The Pledge (5 page)

“Wise,” her intended whispered, bending down under the guise of pushing back her veil.

“What is that?” she whispered back, trying to recall what was said.

“If I read your thoughts, you see the prelate as I do. And though I applaud your desire to call him for the jackass he is,
better not to do it. He’s a pompous idiot, more than willing, milady, to bring our peoples to war over the merest slight—”

“’Twouldn’t be mere,” she muttered back, mirth pushing at her throat. He’d make her laugh at this solemn occasion? He was
unruly. She put a shaking hand to her mouth. “Stop,” she pleaded behind her fingers.

He chuckled, his fingers going over her headdress and lingering. “… that’s why I sent for Monteith to aid the cardinal during
the mass. He has a way of moving things along, and he’s much less puffed up.”

“You… must… not… say… so,” she muttered, hard-bent not to double over. Unaccustomed to hilarity as she’d been the last five
years, she almost didn’t recognize it. Morrigan had to press her hand tight to her lips to hold back the laughter. She tried
to glare up at her husband, but the monk called her attention to repeat the binding words. That sobered her. She’d not looked
forward to saying them. The words stuck in her craw.

“Ah, I will, under God and Wales… er, ah Scotland… ah, er… and England, keep the vows pronounced by me, Morrigan Dafydda Nemed
Agnomon Llywelyn, nor will this bond ravel or be broken by me on this day and forever. I swear this as a royal princess of
Wales.”

MacKay pronounced his the same way without stumbling over the countries as she’d done.

It startled her when her husband leaned down and kissed the corner of her mouth. Monstrous! Then to compound the infamy he
turned her to the assemblage.

Since she’d been too flustered after making her request for the regency to look about her when walking with the king and her
intended, she’d not noticed how huge the throng had become. For most of the day she’d sensed good feeling among the people,
though a time or two she’d felt that there were malicious gazes on her. Now, she was too taken aback to do anything but stare
at their numbers.

When her husband raised her hand with his, a roar went up thundering through the trees, surely bending the bracken to the
ground and making her jump. If that was their battle cry, no wonder good men blanched.

Her mouth fell open when a woolen was thrown over her shoulder in the same pattern her husband wore. The thunderous cacophony
was accompanied by a dreadful occurrence. The warriors with the same plaid as her husband howled another dreadful battle cry,
then heaved their mighty claymores high in the air. Morrigan was appalled. “They’re slaughtering the people!” she gasped.

“Nay, milady. They honor you. None shall be hurt, I promise. Would I mar the day of our espousal?”

It was already scarred beyond redemption by the mouthing of the vows. She didn’t say it out loud. It surprised her when her
husband moved closer to her. The
dreaded Scot was a comfort who made her blood bubble. Surely she was coming down with an ailment.

Everyone laughed when people clustered under the quickly drawn shields that caught the brunt of the weapons when they tumbled
downward.

“A tradition, milady. What think you of your clan?”

“Their mirth escapes in strange ways,” she murmured.

He laughed. “You are quick, milady.”

“Not quick enough,” she muttered.

He leaned over her. “I heard that. Had you hoped to escape me?”

“Fortune disallowed it,” she blurted, seeing the flash of what she assumed was ire in his eyes. “I beg pardon. I do not mean
to wound you.” He was prodigious handsome. No wonder the handmaidens and ladies-in-waiting discussed him.

“Thank you. I’ll stanch the blood flow.”

A smile pulled at her mouth. She liked his tart humor. “You could be hurt only by one of your mammoth swords, milord Maw-Ky.”

He laughed. “So someone has tutored you in my name.”

She nodded. “ ’Twas necessary.” She pointed to her mouth. “I couldn’t get my lips about it.” She blinked when he stared, his
eye pinpointing what her finger touched. “Have I offended?”

“Only if you are, in truth, a Circe?”

Taken aback she stared at him. “Have you been imbibing
that infamous brew called uiskah made by the monks?”

His laughter increased. “I would not let the churchmen fashion a drink for me. My people make it.”

“I hear ’Tis passing cruel to sample.”

He put his arm around her waist, still laughing. “Then I’ll only drink a tot when you do, wife.”

“That’ll be never.” Had he no shame? Clutching her like she was a doxy! He deserved a good set down. If she could think of
one she’d have dished it to him. “I should join Rhys. He’ll be wondering what has—”

“He’ll not be worried. He knows you’re with your spouse.”

Had she read his thoughts aright? He did not seem eager to dispose of her. “What are you pondering?”

“How intriguing Welshwomen are, in truth.”

Flustered, she struck rather than simpered as was her way. “How monstrous wrongheaded you are not to have known. Our comely
women are sung of, far and wide.”

“I’ll have to punish my people,” he murmured, leaning over her.

“Rubbish! You’ll do no such thing.”

He laughed. “Why has no one described your beauty? Surely that calls for torture.”

“Nonsense.” She could scarce get a breath.

“Would you believe I would give half my holding to see your tresses at this moment?”

She coughed. “We… we were talking of Rhys.”

He chuckled. “I told you he’d be fine.”

“Don’t be too sure about him. He’s more than passing unpredictable,” she muttered.

Hugh caught the words. “Worry not. Your son will come to accept.”

She caught his look. His grin didn’t mask the curiosity that lurked in those eyes.

Had he guessed that Rhys had decided to despise him? Would he care about the feelings of a five-year-old? She did, but even
explaining to him that she must marry to protect Wales had not penetrated the ire of Rhys’s factoring. Someone was taking
his mother from Wales, and he had to leave with her. Not good. She agreed it was wrong to align with a Scot! Safety demanded
she put her feelings on hold for the good of the Trevelyan heir. Convincing Rhys was a different story since he must be kept
from the truth. She’d spent much of the journey north on the task of disabusing him of hating all MacKays.

She was on her way away from her new spouse when the gong sounded and he pulled her back, anchoring her to his side. “Will
you not gainsay this?” She hissed at him, bringing his laughter to the fore once more.

“ ’Tis only my deep passion responding to your charms, good wife.”

Morrigan gasped. “Such barbaric words. Have you no shame?” She said this between her teeth, knowing her overheard words would
send the scandalous Scots into hilarity.

“I have. Shame that I had to make bargains to regain
what was mine. Shame that I have to bow my head to yon monarch whose blood is too thin of good Scot lineage to be the powerful
liege lord he must be to stand against our enemies.” He grimaced. “I have shame.”

His hurt was a hurled spear that had her choking on her own ire. That he should be shamed by an alliance with her, no matter
the reason, shouldn’t have pained. But it did. Her anger flared. She pulled free, gazing up at him.

He seemed puzzled when he looked down at her, opening his mouth as though he’d query her glower.

She felt heated, trapped in that look. It whetted her fury even more.

“The king!” The attendant blasted on a horn after the gong sounded again.

Morrigan had the sensation that time had stopped, that she and her new spouse had created a world wherein they dwelt alone.
All because they’d looked into each other’s eyes and couldn’t look away. She couldn’t remember what last they’d said, or how
long they’d been still and staring. She swallowed. “The king—”

“I heard,” Hugh said, his face tight. He took her hand and put it on his arm and they turned together to face Edward Baliol,
who now stood behind a trencher board on a podium, his crest raised by an attendant.

Most inclined their heads in respectful silence. A few glared or sneered, though they were quiet. Some
glanced at MacKay as though he dictated their stance. MacKay stayed close to his wife, looking at the royal.

“I, Edward Baliol, your king, do pronounce that the Trevelyan holdings in Wales shall be ceded to the regency of Milady Morrigan
of MacKay, royal of Wales, heir to the Llywelyn holdings and spouse to Hugh, Earl of MacKay, laird to Clan MacKay.”

The roar of assent far outreached the nays in sound and fury. Some shouted protest at the anglicizing of MacKay’s Gaelic name.

“You’ve won power, wife.”

“Not for myself,” she murmured.

Hugh frowned, not sure he’d heard her right.

Morrigan rocked with the enormity of it. She’d triumphed, and by royal writ that would be shouted throughout the hills and
dales of Scotland, England, and Wales. Gwynneth’s son would rule as God and Wales had ordained. She swayed in teary joy, not
even pulling back when her husband embraced her, though a sense of decorum had her whispering a protest.

“What, milady?”

“Scots have little in the way of courtesy, milord, if you think this acceptable.”

“I do.”

She looked up at him, not sure what to say. She didn’t mind his touch. She’d begun to like it. Surely she’d become addled
by being aligned to a mad Scot.

“Come, lady wife. ’Tis time for you to greet your people, then we shall sup together as man and wife.”

She hesitated, drawing in air. Perhaps the greatest battle was still ahead. The wedding night! Trying to put it out of her
mind, she moved to the steps that would take her off the dais.

Hugh was there, lifting her again.

“We can’t keep doing this,” Morrigan protested.

“We can and will,” he riposted as he settled her on her feet.

The words of recrimination failed her. She placed her hand on Hugh’s arm and walked along at her husband’s side.

“Milady!” Men and women bowed toward her, some kissing her hand.

It didn’t surprise Morrigan to see enmity on more than one face. She was Welsh, a sworn enemy to Scots and Anglos alike.

One group of people parted, and Morrigan saw the reason. There were two young children walking with the aid of sticks. To
many of those who kept the old ways, the children would be marked as witches or their spawn. Such thinking had never been
to her liking. Morrigan paused, gesturing that the children come to her.

There were gasps, protests. Some hid their eyes.

“You would bring the cry of witch upon yourself, milady,” one of the coterie of churchmen muttered.

Father Monteith pushed his way to her side. “Forget the foolish talk, milady. These children depend upon the generosity of
too few to help them. They have no kin.”

Morrigan nodded, understanding the fear. She’d seen the same in some areas of Wales. It would seem the same among the Norland
people in Scotland. The common explanation was if they couldn’t walk straight, surely their souls were twisted. That such
conclusions could be false was not accepted by many. She put her hands on their shoulders. “Your names, if you please?”

“Conal is mine, milady. And this be my sister Avis.”

“I give you greeting.” Keeping her hands upon them, she looked up at her husband. “I would ask a boon on this nuptial day.”

“You may.”

“I want them to live where we do, and eat as we do, don the same garb, touch hands as the sun rises and sets.”

There were shouts of surprise and protest, as her words of adoption were repeated and eddied out among the crowd.

MacKay lifted one hand. Silence fell like a mantle over the throng. He made a complete circle, seeming to stare at each of
the thousands who looked at him. “My wife will have her boon.”

Except for the shuffling of feet and some downcast eyes, there was little response. MacKay had made a dictum, as was his right.
That no Scot had to agree or disagree was accepted. That none gainsay him was also irrefutable.

MacKay’s narrowed gaze found hers. “As you say, it will be, wife.”

“Then I, Morrigan, Lady MacKay, do ordain it this day.”

Shock that she’d taken it upon herself to bequeath family on orphans, instead of going along with her husband’s dictum, caused
a silence. Then a river of sound grew, louder by the second, as approval outshouted disapproval. It sailed on the winds, rustling
the trees, sending out a message of goodwill. Not all the responses had the same feeling.

A woman came forward. “I will take them in hand, milady, and I thank you.”

“And who are you?” Morrigan inquired, not releasing the children.

As though she sensed the new Lady MacKay’s reluctance, the woman smiled. “I’m Dilla MacDougal MacKay, milady. I’ve known these
two since their birthing and would not harm them, milady.”

Morrigan stared at Dilla for long moments, then looked down at the two. “Go with her. This day you will belong to the Clan
MacKay. Fear not.”

The boy sucked in a breath. “We’ve been under their care, and have feared.”

A hand reached past Morrigan and touched the lad. “No longer, lad. You’re in our care,” MacKay said, his voice carrying.

Morrigan smiled at the boy’s courage to voice the truth. She understood what lay behind the words. They’d been shunned, or
worse, by some. “You will be as our own. So are the words of the laird and my own.”

The words waved over the guests like the wind, the meaning of protection and high placement for the less than stalwart youngsters
understood by all.

Neither said a word, nor moved when she walked on, greeting others.

“Come, young ones, a bath and nuncheon for you. This day Fortune has smiled. You must pray it will continue.” Dilla put a
hand on each shoulder, letting her own gaze rove the crowd. “You’ve heard the words, take heed,” she said to those who stared
at her.

The crowd parted as she led them away. She smiled when she felt the company of warriors at her back. So the laird had backed
his lady, fully. This was a day of surprises. What would Lady MacKay do next?