerta, get that
hide on here, so she doesn't ruin the bed, and Caitrina, help your mother, move
the pillows to where we'll lay her hips. They need to be higher."

Talorc
tilted his burden, hips higher than head, as Deirdre held a sheet, once white,
now scarlet, between Maggie's legs.

Too
much blood. Too much bloody blood. "We need cold.” He commanded. “There's
ice at the pond but not down by the stream, don't waste time with that.” He
looked about the room, caught his cousin Seana standing in a shocked stupor,
"Go tell the men, we need ice and now!"

He
was glad to see Seana run, to do his bidding, to escape a smell sharp with
scent of battle. It was the blood, Talorc told himself. Not a battle, not an
attack. It was a matter of nature.

He
felt useless, helpless as he stood there, pushing against the pressure of
Deirdre, who pushed hard with the sheet, against the apex of Maggie's thighs.
The bed was readied, a hide down, fur side up for comfort, a cool sheet over
the top. He laid her down carefully, with pillows under her hips. As soon as he
did, Ealasaid pushed forward, to lift Maggie up and over, as she placed a
twisted sheet under her.

"What
are you doing, woman? Moving her about so."

"You
ever use a tourniquet on a man?” Ealasaid barked at him. "Well, leave us
to our own devices."

"Don't
let her die."

Ealasaid
stopped, her beefy arm swiping at the sweat on her forehead, her eyes on her
patient. "Your Maggie is stronger than Anabal was, Bold. She's stronger,
there's a greater chance she'll make it.” She bent to her task again. Talorc
lifted his wife, so the woman could get everything where it needed to be.

Maggie's
head lolled from side to side. He thought of her concussion, of the temptation
to go to her twin, and jostled her. "Maggie, wake-up, don't die on me.
Don't you dare put me through this again."

"Stop
it, Laird," Gerta tugged on his arm. "Let us tend to her. She's
better sleeping against the pain."

Pain.
For the second time, in the short time they had been together, she lay upon their
bed, near death.

"Why,
Gerta?" He asked, as though there were an answer. "Why does this have
to happen?”

The
old woman clammed up, her lips pressed so tight they nearly turned blue. There
was an answer, when he expected none. No one could explain nature. But wrong
doing was another thing, entirely.

Something
was wrong.

Talorc
whirled on Ealasaid, "What happened here?" his fury tinged with
panic. "Why is she bleeding like this?"

"She
lost the babe. She's a red head. Put the two together and you've got blood.
Lots of it. So get out of the way." Ealasaid refused to look at him,
though he heard the choke of a sob. "This is no time for talk!”

Gerta
tugged at his arm, again, someone pushed gently at his back. A man collided
with him, at the door, a slab of ice in his arms. Helpless, Talorc watched as
the ice was passed to the women and the man scurried out of the room. Away from
the tragedy. Talorc followed, crushed by his inability to be of help.

There
was nothing he could do. When Anabal had been in this state, he had mourned,
but at the same time he had the hope of a babe. But there would be no babe this
time, no chance of one. That was already gone. Now, his only hope was that
Maggie live.

Please,
God, let her live.

He
slid down the wall, elbows braced on his knees, head in his hands. The hallway
filled with quiet murmurs, as clansmen joined his vigil. Old Micheil pressed a
goblet of whisky into his hand.

Talorc
could not swallow. "Give it to Maggie; see if it fires up her life."

"I
did that first. They've poured it down her throat.” Micheil urged him to drink,
but the threat of tears lumped in his throat. He turned away.

His
Maggie, his feisty spirited girl, now limp as a doll and as pasty as raw dough,
lay on the other side of that door. She had not chosen to come here. He used
her own family against her, fueled the MacBede clan to add pressure and added
the hefty weight of a battle won to cap it. He thwarted her own wishes and
connived to handfast her. He seduced her to child, allowed her to think it was
her brazen nature and not his hunger to spill his seed in her womb. He trapped
her, against her own ideals, against her sense of time. He'd rushed her, when
he could have waited, should have waited.

And
now, here she was, the child lost, her reason for staying with him gone.

I vow she shall never be harmed by me or mine, in any manner.

Twice
she lay near death under his roof, amid his people. He had promised
differently.

"Laird,"
Conegell hunkered down before him, "Something's wrong."

Talorc's
head snapped up. "Aye, my wife is losing blood. That's wrong.”

"Like
your first wife."

He
turned away. "You don't have to be telling me what I know.” He was cursed,
there was no doubt now.

"It
was a drink she took and it was no different for your Anabal. She fell ill with
a drink."

Drink?
The same as Anabal? He hadn't known that, but now, two wives, years apart, at
different stages of carrying a bairn, lost babes by the same means.

An
enemy could not survive for years inside Glen Toric. They would have exposed
themselves.

"Anabal's
birthing came on too soon. That's not uncommon. Nor is losing a babe before
time."

"Too
fast, Laird. A woman's first child does not come on so quick; one moment
standing and laughing, the next folded up and screaming.” Conegell insisted.
"The women are talking, trying to remember the shock of your first wife’s
dying. They weren't easy in it then, even less so now."

Talorc
fought despair that would only muddle his mind. He had to think, had to listen,
with a clear head. "If what you're saying is true, then someone among the
clan would have to be the cause of it."

William
leaned in, "Old Micheil was betrayed.”

Thoughts
forced Talorc to stand. His words put before the others for consideration.
"We don't know the man was betrayed. And I can think of no one who would
do this. No one who could live among the clan and remain an enemy."

Conegell
took a deep breath. "Beathag gave her a drink."

William
snorted, "Maggie knows better than to drink Beathag's concoctions.”

Talorc
waved him away, weighed the accusation. "Maggie might drink one of
Beathag's brews, but not Anabal. And Anabal loved the old woman as much as
Beathag loved Anabal. I don't see it, but yes, the old woman might hurt my
Maggie. The hitch is, she would never harm the child she nursed from birth.” Talorc
frowned.

Beathag
was an easy solution, but such things were usually the fault of shallow
thinking. He needed more information. "Conegell, you've followed the
woman. What do you think?"

"You
asked me to watch, but when she goes to your Maggie's room, I can't follow. Una
does."

Buoyed
by purpose and duty, Talorc waited, impatient for information. When none came,
he looked up, gestured. "Well? What did Una say?"

 Conegell
shifted. "Beathag put a goblet down, but Lady MacKay dinna' drink, not
then. She talked to the old nurse, sweet like, and thanked the woman. Una said
Beathag left, and then Lady MacKay took a sip. There were two flasks there; the
one from Beathag and one with fresh water."

"You're
saying she drank from the wrong one.” Talorc closed his eyes. This made sense,
a stupid error. She knew which to drink from and took the wrong one. Life was
that fickle.

But
when he opened his eyes, Conegell was shaking his head. "The women don't know.
Some say yes, some say no. They're all fretting about it, about the way Lady
MacKay made a face with the taste of her water, but swallowed anyway."

"She
knew it wasn't water?"

"No,"
Conegell shook his head. "It's more like, she wasn't certain. She looked
at the goblet, as if something was wrong with the goblet, not the brew."

"Did
Una understand why she would do this?"

"You
know how Una talks round and round till it makes you dizzy. But she said she
was certain Maggie drank of the water.” They all stared at Conegell, he
continued. “But she says it like it's a question, like she can't figure it out.
She says Ealasaid keeps saying Lady MacKay never drinks Beathag's drinks. They
use different goblets. Maggie knows Ealasaid's goblet and Ealasaid fetched the
water herself."

Talorc
swallowed air, rubbed the base of his head where a knot twisted.

"From
Una's description, Lady MacKay looked at the goblet again, smelled it, then her
face turned ashen. She dropped the goblet, clutched at her inners and started
to scream as she fell. Both goblets toppled when she went down. No one knows
for certain which one was which. I'm thinking, Lady MacKay will be the only one
who knows if she drank from Beathag's or the water's flask."

"Where's
Beathag?” Rage, a powerful menace, threatened Talorc's control. With effort, he
breathed deep, forced his tightening muscles to ease. There was no loosening
the knot in his stomach, or at the top of his spine. The hollow calm of his
words obscured the tempers edge he rode. "Where is she? Where's the old
hag?”

It
made perfect sense, after all Beathag was a Gunn. A Gunn spy, planted within
the MacKay clan. He smiled with thoughts of vengeance.

But
his smile waned. It made no sense. Beathag was free to return to the Gunns, but
had cringed from such freedom. She never left the hall. Never went for a visit.
Had no way of meeting the enemy.

And
Beathag would not, could not, murder Anabal. She had been the girl’s nurse, had
raised her from a wee babe. She adored her charge.

If
she had poisoned Maggie, that would mean two culprits with the same outcome.
Not likely. It didn't ring true.

"We
locked Beathag in her room," Conegell put his hands on his Laird's
shoulders, as if to temper his temper. But the rage had twisted into
frustration. "The old woman was as startled by the scream. I saw her, saw
the look on her face. She ran, fast for old legs, tears running down her
cheeks, she near twisted her hands off, and she kept saying 'not again. Oh, no,
my lass, not again."

His
instincts were true. Beathag, guilty or not, did not set out to murder anyone.
"Did you watch her make the drink?" Talorc asked.

"Aye.
Her worry made me think. All these times I follow her, I see her take the
goblet up to your wife's chamber, but I never see her gather herbs or go down
in the rooms where they make the potions. She fills the goblet with a small
chunk of sugar, a spoon of malt, an inch of molasses and a pinch of yeast. The
rest is ale, straight from the cask in the kitchen. Today was no
different."

"Does
she pull anything from a pouch on her way to the room?"

Conegell
shook his head. "She adds an egg some days, but not today. The cook
wouldn't have it."

"Are
you certain that is all she puts in there? Could there be anything up her
sleeve?"

"I've
run it round and round my head and I'm certain, Laird. I've watched real close.
But I watch her, not the brew, and that's the worry. She leaves it on a shelf,
gives the yeast time to come alive and stir the flavors."

The
chamber door opened and Deirdre popped her head out. "The bleeding’s
stopped."

Talorc
groaned, felt tears of relief surge. He fought them. "Is she awake?"

"No,"
Deidre looked back in the room, "Well, not really. Her eyelids flutter,
which is a good sign. But I have to get back.” She darted out as quick as she had
popped in.

Talorc
stood, alone, surrounded by his men. He had tasks to do, for Maggie. Just what,
refused to surface. He had to get a grip on his thoughts. "William,
Conegell, go to Beathag and talk to her. See if there's anything she wants to
say, or thinks about all this.” He turned to Padraig, "Take Niall here and
go to the kitchens. Watch who comes and goes. Listen to their thoughts,
suspicions. Don't let them know why you're there, just snitch at the food and
flirt, like you would otherwise.

"Liam,
you stay here in the hallway, to do any bidding that's necessary. I want you to
note who comes to see how Maggie fairs. Bruce," Talorc didn't turn when he
addressed him, "send Malcolm up, he can help with running messages. And
between the two of them, one should be here at all times."

It
was then that Talorc eyed Sim, who stood to the back of the other men, just
behind Liam, "I'm going to ask a great task of you Sim, and you're the
only true choice.” The young man stood taller. "I need you to get to the
MacBede Keep, as fast as you can . . . but first, check to see if there are any
unusual tracks around this keep. Do you understand? If there are tracks, forget
the MacBedes and come straight to me. If not, if I don't see you in the verrrry
near future, I'll know you are on your way to her people. They'll want to know
the hope of a child is no more."