Torn (The Handfasting)

by Becca St. John

  He hadn't just failed to fetch her; he was never there, ever, any more. The last time she'd fallen ill, he sat with her hour after hour. Now, he claimed he was too busy trying to find out how the poison came to be in her cup.

  A memory shifted. She frowned, fingers and feet stilled.

  There was something elusive about that cup. She remembered lifting it to her mouth and then . . . nothing. No thought, no recollection, nothing. Perhaps that was best.

  "Where is he, ma?"

  Head bent to a task she didn't work at, Fiona pressed the edges of her own pleats. It was a familiar gesture, a thoughtful pose as she fought for comfortable words in an uncomfortable situation.

  "There's something you're not telling me." Maggie accused.

  "Me?" Fiona looked up, looked down, rose to her feet and smoothed her plaid. Delay tactics.

  "Aye, you." Maggie snapped then watched as her mother drew in a deep breath. Oh no, she thought, no and shut her eyes again, as if to block the words she knew would come.

  "He wants you to return with us."

  The world spun, Maggie's stomach plummeted. "Why?"

  "He . . ." Fiona hesitated as though leafing through thoughts the way one leafs through a book for information, "You must know your father and I agree, as do your brothers . . ." Fiona's lips thinned. "Maggie, it's not safe for you here. Not until he knows . . ."

  "I'm safe enough."

  "You've been hit in the head, poisoned. God knows what else might happen."

  "Mother, I was warned. I may not have heeded it, but I was warned. Ian told me, in a dream, not to drink the water."

  "So you claim, and you've always been a canny dreamer, but tell you or no, you still drank, and swallowed."

  "I know better now."

  Fiona dropped into a chair, motioned for Maggie to take the opposite one.

  "Your Talorc is feeling regret. Not only did he push you, when you weren't ready to be pushed, but he sent you to danger. He nearly lost you twice for it. All the signs say he was wrong to take you. You were right to fight the match."

  Such a twisted mess, she had to battle her own arguments. "Ma, it's too late to go backwards. I've accepted the risks in being married to the Bold. He must accept the risks in being married to me."

  Fiona shook her head. "You don't understand, Maggie. He's the reason you are in peril. And besides, love," She leaned over, brushed hair away from Maggie's forehead. "Men may have more brawn, but women are stronger and braver in affairs of the heart."

  "That's just too bad. He's going to have to live with that."

  "Maggie." Fiona stood, not to be thwarted. "We're leaving on the morrow and you're coming with us."

  "I have no say?"

  "He'll not make it easy for you and neither will I."

  "You act like I'm a guilty, thoughtless child. You put me in this place and now that I want to be here, you mean to take me away?" Unfairness swamped her.

  Maggie met Fiona's steady glance, but her steadiness did not stop Fiona's arguments. "At least come home until he finds out who is guilty of wishing you harm."

  Fury edged Maggie forward. "Am I never to make my own decisions?" She jumped up, paced, voice rising with each step. "He regrets making my decisions earlier, but refuses to stop doing so. I have a mind to . . ."

  Fiona grabbed Maggie by the shoulders, tears pooling in her eyes. "It broke my heart to lose you to another keep, but daughter mine, to lose you to foul play, och, I couldna' stand that."

  Like a fish on dry land, Maggie's heart flipped and flopped between tender emotion and frustration. She could have used her mother’s argument a hundred times as a child, raised in a household with men who insisted on facing death square on. Everyone knew that each battle fought, diminished the odds of their surviving.

  This time, Maggie was on the other side of the fear. It was her safety that tormented now.

  "Ma, life comes and it goes. We can't determine what it is for God to fate."

  "Easy for you to say."

  Maggie threw her hands up. "You face such dangers with my brothers without argument."

  "Don't try that." Fiona snapped. "You were the one who cursed them for making me face their risks."

  "Aye, and you never said a word. You never made their decisions for them."

  "They were sons. Why do you think I craved a daughter so?"

  Maggie huffed. "I'm a woman now, ma. Grown, married, carried a babe in my belly. I don't even live with you, it's time I act on my own mind and that says I won't go."

  "Even for a visit?"

  "I've done that." Now all she wanted was to be held by her husband. They had lost their child, their babe. She wanted to be held, to be told of his love for her. Instead, he stayed away, avoided her presence from the day she drank the poison.

  He chose to send her away.

  "It was not my fault." She argued aloud. Fiona moaned, deep in her throat, and reached to hold Maggie, but it wasn't a mother's hold Maggie wanted.

  Perhaps Talorc never loved her. Perhaps, she was no more than a goal that had lost its value.

  "I've done nothing wrong."

  "Maggie."

  She spun to see Talorc in the doorway.

  "No one thinks you did anything wrong,"

  She yearned to run to him but held back by battered emotions. He chose to send her away. It was there, in the way he stood, remote, just a few feet away. He could be all the way to England and be closer.

  She sighed. "It's your chamber as well as mine. You can step into it."

  He didn't move. "Are you ready to go below stairs?"

  He didn't want her, could barely be near her. The reality of it yanked at her security. There was no energy to fight him. Emotions cloaked, she refused his offered arm when she reached him. She'd not force herself to his care.

  "Are you coming, ma?" She looked over her shoulder. Talorc took her elbow, urged her forward.

  "Fiona will follow us."

  How different this time, to the first, when he'd taken her along this same hallway to meet his clan. He had wanted her then, confessed or not. She had known, had sensed it. Now the affection was gone, the caring an act of manners not heart. She had become a stranger that he couldn't be rid of fast enough.

  They reached the stairs to solemn silence. No shouts of joy, no cheers of welcome. Not this time. She had lost a child, an heir to the laird. The clan's respectful stillness, in a time when Talorc refused to share the sorrow, nearly broke her.

  Needing support, she reached, gripped his arm, surprised by his gentleness, when he laid his hand upon hers. She glanced up. His gentle touch contrasted with the harsh mask of his expression, focused far from her.

  Face taut, he studied the people in the hall, reminding Maggie that one of them had murdered their child. It seemed impossible. The only one at odds with Maggie was Seonaid who kept her distance. Seonaid understood men, not herbs. She had little time or tolerance for Maggie, but that was her general tone toward all women.

  She was a loner. Not a murderer. Possessive, not crazed.

  As Talorc guided Maggie down the staircase, she tried to see what he would have seen, but failed. No one prompted her to fury. Not even Beathag, who stood on the outskirts of the gathering alone, fearful. Some suspected her, but Maggie did not.

  She glanced up at Talorc again. He refused to look at her. She stopped, mid-step. The surprise forced him to glance her way, a frowning slant of a look, gone as quick as it had come. It was the first time he had looked directly at her since the poisoning.

  He was probably as reluctant to touch her.

  Fine.

  She pulled her hand from his arm, lifted her skirts ankle high. He whispered her name. Head high, she ignored him, made her own way down the stairs, with a smile for everyone gathered below. As she moved, she noticed Beathag again. The older woman sat huddled in the back of the great hall, her shivers visible from across the smoky chamber.

  "Excuse me," Maggie nodded as she wove through the crowd, towar
d the pitiable old nursemaid. She was halfway there when someone walked straight into her.

  "Seonaid?"

  "I'm sorry, I didn't see you there before I moved." The brunette swiped at her plaid as if soiled from their encounter. Maggie stepped away.

  "So, you're better." Seonaid's cold concern chilled Maggie's spine. "What a shame that someone was fool enough to gather water and wild venomous plants in the same place."

  "Is that what happened?"

  "That's what's said."

  "Interesting." Maggie murmured and looked back at Beathag, only Beathag wasn't there anymore. Maggie swiveled, tried to spot the older woman.

  Seonaid interrupted the search. "I knew you would not stay."

  "Oh,” Maggie’s fury rose. “It is not I who chooses my leaving.”

  "No?" Seonaid frowned, leaned closer. "Perhaps I have not seen you in a true light.” Maggie raised an eyebrow. Seonaid continued. “Perhaps you and I should speak."

  "Now?" Stunned, Maggie looked up, half wondered if she was looking into the eyes of a murderess. "It's a bit late for us to be talking."

  "About your going?" Seonaid gripped her hard, "You could come back."

  "Aye. I’ve a mind to" Maggie yanked free, confidence building. Talorc hadn't been with her, but neither had he been confiding in the other woman. "If you don't mind, I'm looking for someone."

  "Beathag?"

  Maggie tilted her head, surprised by Seonaid's unusual persistence. "You don't want to be talking to Beathag. She's so overwrought with what happened to you that she can't even speak."

  "So I've heard, she just shivers and shakes. But it's not talking I mean to do, not that it's any matter to you."

  "The woman's crazy. It's my thought she did poison you. She is a Gunn after all."

  "Is she? And why isn't she with them now? Her charge, bless her soul, isn't here anymore."

  Seonaid lowered her eyes, the frown grown deeper, marring the perfection of her brow. As though to convince herself, she murmured. "Beathag's nothing but a hag. I doubt the Gunns want her any more than we do.”

  "Who says the MacKays don't want her?"

  Rather than answer her, Seonaid looked over her shoulder and Maggie knew Talorc was there before he took her arm.

  "Go away." She didn't bother to look at him.

  "Maggie?" He tugged.

  She shrugged him off. "Go away."

  "Whatever you have to say to each other, you can say to me."

  "I'm thinking she doesn't look well, Bold," Seonaid lied. "She needs to be going back to bed."

  Talorc had the grace to ignore her, but he did study Maggie. His gaze a sensation, it rippled through her. She had missed it. But he was sending her away. "I'm fine, Bold, better than when I was above stairs."

  "I don't want you upset, or bothered."

  Maggie looked anywhere but at him. "You're the only one who bothers me now." Which was true. Her eyes shifted back to his face, unable to stop from filling up on memories.

  He frowned at his feet. Except for him, and her parents, who verged so close to charging to her rescue they looked like racers waiting for the cloth to drop, she and Seonaid had been given a wide berth.

  She pushed Bold toward her kin. "Go. Calm them."

  He hesitated, for a moment, then did as she asked. Surprised, she blinked. His compliance meant one of two things, either he really didn't care what happened to her, or he trusted her to take care of herself.

  That didn’t matter right now. She needed to see Beathag. Questions about the cup skirted her memory. So much rode on explaining what happened and how to keep it from happening again.

  Beathag was not to blame, but the old woman might be able to help her grasp the evasive answers. Besides, Maggie hated to see the old woman in such a fretful way when she had done nothing wrong. She wanted to help her find some peace.

  There were two doorways near where she’d been sitting, one to the hallway and all the rooms beyond. The other door, an outer door, led to the kitchens. If the woman had gone to the hallway, she could be anywhere in the keep. It would take less time to search the smaller area of the kitchen, less time wasted if it was the wrong choice.

  Beathag was there, rooted in the midst of preparations for a feast. Deep in thought, she no longer shivered, ignored the busy women who muttered about her being in the way. Maggie moved toward her, when suddenly, without warning, Beathag came to life. She moved toward the sugar bin, stopped short than acted as if she were there, lifting the lid, chipping off a chunk, raising a piece to be dropped in some invisible container.

  The old woman enacted the same parody for a spoonful of malt. From there Beathag crossed to the molasses cask, again she stopped short and mimed turning an imaginary spigot, only to shut it off with the quick precise motion needed to stop it in mid-flow. When she made to move to the yeast, Maggie cut her off.

  "Beathag," Had this disaster set her beyond recovery? Was she now as lost within her mind as she was within this community?

  Eyes bright, Beathag squeezed Maggie's hands then pulled away.

  "What is it Beathag?" The older woman shook her head and went back to her routine until she put an imaginary object on a shelf. As she went to leave the kitchen, she reacted as if something brushed against her. She stopped, cringed into herself, and then looked over her shoulder. Her eyes followed the empty space as though tracing the movements of the person who had bumped her. Her expression changed from fear to irritation to a frown and finally confusion.

  She swiveled, her hands on hips, tilting her head with a scowl.

  "Beathag, tell me." Maggie tried, but it was Talorc who answered.

  "She's trying to remember what happened the day you fell ill." He stepped further into the kitchen. "I keep telling her it wasn't in the brew she made, but she won't stop retracing her steps of that day. It's the only thing that stops her shivering." Beathag continued to re-enact her movements. "What did Seonaid want with you?"

  "Seonaid?" Maggie didn't care about Seonaid.

  "She didn't bump into you by accident. It was deliberate. She had something to say, and I'd like to know what it was."

  Maggie frowned and looked away, as she fought to capture an elusive thought. Something Talorc said jogged an idea loose, but not loose enough to tumble into her senses. It tickled at other ideas as if they were all hinged together.

  He had her by the arms. "What did she want?"

  Maggie pulled free. "Did you say bumped?"

  "It was done on purpose."

  "No," she waved that away. "Someone brushed past Beathag when she went to leave the room. Someone who did not belong there, and did something to anger Beathag."

  "Beathag is too meek to get truly angry."

  "No she's not." Maggie's head snapped up, "She's not so much timid, as she's aware this is not her place, her home, her position meager. She knew she couldn't challenge, that didn't mean she fell in line with all that was done and said."

  Talorc was not pleased. "We never sent her away, though we told her she could go if she wanted. She chose to stay, and was accepted."

  Maggie snorted. "Accepted or tolerated?"

  "We were never unkind."

  There was no point in arguing the matter. Maggie resolved, right at that moment, that she would give Beathag a home that appreciated her. "You would be amazed at what she sees." Which brought Seonaid to mind.

  His eyes narrowed. "Would I?" Then he looked at the older woman as if to witness what had been hidden from him. "Do you think she would harm you?"

  "Never. But Seonaid is wary of what the old woman sees."

  He stilled. "Why would you say that, lass?

  "I'm not a lass any longer," she studied him, wanting to see a flicker of reaction. "I'm a wife now, a full grown woman." He glanced away.

  Beathag scuttled up to Maggie, tugged at her arm. "Up there, on the shelf." With a tenacious grip she pulled Maggie further into the kitchen. "She changed the cups."

  "Who, Beathag? Who?" Talorc joine
d them.

  Exulted, Beathag put her lips together, to name the culprit. There was a twang, a snuffle of air and a thud. Beathag's words bubbled out on a gurgle, as an arrow came through the front of her throat.

  Stunned, no one heard the second twang, the whir of an arrow. Shoved by shock, Maggie stumbled backward. Talorc caught Beathag before she could fall and shouted for the nearest man to take her. Unloaded of his burden, he started to run toward the back entrance.

  Time warped, moments slowed, actions dragged.

  Mid stride, Talorc turned, spotted Maggie, his mouth opened to shout but no sound came. The determined gleam in his eye dulled to horror, his face churned with fleeting emotions, as his body twisted in mid-air, as though it had lagged behind thought, to follow the path of his gaze.

  Maggie shook her head. Talorc's spin took minutes rather than seconds as his emotions bombarded her, huge waves of horror, anguish, torment, fury.

  What had she done?

  His silent bellow of fury erupted and time dropped back to reality in a swirl of screams and shouts and chaos.

  She felt, rather than saw, her mother reach her and collapse in a faint. She felt her father's arms on hers, the blast of his breath against her skin as he lifted her, shouting at the same time for Talorc to get the bastard.

  She was dazed. Numb to all but the sight of Beathag's empty stare as she was led away.

  Did she live?

  Maggie tried to ask, tried to turn to point but could not, which forced her to look down, to see why she couldn't move. There was an arrow pinning her arm to her side. She blinked, saw the end of it barely out of the entrance wound. Which meant the arrow must be coming out her back. Clean through.

  She could not breathe, felt panic rise to swallow her, as darkness overtook.

  * * * * * * * * * *

  Talorc raced from the keep out to the back gardens and stopped. He stood still, men on either side of him. His heart beat so hard he thought it might fly from his chest. With one gesture the men fanned out and moved forward. Swift, but observant, their eyes scanned for signs of fleeing feet, hidden figures.

  The drum of his heart, the race of his blood, urged to charge into a fray. Still, with tremendous effort, Talorc held his ground and waited. His neck prickled, a moment of confusion before he distinguished between reaction and instinct.