Authors: Helen Mittermeyer
The Pledge
Hugh stared at her, his laugh shaky. “What if I’d refused the king’s request to wed you, my beauty?”
“You would’ve had a hole in your life, as I would’ve had in mine.” Passion had given her power.
“What say you? Think us to be a match?”
She nodded, tracing his mouth with her finger. “Having come from a country of upheaval, I’m not fool enough to think that
all could go smoothly with any alliance, Milord—”
“Hugh,” he murmured, brushing his mouth over hers. “Hugh,” he whispered again, taking her mouth in a strong kiss that went
on and on, fire licking through him…
“Fascinating… steamy sensuality… a wonderful love story.”
—
Romantic Times
on
Princess of the Veil
“Don’t miss this lovely warm story: a romance the way it is meant to be.”
—
Rendezvous
on
Krystal
“The generous and loving spirit of Ms. Mittermeyer shines through her characters to charm your socks off.”
—
Romantic Times
on
Ablaze
T
he
P
ledge
T
he
V
eil
Published by
Warner Books
WARNER BOOKS EDITION
Copyright © 1997 by Helen Mittermeyer
All rights reserved
Warner Books, Inc.
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10017
Visit our website at
www.HachetteBookGroup.com
First eBook Edition: October 2009
ISBN: 978-0-446-56751-0
Contents
T
o
C
ristine, my youngest child.
Y
our courage and generosity are a constant inspiration.
Y
ou remind me of this heroine.
HM
Dear Readers,
I hadn’t started out to be a historical novelist, but found that once I entered those hallowed halls, there’s a fascination
that won’t release me.
I’ve always been interested in Scotland, the land of my forebears. My maiden name of Monteith is one of the oldest there.
As I researched my family background, I found it had been peppered with an assortment of entrancing rogues. My heroes are
an amalgam of hero, warrior, rogue, and good fellow.
The heroines are even more intriguing to me. My research taught me that many women were as intrepid as the men. Many were
battlers, protectors, defenders. Scores were as courageous as a good share of our women in modern times. To the credit of
all females, many, today and yesterday, were of the heroic stamp of the ancient warrior Queen Boudicca; of Flora MacGregor,
who went to the new world and whose antecedents fought for the South; and of course, Elizabeth 1.
I value the brave, of both past and present. So it is with great pride I give you their stories. If you’re looking for simpering
misses, you won’t find them here.
Good readers, you’ve been with me from my first book, fifty some volumes ago. I will try not to fail you or myself as we embark
on this journey entitled T
he
P
ledge
. Bonne chance!
Helen Mittermeyer
Duchy of Trevelyan, Wales—1327
Was all of Wales caught in the miasma that swirled around Castle Trevelyan? The fog caught and exaggerated every sound that
ebbed through the dry branches smacking against the stone walls.
At fifteen Morrigan Llywelyn was untutored in the ways of the world, all but cloistered, some would say. Wales was a dangerous
land. Protecting women was a necessity and always had been in the Duchys of Llywelyn and Trevelyan.
As a princess of Wales, Morrigan had been lettered by the monks and good sisters. She could converse in Latin, Greek, Anglo,
and her own Welsh, the purest Celtic. She’d been taught to be cautious and reserved because in some quarters of the world
female opinion wasn’t to be considered. But Morrigan knew her value, taught by a father who revered her.
For the most part she wasn’t quick to express her thoughts, her feelings. Though her brothers seemed to
value her, they were often busy handling the huge holding of Llywelyn. So, many of her yearnings she kept to herself, though
nothing could tame her wild heart. Her wise father had sensed this, and had allowed his only daughter to be tutored in war
games, as well as her beloved scholastics. Often she challenged her brothers, Califb and Drcq, and her cousins, Goll and Cumhal.
She also knew death. At the request of the duchess, she was staying at the Duchy of Trevelyan, alone but for her old nurse
Nell. The Duchess Gwynneth, her cousin once removed on her mother’s side, was dying.
“Is there nothing can be done, Diodura?”
“Nothing.”
Morrigan gulped, thanked the witch, and watched her leave. Old Nell had balked at calling the witch. Morrigan had been desperate,
and overriding her nurse’s protests, she’d sent for Diodura.
Nell approached Morrigan. “I’m sorry that witch couldn’t help her.”
Morrigan nodded, choking back her grief. “I don’t want to lose dearest Gwynneth.”
“I know.”
Morrigan went back up the stairs to the suite, to sit near the bed watching Gwynneth, whose visage was pasty white. She wouldn’t
last the night, said Nell and Diodura. The babe had torn her insides something fierce. Morrigan was sure they could have saved
her had they called Diodura or her sister in time.
Morrigan blamed herself for listening to Old Nell.
She should’ve called the witch at once, at the very beginning of birth pains.
It had taken too long to bring forth the baby boy who was heir to the deceased duke’s fortune, name, vast estate, and wealth.
The tiny creature was the Duke of Trevelyan, by writ and God’s grace. He would be beset and besieged on every side by those
greedy for the great consequence and gold the title could bring.
The duchess, too weak to hold her newborn, let her hands touch his brow.
“Don’t forsake me, Morrigan. We’re Welsh Llywelyns, descended from Dafydd ap Llywelyn, unafraid of the dread English and Scots
who killed my beloved Ruric. We are sworn to uphold our name and honor. You must give my son the name of Llywelyn, and not
that of Trevelyan. If you don’t they’ll find my babe and slay him. Swear to me.”
“I swear by Saint David and Llywelyn, he shall be mine and none other.”
Her dear cousin smiled and tried to lift her hand.
When Gwynneth closed her eyes, Morrigan thought her cousin slept, until she saw that no breath lifted that fragile chest.
“She’s gone, so she is, milady. Come, we’ll ready her for burial.”
Morrigan stared, stunned, at Old Nell, the only mother she’d ever known and her own nurse since birth. What was to become
of them? They were alone, far from their home of Cardiff, with the enemies of
Trevelyan ready to snap at the estate, to carve and slice into its richness. She’d have to leave Trevelyan, go to the isolated
holding bequeathed to her. It was her only choice. She was not so young that she didn’t realize how she’d be castigated when
it became known that the child was hers.
Frightened, and more alone than she’d ever been, she scooped up the babe and hugged it to her. “You shall be Rhys Llywelyn
and mine alone.”
“Milady, come. You’re wanted.”
“Tell them I’m in mourning—”
“ ’Tis Lord Tarquin of Cardiff, milady.”
Morrigan glanced at Old Nell’s flat expression, then away. The funeral had been private. Word had been sent forth a sennight
after so there’d be no question. Rhys was upstairs with his nurse. Her brothers had been far removed from the private holding
deeded to her by her father. None knew the secret but Diodura and Old Nell, who hadn’t looked up from her tatting.
Now a childhood friend had arrived. For years Morrigan had been sure she would marry Tarquin one day. That wouldn’t have been
disagreeable to her. They’d known each other since babyhood. She could be comfortable with him. A verbal agreement of betrothal
had been made with Tarquin’s family and her brothers. Now it could never be. “Send him in, Alea.”
The handmaiden bobbed a curtsy and left on the run.
“Will you not tell this one who be betrothed to you?”
Morrigan inhaled a shaky breath, then shook her head. “There’s word among my family that war is brewing on the borders. I
cannot speak vows now, nor can I break my covenant to Gwynneth.”
Old Nell nodded, passing the newcomer on her way out. He gave her not one glance.
“Beloved!” Tarquin approached, hands outstretched. “You should’ve sent runners when you were so beset. I long to take on all
your troubles as my own.”
She smiled when he enfolded her in his arms, thinking of the babe in the upper suite, and how her life had changed because
of him. She closed her eyes when she pondered how Tarquin would look upon her when she announced the boy was hers. Adulteress!
It would hurt, but she wouldn’t shirk her duty to the babe and to Gwynneth.
She was happy with Tarquin, not at all adverse to being courted by him, mayhap exchanging vows with him. But now, it could
not be. The babe must be her priority.
Though not a word had been set to script, she would break off the verbal compact between them. She would spare Tarquin the
shame of being thought cuckolded by his betrothed.
Courage, daughter! May the Lord of heaven turn your grief to Joy!
Edna
Morrigan was unable to protest or stop time. Her wedding day was ticking away on the water clock as the giggling women dressed
her.
It had been a whirlwind of treaties, diets, compacts, then compromises at the last with herself as pawn. That she should become
the key to end the hostilities of Wales and bring peace to the borders still mystified her. She’d not thought that the triangle
of land deeded to her, a portion of the Llywelyn holding, would become a rallying point for both sides uniting them at last.
Her brothers had told her that they wouldn’t contest the holding, that she could remain there, even designate her son as heir
to it. Why would they contest her right to the holding? The lonely piece with one isolated castle
on a craggy outcropping, battered by the sea on one side and Bude Bay on the other, had never seemed a treasure to them. Its
very remoteness had been her protection.
“Rhys can succeed to the holding, and thereby not be a penniless lord when he comes to maturity,” her brother Califb, Earl
of Llywelyn, had told her.
“Thank you.” Not even to her kind brother could she disclose Rhys’s identity. If even a word was whispered about, it could
imperil the boy.
Now, she was in Scotland because of the strategic placement of her property. Of more importance was her relationship to the
most powerful lords in Wales. With her union to the Scottish lord, English Edward could be neutralized. They would marry to
bind the borders and bring peace.
Never had Morrigan looked on her holding as prime until it had become a bone of contention in hammering out a treaty among
the triumvirate of Wales, Scotland, and England. It would be an uneasy peace. That the lords at Cardiff would take such measures,
that she would become the linchpin of Edward Baliol’s shaky claim, had not been a triumph to her. Nay! It could become her
death warrant. Too many secrets tangled through this union. She had little choice but to keep them.
Edward Baliol, monarch to Scotland, had taken up a startling cause. His drumbeat was peace and a united peoples consisting
of Anglos who called themselves English, the great Welsh, and the unconscionable Scots
who were little more than brutish bears wearing their outlandish costumes. Was Morrigan the only person to call the king’s
declarations foolhardy?
But once her brothers had become convinced that a peoples united through her marriage was the only way to peace, no word of
hers could change their minds.
It had all come too fast to her remote corner of Wales. If her own family hadn’t prevailed upon her to make the sacrifice
to prevent bloodshed, she’d have never agreed to align herself with a Scot. If Califb and Drcq had demurred she might’ve had
a chance of getting out of the unholy alliance. They thought they were protecting her and her issue by such a marriage.
She’d had little choice once the lords began to come to agreement. The veiled threat of turning her out of her castle, of
donating her home and land to the Church, had been mentioned by the earls of Wales. Though her brothers had protested, their
protests had been the impetus to her agreement. She couldn’t cause a conflict that could endanger her brothers’ holdings,
even their lives, if they had to fight in her defense.