The Pledge (22 page)

“Shh, we’en, ’twill be fine,” Dilla crooned. “Will not our laird see to it?”

Rhys shook with his sobbing, though he nodded. “Maman needs me.”

“She does indeed. What mother would not want to be with you, Avis and Conal. And she will be soon.” Dilla swallowed her own
sorrow, wise enough to know Rhys was saying he needed his mother, however many times he repeated that she needed him. She
hugged him close. If truth were told, the three had become as dear to her as
her own. “I’ll take you to the kitchen, and we’ll have sweets and a game. What say you, dear ones?”

They tried to smile but their eyes strayed to the great doors that’d been flung open by the laird, where the hustle and bustle
of the bailey sounded loud and clear.

Hugh bared his teeth when he saw the litters bearing his men, MacKay horsemen surrounding them. He fixed his gaze on Diuran,
who was held in front of Alex MacKay, his cousin. He was wounded; so were the others. Bringing up the rear of the ragtag entourage
was a hag on a long-haired pony.

Hugh strode to the horse carrying Diuran, lifting the mighty warrior down as though he were a child.

“Hold, fool. Would you undo my work? Is his litter made for him? Where are my medicaments? Hurry, you foolish gawps. Do as
I bid.”

MacKays stared openmouthed at the raspy attack on their leader by the frail but fierce witch. Then as though burned by her
words they ran in all directions to do her bidding.

“I’ll carry him to his litter,” Hugh said, his tone quiet but firm.

“Lord,” Diuran whispered, his pain obvious. “She was alive five days ago. It’s… taken… this…”

“No more talking,” the hag interrupted. She stared up at Hugh. “She’s not dead. I’ve seen it in my visions.”

Hugh felt as though a great weight had lifted from his chest, though he only nodded. Why he believed the
crone he wasn’t sure. That she knew Morrigan seemed possible. That she might know where his wife was itched at him. He longed
for Morrigan with a terrible ache. Underlying the longing had been a dread that their happiness was illusory, a fantasy that
couldn’t last. How could something so beautiful be forever? It was simpler to reflect that she meant to betray him, that her
body and words lied to him when they’d been entwined in love. Why would a lie be more comfortable than the truth? She’d betrayed
him only by not waiting for him, by not including him in her plans.

His heart filled with fury toward those who’d had the temerity to attack MacKays, especially his wife. There would come a
reckoning. He’d see to it if it took his last breath. Those who’d come at MacKay would feel his steel. No one and nothing
would come between him and his wife. Neither would any invade his clan without retaliation. It ate at him that all the long
years of being exiled from his holdings had not been payment enough to ensure peace.

More than breathing he wanted serene days for his people, a long, warm life with Morrigan. If Fate was playing the malice
game with him, if his beautiful wife was to be denied him, then he’d dedicate his life to his clan, to the elimination of
those who would assault it. He would fight to the death to protect it.

At the witch’s insistence he hurried Diuran to her care.

His dark thoughts prodded him to the healing room. Trying as he did to comfort Diuran, he couldn’t drive
the angst from his head. Where was Morrigan? Did anyone know?

When the MacKay women pushed him aside in the healing room, not questioning the witch’s authority, Hugh backed to the wall.
He had no intention of leaving. He never took his eyes from Diuran and the others.

Dilla came into the room. “The boy’s with Mavis and other guardians, milord. Eamon is with them.” She waited for his nod,
then went to look at Dermot and Clovis. One of the women moved from the side of the sick, talking in quiet tones to Dilla,
gesturing to the witch. Coming back to his side, Dilla waited.

“Well?” Hugh’s voice was harsh.

“Two have died as you know, milord.”

“Aye. Leamon and Deil.” His face stretched tight over his bones, a muscle jumping at the side of his jaw.

“The others will live because of the ministrations of the witch, called Diodura. She’s Welsh, and loyal to the family of Trevelyan.”

Hugh’s head swiveled toward her. “You mean Llywelyn.”

She shook her head. “Leana said the name twice because it twisted her tongue. Trevelyan.”

Hugh pondered that. ’Twas no secret that his wife was regent of Trevelyan. That that would be known by a witch, who was no
doubt isolated from most of society, Welsh and Scot, made him wonder. Such persons had to stay by themselves because the many
who believed in them were counterbalanced by the erratic disbelievers
who were known to stone, burn, or even skin them alive. No, the woman would have little touch with society, unless in truth
she saw everything in visions. Though Hugh hung on her words that Morrigan was alive, he didn’t countenance much that came
from soothsayers and the like. He would quiz her as soon as he could. Did she know where Morrigan was?

“I will have words with Diuran when he’s able and can speak with me,” Hugh rasped, his fury barely contained. He glanced at
Dilla. “And nothing to the boy.”

“Aye, milord,” Dilla said, sympathy in every line. “She’s safe. I know it.”

His lips cracked upward. “Thank you, Dilla.” He left the healing room, his long strides ringing down the stone corridor.

“Our lord hurts,” Leana said, behind her.

“He’s fair torn apart,” Dilla said on a breath.

Cardiff looked the same to her, though Morrigan hadn’t been there much since childhood. Noisy with the clatter of wagons,
the shouts of vendors, the scurrying of sedan chairs and their pullers, it had an alien feel. She felt choked by the sounds.
She longed for Castle MacKay, the people… Hugh. She couldn’t get him out of her mind. Would he forget her? They’d shared so
much that she could never put aside. She’d had but one man, and she loved him. How many had he loved? Still loved? Was she
even on the list? Countless questions assaulted her even as she studied the world around her.

Whatever had to be done for Goll must be done speedily. It annoyed her that the fools escorting her hadn’t listened to her
directions. It’d taken three days to get there instead of one. Though she’d come to no harm in the company of the riffraff,
she’d chafed at the waste of time. She had to get back to Hugh. She could almost feel him pulling her into his arms, planting
small kisses along her cheek as he was wont to do. Sweet Mary! She missed him.

Stop! Stop thinking of Hugh. Torture! Think of Rhys and the twins. She did, but even then, Hugh was there. Always. Around
her, inside her, filling her. Baffling. She’d not imagined a man could take over her life in such a way. Most of her existence
had been dedicated to the crusade of saving Rhys and his inheritance. She’d been quite sure nothing could intrude on that.
It would remain the prime mover in her life. Now there was Hugh, and she couldn’t envision a future without him or Rhys and
the twins. The children had become a force in her life. Her passion and emotion for Hugh had increased her love for the three
children. Her life with them was all she needed, all she could ever want.

“Yonder, lady. There’s the castle,” the leader called Raulf informed her.

“I see,” she answered as though she hadn’t known. She’d told him she was a princess of Wales. Why hadn’t he assumed she’d
been to the castle? She was perplexed by the men who’d escorted her to Cardiff. Who’d hired such rowdies that would attack
her coterie of MacKays?
Why were they set upon at all? How did they know they were coming? Cumhal had said nothing about sending a messenger. Had
they been watching for them? Why wasn’t an advance guard of Llywelyns sent instead of the no-name hooligans? All the questions
needed answering. Felim would respond to the perfidy or she’d leave Cardiff that day and return to Castle MacKay, on her own
if need be. Five days of journeying! Why had it been necessary to come such a circuitous way? She’d have answers or she’d
skewer Felim with his own weapon. She scanned the men around her. Their bunch seemed smaller, and there wasn’t a familiar
one to be seen. What was the connection between these rowdies and her arrival in Wales? Obviously she alone would face those
who held Goll captive. She’d not turn to Felim when she interceded for her cousin’s release. Felim would be overbearing. He’d
bluster and set up the backs of the absconders. No, she’d have to go alone. If only she had Cumhal interceding—

They approached the castle on a curving road.

In a flurry of trumpets and full-dress destriers, the welcoming committee disgorged from the castle in a feckless display
that wouldn’t have passed muster in Castle MacKay.

Felim trotted through the middle to pull his large steed up in front of her. “So, you’re well, cousin?”

“If I’d not been set upon by marauders, I might’ve been better,” she shot back. “As a princess of Wales I demand an explanation,
cousin.”

“What?” Felim growled, his many-layered features quivering with ire. “You were to be escorted to me, not set upon—”

“Oh?” she interrupted. “Then why am I escorted by marauders?”

Felim shifted in his saddle, setting his horse to sidling. “You were to be safe, brought to me by safe escort.”

“My
escort
from Castle MacKay was set upon and dispatched.”.

Felim grimaced. “I had wished to avoid that, but the Scots were ever warlike.” He whirled his steed, cantering back the way
he’d come.

Morrigan stared after him. “Wait! ’Twas not Scots—”

“We’ll speak of this anon,” he called back over his shoulder.

Morrigan seethed. What went on in that convoluted head? He was no scholar; he didn’t have the wit for intrigue. Like the puppeteers
of Venice there was someone manipulating Felim’s strings. Who would it be? What was the plan? Wasn’t she here to help Goll?
Damn her cousin! He’d answer all her questions.

He’d taken the news of the attack too well. It was unlike her mercurial relative not to spit fire over the smallest affront.
He’d not been fazed by the news. This had been an assault on his family. Was she not the highest-ranking Llywelyn outside
of Califb? Had her ham-handed cousin planned the action against the Scots? It seemed well nigh impossible. He’d never been
known
for his intricate thinking. Blunt words, clumsy actions were more his style. Did someone else devise the attack? Who held
Felim in such thrall?

Felim turned in his saddle. “Come along. There’s a chill in the air, cousin. There’ll be warm ale by the fire.”

Morrigan kicked her horse into the canter that carried her through the barbican to the bailey. When some of the people called
out to her, she paused.

“How goes it, good Drulla, Ham?”

The attendants skated their eyes around her, then fixed on her again.

“Things have changed, highness,” Ham said through his teeth. “Our farms have suffered.”

As though they felt the approach of some of the horsemen, they bowed and backed away.

“Thank you for your greetings, good people of Wales,” Morrigan said to the gathering, her slight nod at Ham and Drulla signaling
her understanding.

“Blessings to you, good princess,” came from a chorus of voices.

Even as she watched, Ham and Drulla faded back from the horsemen into the throng. They were fearful! What was going on in
Cardiff? Much of the land farmed around Cardiff had been deeded to her by her father, so she could have the independence all
Welsh women wish. It wasn’t a large holding by most standards, but it produced, and allowed a good living for her tenants.
She looked long and hard into the faces about her, anger building. If Felim had transgressed on her holding, if
he’d shown high-handedness to her serfs, she’d have his eyes. First she’d have an accounting. If it didn’t balance she’d empty
his coffers to do the job.

Wheeling her horse, she all but rammed the horsemen behind her. “Remove yourself from my path, you encroaching fool,” Morrigan
demanded in her most imperious voice. “You crowd the people of Cardiff who belong here, who pay their respects to a royal.
Methinks you don’t have a place here. They do.” Her voice carried as she intended. For a moment there were smiles.

Startled, the men who’d convoyed her to Cardiff stared at her, uncertainty in every line.

“Have you lost your hearing, dolts? Move!” She glowered at the man and his companions, then galloped through their midst,
not looking back.

She was helped to dismount by another unknown, then attendants bracketed her as she marched into the castle, then to the great
room that was jammed with people, most of whom seemed to be arguing with Felim. As always her relative was relying on roaring
over reason.

“Cousin.”

Startled, Morrigan looked to the left. “Cumhal, how did you—?”

“Shh. I’m here. Say no more. I’m here,” he said, struggling to speak from the side of his mouth.

“Where have you been?”

“Seeking Goll’s hiding place and trying to discover who is enemy and who is friend.”

“And have you?”

“No. I tell you this, cousin, I fear we are in a den of knaves. I’ve had this feeling since we were set upon.”

“I’ve had the same misgivings in this Llywelyn holding,” Morrigan whispered back. She looked around her, finding many eyes
riveted to them. If Cumhal was attempting to be unobtrusive it wasn’t working. “I’m glad to see you,” she said, smiling. “I’m
sure the Scottish riffraff have been dispatched.”

He watched her for a moment before nodding. “Back to their hell, I should think,” he muttered, beginning to scan the room.
“A nightmare, is it not? If Felim could learn but the rudiments of leadership we might have had a chance.”

“Had? What does this mean?”

“I’ve heard talk of mounting a campaign. You and I know that Felim is not up to planning such.”

Cumhal’s bitterness wasn’t lost on her. “That is not all he can’t comprehend. He doesn’t mention Goll, nor did he allow me
to broach the subject. He’s either run mad or he does not care. Which?”