Free The Handfasting by Becca St. John Page B

Others,
bright and new.
    They
had kept them? They had not tossed them in a stream as they left the land? They
had not laughed at her, or thought her so foolish that they could not answer
her?
     “As
you can guess, the men were stunned beyond words for fear tears might fall. That
a child, a mere little child, bonny as she was, could speak what each needed to
hear . . . ah, she was a one to be remembered.”
    Maggie
slumped upon her bench, startled by what she was hearing, seeing.
    “But
it did not stop there, Maggie girl,” Talorc said, directly to her, though his
voice filled the entire hall.
    “Nay,
it did not stop there. For tales abound of the young girl, Maggie MacBede, of
her throwing a rock and downing a Sassenach, of topping an enemy who tried to
climb over the wall.
    “There’s
talk of a little bairn, six years at the most, making a nuisance of herself on
the battlements, carrying water and lugging pebbles, whatever she thought the
warriors would need.
    “My
heart swelled with the hope that one day I would have such a daughter, when the
stories turned, and this wee lass was not so wee anymore. No, she had grown, in
the space of the telling, into a strapping lass whose honor was much sought
after. It took all seven of her brothers to keep suitors at bay.”
    “There
were not so many!” Maggie snapped, slapping her hand over her mouth in
embarrassment.
    The
Bold laughed, an audacious bellow.
    “You
think not, lass?” He calmed enough to ask,   “And why do you think you're left
with nothing but puny men to look to?” Maggie could do naught but shake her
head. She wanted to say that puny men were all she wanted, but she could not,
so Talorc continued. “The rest, my sweet, the men more worthy of you, have been
warned away. Which pleases me no end.” Talorc confided to the whole of his
audience. “For I mean to make her my own.”
    “No!”
She screamed, pushed beyond control by his bluntness.
    No
one took any notice. No one cared that her hands shook at the way he was openly
courting her, putting her in a place she didn’t want to be. A place she might
not be able to extract herself from.
    The
Bold continued his tale. “I am The MacKay, the Laird of our clans, and yet this
woman, your fine, gentle and true Maggie MacBede, rounded the men with spirit
and fire.
    "The
following day was dark with the omen of death, but it was not a fearful day for
us, nor was it our deaths the day spoke of. Hearts full of tales of Maggie
MacBede, we stood tall and bold, strong in the face of battle, and shouted our
warrior’s cry,
    “For
the land . . .
    "for
the name . . .
    "for
the Wild Glory of each!"
    The
men started to stomp, in unison, a pounding of feet like a drum roll. Talorc's
voice rose above it, clear to the rafters . . .
    "And
for Our Maggie MacBede!” His cry echoed through the keep, rained emotion strong
enough to wring tears and shouts of triumph from all who listened.
    Maggie
could see the testament upon her mother’s cheeks and she wanted to weep herself.
Not for the glory, but for the foolishness of it all. She was no saint to be
worshiped. She was no grand person to be bowed to. She was just Maggie, daughter
of Feargus and Fiona. Daughter of this home, this piece of land. As passions
grew within the room, Maggie felt her own wither and die.
    Talorc
continued, though to Maggie his voice came from very far away. “With ease, we
won that battle, and each one that followed. We went on to greater victory on
the creaghs, bringing food enough to feed our people for more than a winter. And
we did all, fueled by the strength and loyalty of one wee woman. Maggie
MacBede.”
    She
sat, waiting, knowing deep in her bones that she did not want what was to
follow. Her strength, her loyalty, were for the MacBedes and her home. She did
not want to leave this place, her clan, to go off with a stranger no matter how
peculiar he made her feel.
    As
though he sensed her need for thoughts, Talorc waited, watching her,