The Pledge (12 page)

“And did you help to teach them about riding?” She was sure he had by his look. Now that MacKay was better they could be a
family. Such thoughts made her dizzy with heat.

“I did.”

“I’m glad.” Morrigan nodded, feeling reassured that the two youngsters who’d been such outcasts were being cared for, even
though she’d not had the time to tend them. Her husband had taken all her concentration. And it wasn’t just healing that filled
her mind. Her
thoughts always flew back to their wedding night. If only Hugh remembered… then again, that could be a bad idea. Dilla, who’d
helped so much, had exclaimed about the blood on the sheets thinking that the laird had emitted it from his system. Morrigan
hadn’t disabused her. What would she say if he ever quizzed her about that night? As his wife she was honor bound to be honest.
As Rhys’s guardian, she’d made a vow to keep his identity hidden.

There were so many facets to her husband. Would she ever know all of them? He intrigued her, not just for his natural leadership,
his caring for his clan, but for his intelligence, his interests in all levels of life. None of her family had ever been scholars
though none had been unlearned. She’d been tutored in all aspects of leadership and learning. Her uncles had thought it useless.
Her father had persevered.

It delighted Morrigan that her husband was as learned in script and parchment as she. He had an intense knowledge of many
topics from the classics to agrarian management, and the running of the long-haired Highland cattle called stoats.

Most of this she’d learned from Diuran, Toric, and Dilla. She’d become even more informed by studying the personal library
that he kept in his suite of rooms. The study of the stars marched with new methods of planting, along with the battle planning
of Pericles and Alexander. His interests crossed the line between eastern mysticism, Christianity, and the study of the ancient
beliefs, primarily the credos of the Druids and Vikings. He had all the Greek poets in their native tongue, as well as the
Latin scholars. Most of the tomes were well thumbed. Not often was such found outside a monastery. Pondering her unusual husband,
she let her horse follow Rhys’s pony.

When the going became arduous she called out to Rhys to stop, then she moved to his side, careful not to let her larger mount
bump his. Not far beyond the land sloped down to the sea that boiled onto the rocky strand. Loud, wonderful, awesome they
stared down at the cauldron.

“Let’s hurry, maman.”

“Wait! We must use every caution, Rhys. You must follow me closely, and carefully. ’Tis a most precipitous descent and we
must be sure of our footing.” Morrigan wasn’t sure about the decline. Mayhap ’twould be better to keep him on the escarpment.

“I can get down there,” he insisted when she continued to hesitate.

“Good. You must still let me study the way first.”

“Eamon says down there beyond those rocks that stick into the sea be a place for swimming,” Rhys told her, his voice raised
to be heard over the crashing waves.

“There is a place for swimming,” Morrigan corrected his usage, as she often did when she needed time to think. Should they
go down to the strand? It was quite beautiful and very warm. They could walk barefoot at
the water’s edge. “And have you gone into the waters with Eamon?”

Rhys shook his head, looking glum. “He catches me out even when I told him I know how to swim.”

Morrigan nodded, intending to thank Eamon when she saw him. She knew full well how set on an idea Rhys could be.

After looking at the two possible ways down to the strand, Morrigan decided against the descent. Though she was sure Rhys’s
pony would be surefooted, she wasn’t that convinced that Rhys would be able to keep his seat in the steep places. When she
was about to tell him they’d stay on top, he nudged his pony around her, cantering to the edge, then starting down the path.
Stunned, she was frozen in place for precious seconds. If she hadn’t been fearful she’d startle him or his pony, she would’ve
admonished him, and called him back. Any distraction could unseat him, or unbalance the animal under him. She dare not do
anything but follow him.

Gritting her teeth, she kicked her horse into following the boy.

The descent in some places was almost clifflike. Leaning back in her saddle to equalize the weight, she kept her eyes on Rhys,
her heart in her mouth, her attention nailed to the boy and animal in front of her.

Her body was pearled with dampness when they finally reached the strand. The unseasonably warm weather in Scotland had seemed
like a blessing until that
moment. Now her clothes stuck to her, her face was on fire, and she was damned mad at the boy.

“Wait right there,” she called to Rhys, trying to get her breath. She rode up next to him, breathing hard, from fear rather
than exertion. “You… you are never to do that again.”

“What?”

“You know what I’m speaking of, young man, so don’t try to play dunce with me.” She glared at him, until his face fell. “I
would’ve led the way ’ere we should descend. You knew that.”

Knowing full well he’d crossed over the line, he waited, chin thrust out, wariness in every line. “I din’t do nothin’.”

“Anything. And you did. You know you should’ve waited until I said it was all right to descend the cliff. It wasn’t safe,
and I wasn’t about to risk it. You sensed that. Didn’t you?”

He nodded. “I wanted to be on the beach,” he muttered.

“Be that as it may, you were wrong.” She dismounted, letting her innards get back to rhythm, watching him as he got off his
steed, biting back a smile, though she still felt shaky. He was as unruly as some of the destriers in MacKay’s stable. Enough
said. They hadn’t been together in too many days. She wasn’t going to ruin their time by badgering, but later there would
be another lecture in obeying. His discipline had been lacking. Among the MacKays he was more apt to
get a chuckle than censure. Morrigan was going to set some new, firm rules. For now he was safe, and that was most important.
“Promise me you’ll not do such a thing again.”

He nodded. “I won’t, maman.”

“Would you like to collect shells?” Morrigan pointed to the bits and pieces scattered on the strand.

He brightened. “Yes. First, I have to tie Caesar very carefully. That’s what Eamon said.”

Morrigan nodded, being as solemn as he was about the appointed task.

“Eamon says if you take care of your d’s’ter, he takes care of you.”

“Correct,” Morrigan said, eyeing his pony that was half the size of her horse, not even close to the dimensions of the warhorses
used by the MacKays.

Following his lead, she tied her steed, then began to seek the lovely creamy and silver shells strewn on the strand. Over
and over they exclaimed over a rare find. The net bag that’d been attached to Morrigan’s saddle began to bulge with beach
treasures. Though they talked in sporadic sentences, they’d wander away from each other, then back together again. Morrigan
was sure he was not far from her.

“What do you think of this one?” Her smile fled when she turned. “Rhys! Answer me.” Dropping the shell, she hiked up her riding
costume, catching the long skirt between her legs, hooking it into the gem-covered belt around her middle. She ran up the
beach, and around an
outcropping of rock. “Rhys!” she shouted. Then she saw him, breath sobbing out of her. He was bobbing in the sea. “Rhys!”

“Maman! Look!”

She had a blurry impression that something or someone was in the water with him, but she didn’t take her eyes off the boy,
his short arms lifting in the swim stroke he’d been tutored in since babyhood.

“No!” Morrigan shouted as he continued into deeper water!

Stripping down from her heavy bliaut, underdress and headdress to her shift of lightest lawn, she kicked off her stockings
and elkskin boots. Thanking the Celtic gods and goddesses for the Welsh good sense that grounded males and females in all
manner of self-preservation, including swimming and the use of weapons, she moved to the edge of the strand. For long moments
she eyed the shifting waves, the strong retreat of the water, angst building in her. The tide was strong; the rolling waves
could pummel one down in deeper water. Once down, a person could become disoriented, kicking hard to the bottom instead of
up to the air. More than one died in the sea from striking a rock on the bottom.

Then she was flinging herself into the chilly water that days of sun hadn’t warmed that much. Her eyes stayed on the boy,
who seemed to be getting farther away. The tall waves hid him much of the time, but Morrigan stroked hard, determined she
wouldn’t come out of the water unless Rhys was with her. She was
strong, used to cold water, unafraid and able. It would serve her well. They’d come out of this, with God’s help and St. Dafydd.

Hugh MacKay was restless. Some unnamed need or want chewed his innards. He wanted to get back to his major holding, to Morrigan
with the green gem eyes. It annoyed and titillated him that his new wife could have such a magnetic hold on him. They’d not
been together as man and wife because of the poisoning that’d sapped his strength, but he wanted her as though she’d been
a part of him for years. And if his people didn’t stop hovering over him like he was a sickening we’en, he’d strangle the
lot of them. He wasn’t about to wait any longer. He would claim Morrigan for his wife, and soon!

A full turn of the moon and more they’d been wed, and he’d not touched her. His illness had driven him mad with frustration.
It’d taken too long to heal. Then he’d chafed at the akin weakness. He’d wanted her, and not had the ability to take her.
Too many others had hovered over him, determined to bring him to full health. He’d wished them all to perdition. All he wanted
was his wife.

But the dreams! They made him hard even to say the word in his mind. Why would he dream of a strumpet so like his wife, when
he could have his wife? Why didn’t he have his wife? He ground his teeth, muttering epithets. The visions had been so real,
he’d wanted to ask his men the name of the beauty. She’d looked like Morrigan,
but wasn’t. Damn! How could such a powerful loving be imagination? Impossible! What other explanation could there be? Madness.

“What drives you, Aodh?”

“Hugh, cousin.” Correcting Toric was a ploy. His cousin was more than aware of the necessity of the Anglo usage. They’d embarked
on a new life. Though their grip on MacKay holdings was tenuous, to a man they were sworn to keep it. Nay! It was the need
to keep his cousin from probing that he’d corrected him. Not even to his closest companion since childhood could he confess
the colorful passion that danced in him.

They rode ahead of the men, as they often did, so they could converse. More often than not their discussions would be on the
clan, a subject important to both of them. Now he needed to distract Toric from his question, which he didn’t know how to
answer, even if he wished to, and he didn’t.

Toric sighed. “Hugh. Do you worry about those who would’ve taken your life?”

Though news of his sickness had gone through the clan, and there were many whispered suspicions, Hugh had not issued dicta
on the occurrence. That something had happened on his wedding day, most knew. All the details were only given to certain ones,
such as his cousin Toric. Not that he didn’t trust all the MacKays. He did. There were some given to gossiping, to exchanging
information with passing drummers and vendors. Hugh thought it best not to broadcast everything
until he was sure who was friend or foe. He would’ve sworn on scripture that none of the MacKays had betrayed him. Until he
had some knowledge of the perpetrators he thought it best to keep his counsel except with a chosen few.

Hugh had followed a long-held rule with his clan. Only to the unmarried stalwarts would such a threat as his assassination
attempt be revealed. Under no circumstances must the married men be involved. There’d be no holding any of his people back
if they suspected a threat to his life. He’d not have the clan threatened by the decimation war could bring. They’d had enough
of that. If the clan was attacked all would be at the ready and called upon to act.

The clan could be in danger of extinction without the buttressing of family. Endangering family men was folly and counterproductive
to the safety and longevity of MacKay. Years of war and fracas had sliced into the huge family, removing some of its greats.
The clan needed time to recoup.

Since the moment the word went out that the chief had been taken to his sickbed, the guards had been doubled, certain changes
made in the protection of his castle and other holdings. Additions to the holdings were put into place, buildings secured,
walls remortared, weapons honed fine. Secret exits and entrances had been searched and either boarded up or guarded. Some
had been reinforced with iron webbing that formed a gate.
Nothing was left to chance. Lookouts had been doubled and sent on wider perimeters.

“You wander again, Hugh.”

“I will admit to you it sits in my thoughts about the attempt made on my life. What angers me is there seems to be little
clue to the culprit. Though I have no doubt I shall find who did it, until then I will take every care to stay alive and protect
what’s mine.”

“Could your wife have done the deed, then feared for her life?”

Toric had put words to some of his thinking. “Diuran swears that my lady put every effort into saving me, at great cost to
herself.” Hugh took a deep breath, looking over his shoulder at his men. “She knew that Diuran would’ve killed her had I expired.”

“True, as would any MacKay.”

Hugh smiled. “Each has had their feelings toward her undergo a change, so I’m told. Many know what she did to save me, and
they’ve sworn unspoken fealty.” His smile crooked. “I wonder if she feels this. I would say my wife’s intuitive.”

“Aye. Dilla swears she can see through the next sennight.”

“Though I don’t subscribe to such, I do find her reasoning to be uncanny. Methinks she’d be a formidable enemy, one not easily
stopped. Yet I don’t sense an antipathy toward me. I don’t think it’s there.”