chapter 3 – BAWDY WOMEN
Aulay Gunn looked to where the man pointed.
“See that?” Old Ros wailed. “See those holes?” His hands trembled with distress. “They’ve been punched in there.” Tears threatened. “How am I to go out and get fish? How are we to feed ourselves?”
This was not the first fisherman to have lost boats to sabotage.
“Aye, you’ll not be using that boat this day. You tend to it, see if it can’t be made sea worthy again. I’ll get young Taran to help you.”
“And you’ll go after the MacKays, now?” Ros’s voice firmed, fueled by retribution.
“Oh aye,” Aulay promised. “Don’t you worry. We’ll get the lousy MacKay’s if they’re the ones who are doing this.”
“Of course they’re the ones who are doing this, mon. Who else would do such a thing?”
“I don’t know, Ros, I just don’t know.” Aulay shook his head, fretting over just that. The MacKays may be mortal enemies stealing livestock and raiding goods but that was no different than the Gunns were want to do.
Malicious destruction for its own sake was not something The MacKay would condone. The man had his sense of honor. This was not honorable.
Much as Aulay hated to admit it, he and the MacKay were not that different. On separate sides of the fence, but with the same responsibilities. The MacKay had no reason to start a war with the Gunns. Everyone in their part of the world knew the man had just filled his stores. Why do something that would drain those resources? It made no sense.
“If it’s the MacKays, we will get them for this. But I want to find out just who the vermin is before we strike.”
“Bloody MacKays, that’s who it is, mon, who else would go against us like this?”
And that, Aulay knew, was the crux of his problem.
* * * * * * * * * *
Maggie slipped through the keep headed for the kitchens, relaxed, as she always did, amid scents that embraced, succulent and heady as only a kitchen can be. This was her home, her place, amid the bustle of clan's women, within this room rich with roasting meats, spicy steam and yeast. As a child she had helped tend whole haunches skewered on spits set before the huge fire with ovens placed in the wall around that fire. It was here the clanswomen baked cakes and bread while the warmth aided the brewing of strong, dark beer in heavy casks set deep in the shadows.
Simon, her young cousin, stole a bannock cake straight off the rack where it cooled. Maggie chuckled, but did not try to stop Simon,
“Did you see The MacKay?” Sibeal, wife of Maggie's oldest brother asked any who would listen.
Simon headed to the spit handle he had abandoned. Maggie shooed him away and grabbed the handle herself, near enough to hear the chatter, far enough removed that, she hoped, no one would notice her. It was no more than gossip, the women were about, but Maggie found she was drawn to their foolish natter.
“Oh, aye,” her cousin Muireall sighed. “What a man that one is.” Maggie snorted. Everyone knew Muireall thought the same of all men.
“He’s even larger than The MacBede.” Another cousin brayed. Too true, Maggie glowered.
“Did you see his eyes?” Muireall trilled, “I’ve never seen anything so blue in my life. They’re as clear as the summer sky.” Summer sky? Nay, not so simple. They were more like a gem and its playful light, fire and ice all in one place. Just as likely to burn as to make you shiver.
And shiver she did, remembering his eyes when he looked at her. Thoughts of him were like a fierce undertow. A body could drown in it while scrambling for a shore that was safe and secure. Maggie released the spits handle, startled by her own thoughts. She had to get out of the room, away from the talk, talk, talk.
“Are you fancying him then, Muireall?” Alec's wife, Caitlin, lured Maggie back with her question. “For you must know when a man is that large, he’s that large allllll over.” Maggie blushed. She doubt if all she felt was bunched cloth, which meant Caitlin's words were truth.
“You’re not telling me anything I don’t know.” Muireall bragged, “My own Malcolm, God rest his soul, was no little tyke.”
“No,” the others laughed together, “no he was no small man, and a shame it was he had to go so soon. He’s missed.”
“The missing wouldn’t be so bad,” Muireall confided with a laugh, “if it could be shared with someone like the MacKay, now. And as he’s been widowed these three years, well . . .”
“Och, Muireall,” Nigel’s wife, Leitis, humphed, “he’s not looking for a widow such as yourself.”
“And why not?”
Maggie snorted. There was no need to turn around to see the glances passed from one woman to another. They’d all be looking about, wondering who would do the telling. It was Leitis who finally admitted, “He’s not going to look for a lady willing to share the warmth in any bed. A man such as the MacKay will show more discretion.”
You tell her, Leitis, Maggie thought sourly, only to feel guilty moments later when Muireall countered, “Say what you like but you can’t ken the loneliness of an evenin’ alone. You don’t know what it’s like to have your man taken in his prime, not even married a full year and no bairn to wake me in the night with cries. The loneliness, och, it’s a terrible thing.”
“Oh, aye, Muireall,” Leitis admitted, “it is a sad thing, I’m sure, but you know it’s a worrying thing as well. You have to watch yourself. Too many see, too many tell. And what that means is there’s just too many.”
The women burst into laughter, all but Muireall who looked about, her brow furrowed. “Too many what?” She asked.
Laughter descended to snorts as Leitis quipped. “Too many men in your bed.”
Both Sibeal and Caitlin offered, “That’s not being fair to cousin Muireall, now. She didn’t take on Puny Piers.”
“He had Maggie’s eye, then, didn't he?” Leitis chided.
“Well,” Muireall defended, “I’ve never warmed myself with Babbling Birk the bard.”
“For the same reason.”
“And now there’s Maggie’s Hamish the tailor,” Agnes tossed in, “Muireall hasn’t gone near him!”
Once again the room erupted with laughter as women called out, “Who else would notice those scrawny buggers but our Maggie?”
“There not fit for anyone.”
“'Tis Maggie and her love for the runts of the litter.”
“Stop it!” Maggie swirled about, anger as wild as her wind-tossed hair, “you know nothing about it. They are good men, each and every one of them. Just because they aren’t as big as a mountain and as thick in the head doesn’t mean there isn’t some goodness to them.”
“Oh, aye, Maggie, I’m certain you have the right of it.” Caitlin eased.
“Besides,” Maggie swallowed pride to loyally defend her men, “it was I who was not good enough for them.”
“Don’t be daft.” Sibeal snipped.
“Aye, it’s fact," back straight, chin up against the humiliation of reality Maggie admitted. "Not one of those men would have me now, would they?” The silence of the room told her what she already knew. It was the truth.
“Ach, lassie,” Muireall sighed, “you should be praising God that you weren’t landed with those boys.” Maggie kicked the fire's coals.
“Come on now Maggie girl,” Neili and Roz beckoned her, “Don’t be listening to them. We’ve need of your light hand with the pastry here.”
Fine ones to talk, those two. The same age as Maggie and they'd been married for years and before that they'd been courted by a number of good, decent men. Warring men. They could have them.
“Flattery now?” Maggie mumbled, but she went to help them as two men sidle in through the back doorway. Maggie snorted. If they wanted to be invisible, let them try, but with their size, their sex, and the fact that they were MacKay Clansmen, and therefore unfamiliar, they weren't likely to be overlooked in a roomful of women.
“Are you so lazy you want me to help you?” She asked the two pastry workers.
Neili and Roz took no notice of Maggie or her taunt. No one did. The only response to her words was the spit of the fat dripping into the fire. Unlike Maggie the others couldn't carry on once two strange men had walked into their spheres. Huge grins gleamed white against tanned faces, the only features discernible in the shadow where they stood.
Predictable as ever, Muireall preened. Maggie grunted and chuckled to herself with a quick glance to see what the men made of her cousin. Only, they didn't look at Muireall, didn't seem to notice her at all. They had their sights fixed firmly on Maggie. She swallowed her chuckle, grabbed a dollop of dough. The feel of it a familiar distraction, she bent her head to the task, worked the lump of dough smooth, turning it round and round in her hand. The men may as well stand right behind her, breathing down her neck for the way it prickled.
Fortunately, Muireall was not one to be ignored. She went into action, grabbed two mugs from the counter, splashed ale into them from the pitcher on the table. "Is there anything you'd be wanting?" she asked them, her voice husky with innuendo, as she moved about. "Drop of ale?" She lifted up the mugs. "Bannock cake, perhaps?" She swiped some off the cooling rack, and stood in front of the men mugs filled, a plate of steaming cakes on offer, before they could answer.
Maggie tried to watch from the side, her eyes cast down. Muireall stayed with the men, one hand at her waist, the other holding the pitcher of ale braced on her hip, her head tilted flirtatiously. She was a site, for certain. Men rarely ignored Muireall, but though the three talked in low murmurs, the men never dropped their sights from Maggie. She was trapped in a web that made no sense. They were the Bold's men. They were there in his interest.
Enemies, to her at least.
Muireall left them against the far wall and sashayed back to the table. The women resumed their work. The men whispered to themselves, bannock cakes gone in a bite, ales sipped slowly. Stilted silence hung over the room, testament to their presence.
Sibeal, who would not, could not, let a conversation drop broke the moment to lean over and pat Maggie's shoulder. Maggie jerked back in horror even though Sibeal managed to keep her voice lowered.
“Maggie," Sibeal whispered, "it wasn’t that those boys were better than you. They just knew what we already know.”
With a hard shake of her head Maggie tried to stop the conversation. "Leave it Sibeal, you don't understand." Propelled by the humiliation, Maggie worked the pastry flatter and flatter between her palms. People teased her, as if her choices were a joke, a bit of fun. No one understood the shame of it, of knowing what you want, who you want and knowing that they didn't want you in return.
“Maggie, don't you see?" Sibeal continued. "You’re just too much for them."
"Stop it." Maggie shot a quick glance to see if the strangers had heard.
"She's right," Neili countered. "There's nothing to those men, not in body, not in mind. You're just too much woman for them.”
“Oh, aye,” the others chorused in comforting whispers.
“Too much spirit.” Caitlin chimed in a bit louder. Maggie shot her a silencing frown.
Muireall, who loved to have an audience, ignored Maggie's distress. “Maggie lass," she boomed, "Take a look at yourself! Don't you know, you're just too much," she hefted her own bosom, "body.” The word exploded in the room, followed by a barrage of earthy squeals.
Maggie glared. Her curves were no more than God's way of balancing her height, keeping her in proper proportion. There was naught she could do about that.
“Oh aye.” Leitis trilled, discretion forgotten. “Can you not hear the gossip ‘Puny Hamish the tailor dies with a smile on his face? Drowns in the full bodied womaness of Maggie MacBede.’”
Hoots filled the air. Even the MacKay men, who tried so foolishly to blend with the wall, boomed their amusement. People would hear it across the loch. You’d think the kitchen was full of rough and rowdy men rather than a passel of women. And what did any of them know?
“They were a disgrace measured next to you.” Leitis offered as she fought to catch her breath.
Maggie pressed dough in her hands, thinner and thinner, her head bent to her task, anger building with each round of pastry.
These women knew nothing. Look at Muireall, who angled for a brute of a warrior having already lost one husband to the fight. Didn't they see what they were asking for? Did they all wish to feel the loneliness that Muireall suffered?
“You weren’t made to be the wife of a runt.”
Harder and harder she turned the dough until it was a circle so fine you could see through it. She placed her latest effort on the pile of finished tart shells and tried to break the flow of humor. “You know,” she tilted her head, the shrill crack of her voice the only sign of irritation, “I think it was not exaggerating you were up to, Neili! I’m thinking you spoke the truth! I do have a fine hand with the dough.”
“Oh do you?” Roz elbowed Neili.
“Aye, I’m thinking that my pastry shells are the best.”
“Well then, whatever you say, Mistress Margaret.” Neili winked at Roz. “And as you are the best,” Roz sidled away, “you should do them all!”
“You wouldn’t.” Maggie hurled the pastry at the giggling girls.
Like a spirit, appearing from nowhere, Fiona caught the dough in mid-air. The room stilled. Out of the corner of her eye, Maggie noted that the men stood straighter, their smiles wiped clean.
Fiona sighed at Maggie. “Enough of chattering and playing, daughter. You need to be getting yourself ready.”
“Ready for what?” Nosy Muireall asked.
“For The MacKay, of course." Fiona answered. "He is to be our guest.”
"What does that have to do with me?" Maggie snapped, not that she wanted to know. Not that she wanted any one to know. But she had opened her mouth and the worst came out. Quiet settled on the room. Maggie sighed.
One of the MacKay's, so silent up until now, spoke. "Lady MacBede you speak as if you know what the Bold is here for?"
Fiona shook her head. “Nay.
The man accepted that as answer enough. This time Maggie's sigh was full of relief.
Fiona turned to Simon, "Have some lads send more hot water up to my chamber. I’m going to see to the men’s baths." She faced Maggie again, "And you, young lass,” she took Maggie’s shoulders, looked her up and down with a shake of her head. "Look at the state of you. Your hair is naught but a tangled mass. You need to be seeing to yourself.”
“But Ma.”
“No buts daughter. I'm not knowing the why of it, but the MacKay is here to see you." She turned to the men, "Is that much not so?"
Their stupid grins were back in place. "Aye, mistress, 'tis a fact."
"Well then, child," Fiona flipped a strand of Maggie's hair from her shoulder, "you’d best make yourself worth seeing?”
Nothing, absolutely nothing, moved within the room except Fiona. Oblivious to the reaction she’d created, she swept past the other women.
The frozen state lasted for as long as one woman could hold her breath then all manner of chaos erupted.
“The MacKay?”
“Oh, aye, isn’t that a ripe one.”
“Our Maggie?”
“You don’t say? Well, it’s about time.”
“And here she had us all thinking she was sweet on Hamish the tailor.”
“Och, wouldn’t the MacKay be just the one for our Maggie?" Letice looked to the MacKay men who nodded their agreement. Slyly she added. "He’d not die in her womaness.”
“He’d thrill to it.”
“Rise to it is more the way of things.” One of the men blurted out.
"Ohhhhh!" The stunned laughter swallowed Maggie as all the women gathered around, pushing her hair from her face, pinching her cheeks, taking as close a look as they did when she was a wee babe, barely born.
No one had looked at her that closely in as long.
It was better that way.
She was none too happy with the attention now.