Authors: Becca St. John
The Handfasting (36 page)
She
swallowed, half exulted, half afraid. She wasn't at all certain he was above
throttling her. And deserve it she did. She had pushed harder than she meant
to, but couldn't back down now. "You could prove me wrong."
"You
want to be married to a coward?"
Even
her voice shook with nerves. "I want to be married to the Bold."
"We
never exchanged the gifts."
Excitement
surged. "We could now."
"Aye.”
He nodded slowly, reached up, removed the pin that held his plaid at his
shoulder. The fabric fell to the floor, to lie like a train behind him.
"Here."
He handed the broach to Maggie. "If you look, you will see wheat in the
design."
She
took it in her hand as tears came to her eyes. He cradled her face in his
hands, his thumbs brushing at the moisture as he spoke.
"May
this wheat be a symbol that I vow to provide for my home."
It
was her turn. She too, took the broach she had hastily clipped to a plaid she
wrapped around her. There’d been no time to dress before confronting the Bold. It
was the MacBede plaid. Her mother had removed MacKay plaids, despite Maggie’s
argument. Now it held good purpose. She unwrapped it, leaving herself in naught
but a kirtle.
It
took her a moment, for her hands trembled, but she managed to fold it while
Talorc waited. When she handed it to him, a symbol of weaving and sewing, she
said, "As I will provide for our home."
He
removed his dagger, placed it in her hands, held silent, as the intensity of
the moment gathered around them. He looked to the beams of the old barn, as if
garnering the courage to go forward. With tender tears his gaze finally met
hers.
"I
vow to protect our home.” His hands cupped hers, "And I do, Maggie. With
all my strength, and with your insight and . . . “ She stopped him, by resting
her head against his mouth, against his words.
If
they had been prepared, if they had known this moment was coming, she would
have had a Bible ready, to give to him with her own pledge of protection. But
there was no Bible, only their hearts.
She
trusted that God would be with her as she whispered. "You vow the
protection that comes from the blade. I vow the protection that comes from the
hilt of the dagger." She traced the line of it as she spoke, "A cross
for the strength of faith. But together," understanding where she was
going, he placed his hands on hers, again, so they could hold the hilt as one.
"Together we will face the crosses that life bears. We will be united in
each other, in our home, in our love."
"Together,"
Talorc promised, "We will fight our battles as one, and never let them
tear us apart."
Symbol
or no, the dagger was thrown aside, as he pulled Maggie into his arms. "I
don't deserve you."
She
tilted her head so she could look up at him. He truly believed what he had just
said, as if she were someone precious and special. But she had been raised with
a team of brothers, who had wailed that they didn't deserve her, either. Only
they didn't mean it in a good way. She couldn't help but tease. "Oh, trust
me. You deserve everything I have to give."
His
eyes sparkled, "Do I?" and she knew he thought of something else
entirely.
She
stepped back, "Like the sharp edge of my tongue."
He
advanced. "Twined with mine."
"I'll
go toe to toe with you."
"It
would be easier if you just wrapped your legs around my waist."
"We'll
butt heads."
He
laughed. "I've a head that would love to have you take it on."
"Talorc!”
She shouted, hands on hips. "I mean it. I'm not nearly as good and
precious as you make me sound."
"And
delicious. Don't be forgetting that, now."
She
looked to the barn door, aware that the clan was out there waiting for results.
Just
as they had once before.
"Maggie,
we're married, because you insist. Are you now going to pretend we aren't doing
what's necessary to bear an heir?"
She
was stuck on 'insist.' "Are you going to write the church and tell them
you were forced?"
His
smile was huge.
"Oh,
no you won't." she stormed for the door. His hand slammed against it,
trapping her with his body.
"I
love it when you get riled."
She
couldn't look at him. "Good thing."
"Come
here, Lass."
She
didn't have an option, not that she wanted one, for he had pulled her flush to
him.
"Do
you feel that, Lass?” Aye, she could feel the heat of him, as well as the hard
hunger of him. He shifted his hips as if she could miss it otherwise. Maggie
rolled her eyes.
He
prodded. "Do you believe the church would let me claim that you forced me
to feel like this?"
"I
could have seduced you."
His
chuckle rustled her hair. "Maggie, every time your name floats through my
thoughts, I'm seduced."
She
moaned against her own desire.
"Do
you want me, too, Maggie?” The arrogance was gone from his voice.
"Aye.”
She wanted him.
"Why?"
"Don't,"
she grabbed at his head, pulled him down to kiss her.
"I
have to know, Maggie. I have to know why you want to be married, why you want
to stay."
The
arrogance had been traded for anguish. She pulled back, to search his eyes.
"I could ask you the same."
He
groaned. "Don't you know? Don't you know how I've felt from the moment you
landed in my arms?"
"Your
hands."
It
was a sorry sort of chuckle. "My hands. From that moment I knew I had to
have you for myself. Selfishly. No care for you. I had to have you.
"And
then you came into my life, all soft yet strong. Vulnerable yet ready to jump
into the fray. You caught my heart, Maggie. I love you, desperately. I'm
famished for you.” He buried his face in her neck, kissing, suckling, shifting
to her ear, the rise of her cheek, her eyes.
He
cupped her face in his hands, and stopped kissing her, though she sensed it
wasn't easy.
"Tell
me. Can you handle the depth of my love for you? Does it make me weak in your
eyes? Because if that's true, you might as well run now."
"No."
she shook her head. "No. Love takes courage. A man has to be Bold to admit
to it.” She traced the line of his cheek, "And I love you, Bold, with the
same hunger, the same need, the same blush with the thought of your name.”
She
stood on her toes, to whisper to his lips, "In this we are equal."
He
lifted her into his arms. "Do you know what that means?"
"No,"
she shook her head.
"It
means we're both too desperate to make it any further than this barn."
And
they were.
THE
END
The
Protector©2009Martha E Ferris
All rights reserved
This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual events
or persons is coincidental.
In the Year of Our Lord 1226 . . .
Roland
looked about his bed chamber. Ten years ago, when he'd left for crusades, this
had been his father's room. That shouldn't have changed.
He
crossed to the bench by the fire, stretched his legs so Ulric could remove his
boots.
"There
were representatives of the king here, to welcome you home." Still naïve
enough to be impressed by royalty, even watered down versions of the King's
aide, Ulric reflected on the night.
Roland
didn't respond. Having spent the entire evening with emotions clamped tight, he
was not about to say what he thought now.
As
Ulric pulled Roland's tunic over his head, the young page murmured. "Your
sister Margaret was here."
Cowed
goose! The curse was silent, the only thing Ulric would have heard was a grunt
of agreement.
Yes,
Margaret was here, with her husband and family and their retinue of servants.
And yes, the King's men were here, as well, ready with invitations from court
for Sir Roland. Neighbors, friends, fellow knights all here for Roland's
homecoming after ten years absence.
But
his wife wasn't here, nor his father. Not even his best friend.
Two
of those three were dead and one was responsible for those death.
"Leave!"
Ulric's
head shot up.
"Just
go," Roland muttered wearily, embarrassed by his outburst, as if he cared,
truly believed, deep inside, that his wife would be the same sweet child he
left behind.
"I
can certainly undress myself. Go."
Ulric
bowed and stepped back. "I'll be on the other side of the door, my lord.
In the ante-chamber, if you need me."
Roland
shooed him away with a flip of his hand. When the door closed, he stood and
paced against a volcano of emotion roiling to erupt and condemned his
foolishness. He learned, early on in his travels, never trust. Comrade in arms
or the Pope’s man, goodness was a commodity, only as thick as the benefit it
offered. Kindness was measured by a mercenary’s scale. The reminder calmed to a
bitter smile.
Ulric,
so impressed with all who arrived at Oakland, to witness his the homecoming he
failed to notice that no one, other than town’s people, greeted him at the
port, not ten miles from his sister, Margaret's home, though they all knew he
was due to arrive. He had been welcomed to her home by servants. Banners and
waves and the wild shouts of welcome, that Ulric enjoyed, were supplied by
strangers, not his family or his peers.
Margaret
had already left for Oakland.
The
King had sent a guard of honor for Roland and his knights, but the King's men
were at Oakland.
It
seemed that the whole of the English country side knew of his exploits, knew of
his victories but word had only moved one way. No one deemed fit to forewarn
him of affairs at his demesne. Not even Margaret had the courage to face him
alone.
So
he returned to a horde of supposed well-wishers. A horde of greedy gossips full
of whispered stories and curious glances. All waiting hungrily to see him
react.
He
refused to give them that pleasure. Let them stew in their lost tittle-tattle.
They'd fed off his flesh for the past five years, he wasn't about to give them more.
Caskets
full of precious herbs were stacked against the wall. With one sweep he sent
them crashing to the floor.
His
wife, Veri, the winsome lovely child who had tended to his wounds, pulled his
father away from the threshold of death; the wise young bride he had left
untouched and innocent, to ensure her protection while he sought the crusades,
had taken his best friend as lover and murdered his father.
The
roar that filled his lungs, threatened to escape. He swallowed against it,
punched at the solid wood poster of his bed. The wood cracked, Roland's hand
throbbed, but the shout was squelched. He drew in deep draughts of air,
released each one to slow measured counts. A trick he had learned on his
travels.
The
herbs crunched under his feet. He thought about his step-mother Hannah. She
would have used them, but not properly. Only Veri truly understood the use of
such things.
Veri.
Did
she know of the damage she had wreaked? Dori would never be the same. His
sister Dori, so jolly and loveable, now sullen and angry. Excusable. It was
her husband Derek Veri seduced to her bed. Once in her bed, Veri lured Derek to
murder.
Derek
died for his sins.
Veri
had not.
Locked
in this room with its thirty foot drop to the rocks below, a twenty-four hour
guard outside the door, she escaped.
Stories
were flung at him, asides and whispers, throughout the celebrations of his
return. Did he know of her powers? Shape-shifting into a bird and flying away.
She bewitched the household guard, had them under her spell. She could make men
do anything . . . escape . . . murder . . . anything.
Roland
doubted both. His eyes shifted, glanced at the wall where the tapestry of a
boar's hunt, hung. He knew of the door hidden there. No one else knew of it,
not even his family. Only the lord and his heir would know of that route out of
the castle, to ensure against a family turned traitorous.
The
pacing stopped. He stood amid the jumble of herbs, his anger contained.
"Ulric!"
He shouted for his page. Immediately, the boy popped his head around the door.
"Clean-up this mess. Then you can go to sleep."
"Yes,
milord." Ulric hurried with his task, as Roland prepared for bed.
He
would need his sleep before he set out on his quest. To hunt down his wife, see
she meet a fitting death, as gruesome as Derek's had been.
The
mess removed, Ulric gone, Roland slid under the sheets of his father's bed, and
slept as he slept the past ten years while on crusade, a dagger beneath his
pillow, a sword along his side.
How
long he slept, he was not certain but, he was awake, abruptly. To the silver
light of a near full moon and a fire burned down to coals and ash. He offered
no sign of wakefulness, one slight hitch of breath the only clue.
He
knew better.
Eyes
closed, he waited, to see if the creak of a door proved dream or reality. The
well oiled hinges of the chamber door would not make a noise.
A
soft swoosh of stale air brushed his face.
Reality.
Rage
rode on his blood, hot and viscious.
No
living soul, no person he cared to see, knew of the hidden entrance to this
chamber. Yet, it had just been breached from the far side of the moat, through
a tunnel both steep and slick.
Ten
years he'd been gone, not even back long enough to witness a sunrise, and the
treachery against his family reignited. This time it would be different. This
time his skills had been honed by years of the unholy, holy wars called
crusades.
He
almost smiled. Almost. But that would have alerted his intruders, told them he
was awake. Instead he mimicked the deep, easy rhythm of sleep, his lashes
lowered to hide the gleam of his eyes, as he studied the deep shadows of the
chamber.
There
was no shift in darkness, just a heavy, ominous silence. If not for the damp,
musty smell he could have argued the earlier noise imagined. But he knew
better, knew to wait and quell his thirst for immediate action. He counted
breaths, focused on them, aware that time had expanded to a place where moments
became hours.
When
it finally came, the carelessness of the move surprised him. The door pushed
open in one rash movement, rather than slight, silent increments. Footsteps
brushed the gravely dirt of the threshold, distinct enough that he counted nine
pairs of soft boots cross into his room.
Did
they truly believe he had survived a decade of perilous travel to fall prey now?
Did they imagine that upon his return, he would fall back into the naïve and
gullible soul he had once been? And he had been, to believe he could leave his
child bride behind and return to find an innocent virgin untouched by an
insatiably greedy and cunning world. He had allowed that small spark of hope to
linger in his heart until this evening.
When
the truth was put before him, he must have seemed a fool to think it could have
been different.
He
snorted, a sleepy sound, shifted, stretched, eased back as though in slumber.
The dagger and sword he had gone to bed with, now in hand.
The
merest hint of light allowed assessment of the room without notice. They had
filed in, one at a time, so the door would not have to be opened more than the
width of a body. As though the first rasp of hinges would not have woken him.
The
nine of them huddled within the entrance, shrouded from head to toe in black
capes. Their whispers reached him, low indistinct murmurs, as they divided with
the soft shuffle of feet. Three crossed to the door, four toward the raised
alcove on the far side of the room. Two stood near the tunnel entrance, until
one of them separated, moved, without cloak or weapon, to the bed where Roland
lay.
An
innocent approach. Roland knew too well the deception of innocence.
Still,
he waited.
One
step, two steps, the intruder drew near, almost aligned with Roland when he
stilled, looked over his shoulder. One misguided movement and the dupe handed
over any chance of control.
Roland
leapt naked from bed, his attack so swift all was accomplished before the echo
of his mighty war cry could fade. With one arm he pinned his victim against his
chest, a dagger to his throat. His other arm stretched out, sword at the ready,
to defend against approach.
Short
of leg, the captive stumbled as Roland forced him to step backward until they
stood with the stone wall at their back. A well-orchestrated move, it gave the
knight both hostage and freedom to attack. From this vantage he could judge the
room and the people within it.
A
battle waged at the door to his chamber. Ulric outside, alerted by Talorc's
shout, fought to force his way in. Three caped figures struggled against
Ulric’s strength as they wrestled to bar the door with a wooden beam. If they
managed to slide it into the iron slot, they would effectively lock Ulric out
and Roland within. With great effort, they gained the advantage.
Roland
watched it all, and assessed the danger that confronted him.
The
three by the door were too weak and fumbling to be a concern. Their capes
quivered with their fear. The figure before the fire stood tense and erect,
perhaps on the brink of escape. Certainly close enough to the tunnel to get out
unnoticed, if Roland allowed it.
He
would not.
There
was a second three-some, much like those who had battled Ulric for the door,
huddled fearfully within the windowed alcove. Separate from them, yet within
the same alcove, stood another, deep within the night's shadow. This one stood
observant, with no quivering sign of any emotion beyond curiosity. This one
drew his caution. The greatest adversaries were those whose sense over-road
emotion.
The
strangled croak of his name from the man in his hold, pulled Roland back to his
captive. His knife had cut far enough into a fleshy neck to bring a fine line
of blood to the surface. Easing the pressure, Roland looked to the man’s face.
God’s
teeth!
Galvanized
by horror, Roland thrust the man away. As he did so, a collective wail filled
the room. The other intruders spun away, their capes billowing like kites full
of wind. One moment he had been surrounded by assailants, the next they turn
their backs? He stood armed for attack and they offer him their most vulnerable
side?
What
fools! What bloody useless fools!
Nothing
made sense, nor did it offer the release Roland so desperately craved. He
needed the revenge, to exorcise the demons within him.
He
wanted to avenge his father's death. Retaliate against the turn of a winsome,
eerily intelligent child to the snares of the devil. He wanted to thrust his
sword, slice with his knife, draw blood and prove that he was not a weak
gullible fool.
“Friar
Kenneth!” He roared at the one familiar element in this bizarre scene. “What
the devil is happening here?”
Trembling
badly, the friar dabbed his throat. Roland’s scowl deepened.
He
wanted to tear apart any and everyone who had brought him to this pit of
hatred. He wanted it now, though he hadn’t known how brutal his fury was, until
he faced the one man who would not allow such vengeance; the one man who could
force Roland to face the anger, to soften the hatred.
It
was the ugliest irony of fate.
“Your
timing is pitiful,” he accused.
“Yours
is much better, had I been your enemy.”
“Perhaps
you are,” Roland suggested. The portly friar eyed him sharply, before shaking
his head with a weary sigh.
