chapter 7 - A STORY TOLD
Talorc's hand rested upon Maggie's shoulders. Reassuring it was not, coming from a man too wild to anticipate, and far too confident. All evening he overlooked her and then, just like that, expected to convince her to go away with him, as though she had no mind of her own.
“To all you men who joined me in the battle against the Gunns," Maggie jumped as Talorc's voice blasted out across the hall. "Have we not failed to honor the one who pulled us through?”
A roar rose to the rafters matched by the thunder of stomping feet and fists that pounded table tops. Dishes clattered and shook, some fell to the floor. Maggie looked about, to see who they were honoring, but all the warriors faced forward, sights set on the Bold who shouted above the noise.
“I’ll do my telling,” He bellowed, “for everyone to hear the glory of our Maggie MacBede!”
Maggie MacBede? The thought of it nearly suffocated, as the cheers crescendoed. Her whole body trembled as warrior after warrior moved forward, crossed their right arm over their chest, right hand to left shoulder and bowed low to Maggie. Legs wobbly, Talorc had to help her stand.
She nodded to each man who offered obeisance to her, stunned by the clamor of the hall.
"Maggie, Maggie, Maggie . . ." They chanted.
She could take no more, held her hand out for them to stop. “Please,” she asked them and immediately they silenced their appreciation. “I would like to hear what this is all about.”
She stood firm lest they feel they’d frightened her, though frighten they did. And it was the Bold's fault. She was certain of that, because never before, no matter how many battles the MacBedes had fought, had personal honor come to her. It was a heavy weight she never asked for.
The men took to their seats again, stilled as the Bold had not been able to still them. Once again, Talorc sat her, a hand to her shoulder, before nodding to her parents, and again facing the tables of warriors before them.
“It is no secret that these past years have brought great sadness to the Highlands. Sassenaches have been trying to send their fancy Lords and knights to rule our land, our people. Men from the North, the powerful mighty Norsemen, have not ebbed in their pursuit of what is ours. Are the Gunns not more Norsemen than Scot?”
Belches and curses fouled the air just as the idea fouled their thoughts.
“Brave and glorious the Clan MacKay and all our septs, including the MacBedes, have faced great losses and grand great warriors. Our babes have cried with hunger ‘til our souls were torn apart. We’ve faced the mockery of the Sassenach who see glory only in the silver they eat with and the fancy cloth they wear.
They laugh at the way we live, as comfortable upon a bed of snow as a mattress filled with down.
“These English are men with no hearts, men who have no care for what we are, who we are and the land we breathe for. And yet they threaten to rule us.
“And so, with these sorrows and woes upon our hearts we battled the Gunns over disputes 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 death 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, just for 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 fist of his hand. Some so old, soil spilled from the worn fabric. Others were 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 the fear that 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 any more. 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 to 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 creagh’s, 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 was 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, before he spoke again.
“And so I ask you, Maggie MacBede, come with me to my home.”
Her heart sank.
“Be my bride.”
Fear spiraled.
“Birth me daughters.”
Her stomach plummeted.
He continued, “wee lasses as loyal and stout of heart as their mother and valiant, brave sons to fight by my side.
"I need you, Maggie MacBede. The Clan MacKay needs you, and all of her septs. Come with me as my bride and together we will save the whole of the Highlands from the Norsemen and the Sassenachs.”
How could she deny him?
“Be my bride.”
He stood, his hand held out to her. She had no choice but to take it, to allow that tug that had her standing by his side, though her limbs quaked, her hands trembled.
“I’m not what you would think.” She whispered, for pride kept her from speaking to all those who listened eagerly.
“Aye, you are Maggie.” He told her softly, “you are everything I think. It is you who knows not what you are.”
Looking directly into his eyes, all too aware of his bold assurance, she allowed him to see her fear. With a gracious force she had never thought to conjure, she replied. “I will think on what you have said, Laird MacKay. By spring you will have your answer.”
He began to shake his head, before she had even finished her telling.
“Maggie, I knew you were the one by the first victory. It was then that I vowed to wed you for the clans. But today, when I saw you running through the courtyard, your plaid flapping like a flag, your auburn mane flying behind you. It was then that I knew I would be wedding you for myself.”
One tug and she was close enough for him to rest his hands upon her shoulders.
“What I hadna' expected was the feel of you, Maggie MacBede, when your brother tossed you into my hands. ‘Twas a brilliant jolt. A shock of lightning coursin’ through me. I knew right then, I would marry you for the grand power of our mating and the bonny bright bairnes that would bring.
“Marry me tonight, Maggie MacBede. Be my bride, for the strength of our clans and the future of our kinship. Do it for the land, for the name and for the wild glory of both!”