Free The Handfasting by Becca St. John Page A

that were not of our making. We did this in search of food for our
bairnes, to keep them safe and fed through the winter months.
    "And
we did this to avenge the deaths of the likes of the MacBedes’ Ian."
    Maggie
shifted with the unpleasant reminder that she had loudly resented Talorc's call
to arms.
    “The
MacKays, the MacBedes, the MacVies, the Baynes and the Reays, we all stood
strong, charging into battle, our cries heralding the boast of victory.
    “But
victory did not come.”
    Shoulders
rounded against the burden of losses.
    “Again,”
Talorc continued, as mournful as the drone of a bagpipe, “grand men were lost,
taken from us, dying honorable deaths but dying the same.”
    The
hall had grown so quiet Maggie heard the rustling of a mouse within the reeds,
the spark of a fire-pit none too close. She looked to the men, their faces grim
and sorrowful. Aye, it was a fact, the deaths of those they lost meant greater
burden on those who survived.
    She
looked up at the MacKay, to see where his tale would go, only to find him
studying her, a wistful smile upon his lips so contrary to the sorrowful faces
of his men. She was glad to see he had the sense to wipe it from his mouth
before facing the crowd.
    “As
was my way, after the second day of fighting, the second day of terrible loss,
I walked through the shadows of the camp, looked to the men, fought for words
to carry them past the grief.
    "The
MacBede men drew me. They were no different than the others, sitting before
their fires. As brave as they are, worrying sorrow comes with a battle lost,
that mayhap we would lose again. There had been too many defeats in too many
years to bolster our spirits.
    “That
was when I learned of Maggie MacBede."
    The
use of her name didn't touch her at first. She was listening to a story that
had naught to do with her. But then, as he stood in silence, his words ran back
through her mind to suck the breath right out of her. He nodded, as though he
knew, had waited, for just that reaction, before he continued.
    “As
I watched, as I fought for a way, any way, to encourage each and every man, as
I felt the despair of my task pull me under, Conegell MacBede asked any who
would listen. ‘Do ye remember the time young Maggie gave us our talismans?’
    “Talismans,
I thought, thinking of old hags and their mysterious witchcraft. But the man
did not speak of an old hag, or of sorcery. Nay, straight on the heels of his
asking, another chuckled. Oh, aye, he remembered the lass, no more than eight
years, and there she was giving the men more strength in her little parcels
than any drop of draught could do.
    “I’m
telling you now,” Talorc placed his hands flat on the table, as he leaned out
in his telling, “the curiosity alone drove away my wretched worries. I stood
and listened as others were beginning to do, for the MacBede fire pit held the
only voices to sound the sound of vigor. They chuckled, they spoke of strength
being given. It was a night when all were hungry for such sounds.
    “So,
as the other men left their fires to stand around the MacBedes, the tales
continued. I learned that an eight-year-old lass strode out to the courtyard,
as the MacBede warriors prepared to leave. She ignored wives and mothers and
sisters who stood near their men, and approached each and every warrior to hand
him a small parcel.
    “It
was a square of plaid, no more than a scrap, and inside that plaid she’d placed
a piece of heather amid soil from the land. Then she told them, in her earnest
child’s way, to carry that parcel with them, for it would remind them of what
they fought for; the land, the name and the wild glory of both.”
    The
cheers of earlier were no match for these which shook the very walls of the
keep. And, as Maggie looked out at the wild shouts she saw, to her amazement,
that every MacBede man held his little packet of plaid and soil and heather in
the grip of his hand. Some so old, soil spilled from the worn fabric.