The Pledge (2 page)

The cavalcade north into wildest Scotland, bordering an even wilder ocean, was as arduous as the seers had predicted. She
was to marry one of the mightiest lairds in Scotia to seal the king’s bargain, not a border lord as she’d supposed, but a
warrior descended from the mighty Vikings. The most barbarous of Scots! Aodh MacKay wouldn’t have agreed to the marriage had
he not so much to gain. The promise of reclaiming his own
lands, lost when he’d battled against Scottish Edward’s fight for the throne, had been the powerful inducement.

Now she was here with the godless Scots in a land as wild as they were, with a host of ladies surrounding her as she was readied
for the vow taking. She felt more like a lamb led to the slaughter than a bride prepared for her groom.

Perhaps her primitive betrothed might be able to speak Anglo. She could. She’d not admit to understanding the discordant Gaelic
that tripped off their lying tongues but she knew it well, having had a housemaid from Hibernia who could speak the language.
She needn’t tell her husband of her understanding. Just a small deception on the list of larger ones. The handmaidens who
spoke freely in front of her did not realize she comprehended.

“If you’d but smile, milady…”

At Morrigan’s cold look the handmaiden’s broken Anglo faltered then subsided.

Morrigan glanced over at Rhys, who jumped and fidgeted no matter which lady tried to entertain him. She forced a smile. He
would feel her tension just as he always sensed her moods. At five years of age he was a brawny, healthy lad. Rhys was a pure
Celt and she was proud of him. Recalcitrant at times, bullheaded too often, he was a true son of Wales. That he called her
Mother, and knew no other, was his safety net.

“Be good, Rhys,” she commanded quietly. It wouldn’t do to show fear, though if truth be told she’d been
frightened on and off, since Rhys’s birth. Even protected by the Llywelyn name she’d been the subject of scorn. More than
one illicit liaison had been offered to her. Some had all but threatened. Somehow she’d prevailed, even in the absence of
her brothers.

Her husband could put her to death if he discovered her secret. She would do anything and everything to protect the knowledge
buried in her heart. Keeping silent about Rhys’s true birth was the only protection for both of them. Old Nell was gone. Though
Diodura, the only other person who knew the truth of Rhys’s birth, was still alive, she’d say nothing. No doubt her sister,
Lature, would also know. She would be silent, as well. They were the only ones, outside of Morrigan, who knew Rhys was heir
to the vast holding of Trevelyan. One day when Rhys reached his majority, when he could manage an army, his true identity
would be revealed.

That didn’t hold sway in her mind at the moment. Getting free of the Scottish entanglement, and how to manage it without war,
had filled her head for weeks. So far she’d not come up with any workable plan to liberate herself and Rhys from the terrible
alliance that faced her. Choices dribbled away as fast as time on the water clock. It was getting late.

Rhys roared his disapproval when one of the ladies tried to wipe the chocolate from his chin.

“Rhys! Remember your place,” Morrigan chided.

He scowled at her, opening his mouth.

Before he could speak the gong sounded throughout the castle and the merriment increased. Shouts and laughter bounced off
the walls. Perhaps it was this that made the tapestries sway, and not the sudden bitter wind that’d swept down from the northern
isles.

It had been pointed out to her that the castle was on the coastline of the Pentland Sea. Beyond the mists were the dreaded
Orkneys wherein the Vikings, loyal to the MacKays, dwelt. Not only were they aligned with MacKays, they were kin. What could
be worse? A combination of savages. Could the mighty traders be any more dangerous than those on this forbidden land called
MacKay?

“The king is here, milady! Edward Baliol, himself, will give you to the great laird of the Norlands. The wondrous Highlands
will be blessed by the presence of MacKay. His mother came from the Orkneys, you know. A rare beauty she was. ’Tis said she
spoke naught but the Icelandic tongue so common there. What a twist of families there is this day, wouldn’t you say?”

“I… I know not your meaning,” Morrigan said.

“Is it not strange that your name, Morrigan, is the same as the clan you’ll marry into, milady?”

Morrigan whirled around, upsetting the seamstresses who were putting the last stitches in her raiment. “I thought the name
was MacKay.”

“Not Mak-kay, milady. ’Tis Mac-key, or as the laird, Aodh, calls it, Ma-ky’, milady, with the heavy accent on the last syllable.”

“I see. Then why not call it Clan Morgan?”

“To be sure, milady, such was it called, eons past. ’Twas such a wild and woolly group of roisterers they didn’t much care
what they were called. And so it was Morgan.”

“And as mine is Welsh and pronounced Morgan, I see a faint similarity, but not enough to be important,” Morrigan replied.
Perhaps she sounded stuffy. Nervousness had always made her poker up, rather than cry, which would’ve been more acceptable,
mayhap. Nay! She’d not satisfy any of their black prayers. If they expected her to beg for mercy, plead to return to Wales,
they’d wait till their bones rotted. She was Llywelyn. Her chin lifted.

The giggles increased to hoots as word of what she said flew among them.

“I think she just insulted her future rib,” one of the ladies called to another.

“ ’Tis not a thing she’ll do often if all that’s said of Aodh MacKay is true.”

“Aye, ’tis true he’s ruthless, that he’d skewer one for frowning at him.”

Morrigan steeled herself not to shiver. She was happy no one could see her knees. They quaked like dry branches in the wind.

“ ’Tis a shame the laird is so closedmouth about his liaisons. ’Twould be a grand tale to know it all.”

“My, I think not. Yon one would faint,” said one, her head jerking toward Morrigan.

The hilarity increased.

Morrigan rubbed her wet palms on a piece of precious material that’d been trimmed from her garb. She couldn’t close her ears
to the ribaldry that was so much a part of the Scots, though she wished she could. Hearing about the outlander who’d be her
spouse put a bad taste in her mouth.

These Scots were an unseemly people with little good sense. She’d never experienced such in Wales. The men might talk in a
lascivious way to one another. She’d overheard such when she’d been hidden away in a cupboard. No such talk of coupling was
stated openly by Welshwomen as was done with Scotswomen. Had they no shame? If truth were told she knew a goodly amount of
what went on between animals. She’d been raised among the hills and dales where sheep and goats played and rutted. Weren’t
the actions of men and women the same? She knew enough, and didn’t care to hear her future privacy with her spouse discussed.
Nor did she wish to ponder how their coupling would progress.

“… and they say he’s hung as a destrier is. What a ride she’ll have…’struth he’s bedded enough wenches to people a village…
nay, they were glad to be plowed by such a stud.”

When they grinned at her, Morrigan nodded as though she had not understood such words, though she struggled to control the
blood flowing to her cheeks.

The women thought her illiterate, as some were in Wales and their own land. How could they know she’d
been tutored as her brothers had been, in Greek, Latin, with a background in Euclid and the Egyptian healing ways? She’d been
instructed, too, by the witches in the keeping and preserving of herbs.

To be sure they were no different from most who thought her an adulteress, a woman who’d bedded a man not her spouse, and
had only been protected by the Llywelyn name. So, now she was mother to one thought to be a Llywelyn by bastardy, not a Trevelyan
by birth, who was heir to a large, imposing holding. It was not in Rhys’s best interest that anyone know he was not a natal
Llywelyn. One day—

“Milady, do not thread your hands so,” one of the seamstresses urged. “Each motion pulls the fabric out of the stitching line.”

“Sorry,” Morrigan whispered. Her life could be over that day when it was discovered she’d not known the touch of a man. Would
she be entombed in her bride’s clothes? She had to force herself to remain still and standing. How ironic that she could and
might be castigated for being a possible conspirator against the Scots because of her virginity, if only because they believed
her to be a mother.

The solution to her dilemma had eluded her these many days since her betrothal was first trumpeted throughout Wales. Many
of the Welsh thought her little more than a human sacrifice. They understood the need, but pitied her, and she could expect
little more, being a
fallen woman. None of them knew her problems were greater than they perceived.

As the ceremony grew closer, her desperation grew. She had to find a way to protect herself. If her husband decided to kill
her who would take care of Rhys?

Taking a deep breath, she stared at the water clock. It took all her mettle not to grab Rhys and run. Foolhardy! She wouldn’t
get far.

That very night she’d be joined with a man she didn’t know. She’d seen the joinings of animals and such. It didn’t assuage
her trepidation. If anything such ponderings magnified her fears. She didn’t know, beyond that, nor did she care to, about
the detailed intimacies a man and woman shared, since she was a virgin. Most in Scotia and Wales thought her well past bedding
and breeding because she was beyond two decades by three changes of the moon, and had a child by another man. Proving them
wrong didn’t set well. It could mean a very painful death if her new husband questioned her, demanded an explanation. If she
could save Rhys by confessing his parenthood, she would. Mayhap the wild MacKay would listen to reason and spare Rhys. Lord
knew he was as much at risk as she.

She glanced out an open lancet and tried not to shiver. Scotland with its gaunt and endless mountains seemed not a country
at all, but a place of darkness and goblins.

One of the ladies patted her. “I’m Lilybet, milady. Not a chatterin’ gomeril like some is,” the retainer said, jerking her
head at the giggling ladies. “Time to go, ’tis.
Dinna fret what ’awn say. ’Tis naught but the wind, ye ken. Aodh MacKay is a man of great wealth. Were he not to wed and bed
you his lands would be forfeit since he fought against the earls who put Edward upon the throne. Since the king knows ’Tisn’t
wise to battle the Norland lairds, that the Highlands are peopled with stalwarts he cannot afford to gainsay, he’s opted for
compromise, ye ken. ’Tis proud you are to be the key to such.”

The words fired Morrigan’s inner strength. Proud, is it? she fumed. To be a pawn makes no Welsh woman proud. Am I not Boudicca’s
spawn who fought the Romans to their knees before their duplicity caused the great queen’s death? More fool Aodh MacKay if
he thinks I will bend, that I will be grateful for his name. I am a princess of Wales. He’s naught but a barbarian from the
north. Instead of voicing her fury, Morrigan smiled and nodded.

“Were you not to procure an heir for MacKay, yon lad could lose his Welsh monies and holdings that come from you. Not so?”

“Why do you say so?” She struggled to stay calm. Had Lilybet the power of vision? How could she know about Rhys?

“Fret not. Yon boy will not do ill with MacKay. You’ll see. The we’en will not need your own monies. He’ll benefit from MacKay,
and rightly so.”

Not so! His wealth is Trevelyan! He will inherit! Her mind screamed it. Her mouth muttered ayes as she
passed the canny Lilybet, and preceded her ladies-in-waiting from the tower room.

“Aodh! Ready yourself, the king comes.”

“I’m ready, Toric.” He turned to look at his men gathered around him in the keep below the west turret. Looking upward, he
scanned the battlements. It would not be impossible to storm the castle at the first sign of treachery. Though Edward had
given his gauntlet, the sign of his honor, Scots were not fooled by such. Had not Wallace lost his life because of English
infamy?

“Toric, you, and the others”—he let his eyes rove his large complement of soldiers—“know what you must do. Protect our guidon,
our tartan, our name.” A smile touched his mouth. “I’ll unbend a bit more and use my Anglo name. No more will I be called
Aodh. The Gaelic gives way to the English Hugh.” He nodded once when some groaned a complaint. “Flinch not at small cost.
The name, honor, and our wealth are in balance. Even if this comes off with the dreaded Welsh woman, naught changes for us.
We are Scots and MacKays.” The expected roar to such a battle cry was greeted with the silence of wisdom. Not one word of
their counterplan would be known to the royal. Nay, his very existence as monarch would hang in the balance until the moment
when they would have their rightful heritage returned.

Only to spare his people further death and pain had Hugh MacKay agreed to having a Welsh spouse. If Edward
Baliol thought him cowed by the pact he didn’t know his Scot.

If the Welsh wanton sold herself to gain power among her people and his, she didn’t know MacKay. He’d bed her until she brought
forth another son. The one she had now would inherit some of the MacKay holding, but no Welshman could ever command the land,
name, and people. If she brought no heir, then he…

His thoughts were jarred by the second striking of the gong. He sucked in a breath and looked at his men.

Bratach Bhan Chlann Aoidh!

The murmur grew until it was on all their lips.

The White Banner of MacKay!

Shields were brought forth with the bulrush painted on the white banner. Shoulder clips were touched with the same insignia.
Man looked to man, standing straighter. Clenched fists slammed into chests, the Viking signal meaning death before dishonor
that had come to them from the Icelandics who’d married into the clan. The warlike MacKays would never suffer perfidy. If
Edward Baliol sought to betray them with the Welsh tart, he’d swallow revenge before the sun set.