The Pledge (21 page)

Diuran eyed her, his face somber. “We will be ready for anything, milady. You are Lady MacKay, precious to us, a foe to some.”

She nodded. “Then I, too, will be on guard.”

Diuran grinned when he saw her draw a short sword from her bag. She slung the wide belt around her waist, jamming the blade
into the worked leather scabbard that carried the intaglio of Llywelyn.

Diuran touched the weapon. “ ’Tis a true one, I can see. ’Twill be a fine day when I fashion you a new scabbard with the MacKay
intaglio on its surface.”

Morrigan smiled at the MacKays, who were chuckling, then went to the rail to watch as they bumped against a small landing.

“Don’t think she can’t use that sword she wields. It might look small to some, but I’ve seen her move it faster than the eye
can follow.” Cumhal grinned. “She tipped my brother Goll on his back at one of our tourneys when we were children. I often
wonder if he ever forgave her.”

Diuran grinned. “She’s a true MacKay. She’s made us proud.”

Mouth agape, Cumhal stared at Diuran for a moment, then remarked, “She’s considered a first-rate swords-woman in Wales where
women are often combatants.” His smile was fading, worry etching his brow.

Diuran nodded. “I’ve read of your Boudicca, though I’ll see to it that milady comes to no such end.”

“Have no fear. We have many intrepid women in Wales. They can stand their ground,” Cumhal averred. “ ’Tis pride it gives a
man when his spouse is so able.”

Diuran pursed his lips. “Do not think we don’t admire the same. Have you never heard of Princess Iona?”

Cumhal nodded. “The Icelandic who became a Scot. Yes. There are many legends about her warrior ways.”

“All true.”

Cumhal smiled at Diuran, who returned it, an unspoken pact between them from that moment.

Cumhal pointed. “Look at her, ready to lead the way.” He shook his head. “She was ever wrongheaded.”

Diuran smiled. “She is our lady.”

“There is reverence in the words. I see I must look upon my cousin with new eyes,” Cumhal remarked.

In not too long a time they disembarked, taking their possessions with them.

“There’re the horses.” Cumhal pointed.

Diuran and his warriors watched as the steeds were brought to them, some of his men as alert as he, their
eyes scanning the surrounding woody areas. The rest studied the horses, frowning.

“Not the best mounts, would you say?” Diuran said from the side of his mouth to Cumhal.

“No. I’d not like them if our journey was a long one.”

When all was loaded, Cumhal helped Morrigan into her saddle, though she needed no aid.

In short order they were on one of the narrow stony paths that curve along the coast of Wales. One side was a sheer drop to
the sea, the other was a thick growth of woody plants and greens, many stunted and bent by the strong ocean winds.

Morrigan tried to keep her mind on the tasks ahead, but she couldn’t blot out the image of Hugh, and what he would say when
she returned. He’d bluster and stride up and down the great room. Her heart beat fast at how she’d soothe his ire, placate
his pique. He would tell her she should’ve waited for him. Sighing, she wished he was with her at the moment.

He’d taught her about love. She’d thought she knew quite a bit because of her experience on the farm with animal husbandry.
She’d discovered she knew absolutely nothing about what was between a man and woman.

The tall, handsome, dangerous leader of the wild MacKays had taught her about giving, about gentle nurturing, and hot passion.
Could she ever have conjured up such a wonderful amalgam?

“Milady?”

“Yes.” She almost had to shake herself from her sweet thoughts. Hugh was so big in her life, in every corner. Through the
haze of pondering she heard the urgency. “Something gives you angst, Diuran?”

“It does.”

Morrigan looked around her. “You sense danger.”

“I do.” He turned in his saddle, making a hand gesture. The warriors broke into a canter around her. “You must be ready on
our signal to ride hard, milady, to find the sea and—”

Before he could say more there was a bloodcurdling war cry. Men erupted from the glen to one side of them, seeming to come
out of the cliffs as well.

“Ride, milady,” Diuran called to her even as three men engaged him with swords almost before he could draw his own.

“No!” Morrigan shouted, pulling her short sword and kicking her lackluster steed into a charge. Before any of them knew she
was there, she was laying about her, swinging her short sword at the nearest attacker. His yowl of anger and pain told her
she struck right. When he turned, she slammed the flat of her sword against the backside of his steed. It shot forward, unseating
the rider.

“Get back, milady,” Diuran shouted.

She was about to obey when she saw two men creeping toward his back. For a moment she thought she recognized one of them.
A cousin? No! It couldn’t be. They’d not attack her entourage.

She pulled hard on the reins, turning the sluggish steed around, and charging at the two who were intent on taking Diuran
from the back. She dug her heels into the horse, cannoning forward, passing Diuran by inches, gripping her reins with one
hand, her short sword with the other. A battle cry tore from her throat. More than one MacKay gaped, before redoubling efforts
to take down the assassins who would dare assault their valiant lady.

Morrigan plowed into the two back stabbers, the wide chest of the horse taking the two men down before they could collect
themselves to escape. Momentum carried her past the area of battle. When she succeeded in turning the large overexcited beast
she saw that Diuran was no longer in sight. Neither was Cumhal. She raced back to the fray, waving her sword like a guidon.

“Stop! I am a princess of Wales. Cease this attack at once,” she commanded, not sure her voice or her authority would work.

Silence descended like a tattered cloak. Cries, moans, groans of the wounded were the only sounds for several breaths of time.

“You… don’t command us, but you will come with us.”

Morrigan inhaled, looking around her. They had five times the men. “I will see to my people first.”

“No need. We’ll finish off those who are not already dead.”

Heartsick, Morrigan’s mind raced. “Wait! Since I was
their captive I claim the right to end their misspent lives.” Off to one side she saw Cumhal stagger to his feet holding his
head, blood oozing from his fingers. “I would have a dagger, if you please. The rest of you stand back.” She turned and stared
at Cumhal.

“Hold! I, too, am the captive of the Scots. I would do my share of finishing the rabble.”

Morrigan stared at him, hoping she read the right message in his eyes. “ ’Tis your right.” God help him if he killed any MacKays.
She’d burn his eyes out with a poker.

She took a dagger from the nearest man, noting its rusted edges. They were rabble who took little care of their weapons. They’d
slay no MacKays if she could help it. Waving them back in imperious fashion, she strode to where Diuran was lying.

His eyes were closed.

She leaned over him, raising the dagger. “Spread your arm from your body, please,” she said through her teeth. She saw a flicker
behind his slitted gaze. “Go to the witch on the river. It leads from this place less than a league. Go south. Her cottage
is there. Give her the word Taranus. Tell me you comprehend.” The eyes blinked. “Dog of a Scot! You die,” she screeched, bringing
the blade down in his armpit, praying she didn’t touch skin.

She rose to her feet. “Now, the next one.”

Cumhal staggered close to her. “My turn.”

“Tell them Taranus.”

“Of course,” he muttered, then raised his voice. “I’ll strike down the dog,” Cumhal swore.

Morrigan noted one of the intruders right behind her. “ ’Tis almost done, and needed doing.”

Suspicion crossed his face. “You were a long time with the first one.”

“Indeed I had to be. I called upon the Prince of Darkness to come take his soul.”

Blanching, the man stepped back, as did his cohorts who’d been listening.

“And did you lose many?” Morrigan tried not to gag at the gore, at so many lying wounded.

“We’ll finish our own.”

Horrified, she watched the man dispatch his wounded comrades. No Welshman should treat his own like this! Who were these men?
Mercenaries that prowled the countryside looking for any kind of killing work? Predators who sought out the weak to rob and
slay? Not a word passed her lips though she quivered with outrage. One day she’d see them hang for this day’s work.

“Mount up.” The leader glanced back at his men.

Morrigan eyed the wounded Cumhal, blood streaming down his face, reeling from weakness and fatigue. “My cousin must be seen
to at once. He, alone, freed me from the dreaded Scots.” She saw the pernicious look the leader gave Cumhal and knew that
he would’ve subjected Cumhal to the same treatment he would’ve afforded the Scots had she not been there.

Cumhal shook his head. “I’ll be along on my own. I
have my own medicaments.” He looked at the leader. “Of course you know you’re on Welsh soil, that eyes follow your every move.
If any even speak wrongly to the Princess of Wales, you’ll be boiled alive in the black pools that come from the earth.” Cumhal
looked thoughtful. “Perhaps you’ve not seen it done.” He pointed through the glen. “Yon pools are magical. A burning faggot
put to them causes a blue flame to rise.” He gestured with both arms, though the effort caused him to groan. “The man chosen
is then tossed into the center. His howls can be heard for miles. ’Tis great entertainment.”

Cumhal’s ghoulish smile had some shivering, the leader blustering he was paid to deliver her intact. Morrigan would’ve smiled
if she hadn’t been so heartsick and worried about the MacKays on the ground.

The leader grasped her reins. “Come along.” He glowered at Cumhal. “You’ll have to catch up on your own. We mean to collect
our pay before the sun hides.”

Morrigan had barely time to wave to her cousin before they were off at a gallop.

Cumhal watched them disappear, then he went to Diuran. “Can you hear me?”

“I surely can. I hope ’Tis not us you plan to fry.”

Cumhal grinned. “Come, I’ll give you what medicines I have, then we’ll be on our way to find Diodura—”

Diuran clasped his arm. “No, we look for Taranus as Morrigan said to me.”

Cumhal smiled, nodding. “He is the god to the ancients. There are some who practice the old ways like Diodura. She is a great
healer. Witches are honored among us, not harmed as they are in other places.” He turned around and looked at the others.
“I’ll try to help them.”

Diuran struggled to a sitting position. “Dermot went down, I saw that.”

In moments they buried Leamon and Deil, fashioned a tumbrel of sorts with sticks and vines, for Dermot. Only then did they
begin their trek to the river.

Castle MacKay was in turmoil. The lady was missing. The laird was in high dudgeon. Parties had been going out for days, trying
to find her trail.

She, six MacKays, Diuran, and one called Cumhal, a relative to Lady MacKay, seemed to have vanished in the sea. None had seen
them disembark at Cardiff, if that was their destination. Messengers had brought the word she’d been summoned to a family
meeting there. Yet none had seen her arrive, nor had any seen her since.

“I want her found, no matter what it takes.” Hugh slammed his fist down on the trencher board, his bitterness palpable. Not
since childhood had he felt so betrayed.

“You don’t know that the scrolls are accurate,” Dilla began, earning her laird’s wrathful gaze. “I do not care if you proscribe
me, I’ll not believe she betrayed you.”

Dilla’s husband gaped at her, then went to her side. “I ask you to punish me for my wife’s thoughtless words, milord. I’ll
not let her be—”

“Stop!” Hugh shouted, making man and wife jump. “I’m not angry with Dilla.” He glared at her spouse. “Since when is it against
the law for any MacKay to express an opinion?”

He grimaced. “ ’Tis not.”

“Then stop defending Dilla until she needs it and—”

“Where is maman?” Rhys shouted, tearing into the room and plummeting into Hugh. “I want her now. She needs me. Avis and Conal
will cry if she doesn’t come. She’s to help us with our lessons.” Despite his strong words, the lad’s chin shook and his eyes
were suspiciously wet. The twins stood in the doorway, faces and limbs quivering.

Hugh scooped him up, holding him close. For the five days Morrigan had been gone, and the three he’d been home, he’d hardly
been separated from the trio. Hugh slept in Rhys and Conal’s room on a cot. Lilybet had stayed with Avis. If either boy woke
he could touch them. Lilybet often spoke of Avis’s restlessness. Most nights Hugh didn’t sleep, his mind boiling with anger
and fear. Before the sun rose he was usually up, sending runners, waiting for the return of others. Morrigan! Her name rang
in his head, in his chest, all through him—

“Where is maman?” Rhys leaned back in Hugh’s arms. “She needs me. You must know that.”

“I know. I’ll find her and bring her back home. You
must believe in that. You’re a MacKay. You must have faith in your laird.” Hugh heard Dilla’s smothered sob. From the corner
of his eyes, he saw her husband pull her close. His insides were shredded with worry. No word in all that time. Five days
and he didn’t know where she was. His wife and her coterie seemed to have vanished. Runners had been all over Scotland, Wales,
and England. Nothing.

Hugh inhaled. “We’ll mount a new campaign.” He eyed Tone, who’d hovered nearby since they’d found Morrigan gone. “I’ll lead
it. You’ll stay with the boy, guarding him along with—”

The flurry and shouting at the gate alerted him and started him running. As Hugh passed Dilla and Andra, he shifted the boy
to her. Andra lifted the twins.

Rhys began to wail the minute he was out of Hugh’s reach. Tears ran down the twins’ cheeks.