The Pledge (3 page)

One more time the gong sounded. Hugh smiled at his cousin Toric and his men, patting his sword.

They smiled back and followed him, many breaking away from the serpentine procession to the glen. Some melted into the throng,
others disappeared through passageways. More than a few climbed to the battlements, while a complement went to the bailey
and beyond.
There’d be MacKay warriors to man the walls, though the king’s forces might not notice them. These were almost a match in
number to those who already dotted the woods, and surrounding areas. A full contingent would mix with the wedding crowd. They’d
be prepared for anything. The MacKay Clan hadn’t survived so many generations by being careless.

The dankness, dimness, and rank scent of the old rushings in the ancient castle mirrored Morrigan’s soul. She looked down
into the vaulted entry, spying the royal at once.

Edward Baliol was certainly not the romantic ideal of a king. His bandy-legged, narrow-chested form was cloaked with riches
that didn’t hide the scanty frame nature had provided. His razor-sharp mind had kept him at the forefront of rule. His greed
for power was far more imposing than his ill-shaped body.

Morrigan took a breath and whispered the vow she’d made to Gwynneth. Then she rubbed the gold claddagh pinned to her bodice
and fashioned for her by her maternal Hibernian grandsire. She descended the stairway carved from the turret wall so that
ascending warriors would find it harder to wield a sword than those coming
down at them. At that moment she’d have felt more at home battling foes than descending to take the arm of the royal who’d
escort her to her spouse.

Keeping her chin elevated took grit when all she wanted to do was watch her footing on the treacherous stairway. The stone,
the hue of blacksmith’s iron, had gone slippery from wear, and since she’d not wanted any of the ladies at her side, she had
to pray for balance as she descended.

With a waxy smile upon her face, she reached the bottom and crossed the hall. She bowed to Edward Baliol. Some said he should
never have ruled Scotland. It was his ancestor who’d aided in the betrayal of Wallace as did many of the other greedy earls,
including the king’s henchman, Monteith. “Your grace, I am—”

“I know who you are, Lady Morrigan Llywelyn. Am I not your guardian and as such sworn to protect your person and all you possess?”
His smile washed over her.

She looked up at him, inclining her head. You bloated usurper! You’ll not get Trevelyan. “ ’Tis true I am a princess of Wales—”

“Descendant of Dafydd ap Llywelyn, as is your bastard son, Rhys Llywelyn.”

She fought the run of blood that washed from her heart at his words. For five changes of the sun she’d heard men’s scathing
pronouncements against her. If the Llywelyn family hadn’t been so cohesive, so strong, so mightily resistant to all who’d
dare to insult them, she might’ve been stoned for what they believed. She was
protected by the bastion of her name and wealth. Power and gold! How they turned the world. She could not be ungrateful for
the power that protected her. It was a vitriol in her innards that no man would be castigated for fathering a child out of
wedlock. There was little justice.

A hand reached for hers, drawing her up. “I ask your pardon for my usage.”

“’Tis nothing I’ve not heard before, your grace.” How she hated the quick condemnation of herself, and a child.

“Milady, I admire your sangfroid at my clumsiness. Do not think I’m unaware of your plight. Men cast their leavings at every
turn. They’re not condemned. You choose to bear and rear your child, and you are a sinner. I see the inequity, as I know you
do.”

Stunned, she fought to keep her mouth from falling open at such a declaration. Had she underestimated the monarch? She stared
into those bright hazel eyes, alight with warmth, and almost faltered. She swallowed, lifted her chin, laid her hand upon
his arm, and turned. “I thank you for your kind words, your grace.”

“And I would say you’d not heard much of that outside the world of your kinsmen.”

“ ’Tis true.” She took deep breaths. She would remain calm. It was not in her best interests or Rhys’s to lose control.

“We have a walk before us, milady. This castle”—he jerked his head at the walls—“though the closest to the borders and the
many families who have need to attend
your nuptials, is not large enough to hold all who’d insist on witnessing the nuptials. The clans who clamor to see the deed
nailed to the monastery door are numerous indeed, so we have no choice but to have the service out of doors. For once the
sun smiles on Scotland.”

Morrigan nodded, understanding the feudal powers that would only accept what they could touch or see. Many of those not seeing
the vow taking would question its validity. Even some of those who did might protest. Better to let any who wished witness
it. Facing straight ahead, not looking at any of the murmuring crowd that lined both sides of their way, she inclined her
head to answer. “It behooves you to return Mac-Kay…” She stumbled over his name.

Edward chuckled. “How smooth your mouth is when it speaks your Celtic tongue. Worry not about your coming name. Say it this
way. Maw-Ky. Come down hard at the last.”

“Maw-Ky,” Morrigan repeated, eliciting a smile from the monarch, sighs and whispers from the populace. “Once this nuptial
commences, such lands revert to MacKay—”

He laughed. “Indeed. Vast properties and wealth untold, milady.” When she looked at him he smiled, steering her around a retinue
of guards who were clustered along the way. Across the inner and outer courtyards and out the main gate they slow marched
as was custom. Then the crowd multiplied until it took many soldiers to
hold back the throng who pressed to see, and to greet both bride and monarch.

Morrigan faltered at the first roars of the assemblage.

The cheers and huzzahs were honeycombed with boos, though they were not as cacophonous as the happy sounds. The thunderous
greetings grew and had her pausing.

“Head high, milady. Aye, that’s the way of it. Be proud. You bring your own treasures to this match… not to mention the link
with Trevelyan.”

Morrigan swallowed, bowing left and right, pretending she hadn’t heard the last. Had the royal guessed about Rhys? Or was
he shooting in the dark as some did when wanting to probe and pry? He’d not gain her confidence.

The king waved his arm in greeting to those about them, as they wended their way to a copse of trees. In the center was the
platform where she would promise to love, honor, and obey. Atop the large dais, which looked small from the gate, the vows
would be shouted to those great numbers of persons dotting the heather-thatched hills. The far-off ghostly gray and snowcapped
mountains half circling the area, the other half open to the wild and noisy sea, would be the sentinels, the silent witnesses
to the vows.

When a raven and seabird flew above her, Morrigan wondered what the soothsayers would say. Ravens brought death; seabirds
brought messages. The meaning was too obscure.

“For a sadly short or blessedly long time hence, milady,
your name and person, both Scottish and Welsh may have the power to stem an invasion.”

Morrigan swallowed. “Then to protect the peoples I embrace the decision to unite Llywelyn and MacKay.”

“Well said.”

“Surely peace hangs upon a stronger cord,” she remarked.

“Does it? I wonder.”

“You must know any ties we fashion will need to be knotted into peace and prosperity.”

“That’s what we do this day,” said the king.

“You’re very sure, it seems.”

“I am sure of might, milady.”

“And this would be MacKay?”

The king nodded. “ ’Twould seem my English cousin would pause in his conquests if he stared into the sights of MacKay and
Trevelyan might be aimed his way.” The king’s smile was sour. “ ’Twould be better if I knew the enemies closer to me than
my cousin.”

Morrigan slanted him a glance. “I can assure you they are not among mine.”

“I can agree with you, milady. I’m honored to have the might of MacKay and Trevelyan.”

Morrigan smiled at the political sally, though her mind turmoiled with worry. Why had he not said Llywelyn? Three times he’d
mentioned Trevelyan. Was it a sign? Would he guess who Rhys was? Had others? Certainly Aodh MacKay would ask questions once
he found her to be virginal. He might not put her aside, for to do
so would allow disclosure and questions about his right to keep his holdings. There were other ways to handle it. MacKay could
consign her to a remote tower until she wasted away to death. To be parted from Rhys would be the greatest punishment.

If MacKay were as private a man as he was touted to be by the gabbing women, he’d not want his marriage business aired. Yet,
if his anger was fierce enough he might not weigh the consequences. Dispatch her with a sword? Of course, he could put her
aside by the simple expedient of ignoring her. In Wales women would protest. In Icelandia women would have an advocate to
speak for them. No doubt in Scotland they merely burned them alive. Lord! She’d not dwell upon it.

At least there’d be no lords and ladies inspecting her wedding couch to see if she was in truth virginal. As a woman who,
according to gossip, had had an unnamed lover and bore his son, she’d not be expected to be chaste. Nay, the rumor among those
other than Llywelyns was she was wanton. How angry MacKay must be to take her to the marriage bed. Then again, he claimed
his estate with her hand. Perhaps the justice of Hammurabi wouldn’t prevail. She shuddered when she pictured the myriad punishments
that could occur. Dismemberment. Stoning. Lashings.

Closing her eyes for a touch of time, she prayed to St. Dafydd that MacKay would not linger in her bed, nor would he visit
it more than one time.

The cool breeze coming down the glen had her lifting
her face to it. Scotland had become too warm. Most said it never did. Some had told her the sun had never shone on the godforsaken
land. Today it gave lie to the gossip.

Then she saw him. Good St. Dafydd, he was a giant with naught upon his person but a white shirt, with a multicolored swag
over his shoulder and a kilt of the same fabric. His knees were bare! Glory be! He was in truth a barbarian in a sea of such.
She blinked at the gigantic men surrounding him, some with the same colors on their shoulders, some with checks and plaids
of totally different hues. A veritable spectrum! And all had bare knees!

Many tales she’d heard of the mighty giants of the north, how they looked when they fought. Some garbed in myriad colors.
Some naked and painted blue! Holy Mother she was in a hell of colors! She’d had some idea of what she would face after listening
to the bitter prosings of her family. To see it for herself was more than strange. Did not the enemy use the many-hued garments
as targets? The earthen-hued raiment of the Welsh was much more sensible. Oh to be in Wales…

“You pause, milady? Is something amiss?”

My whole life! she wanted to shout. “Not at all, your grace. I’m just most anxious to see everything on this auspicious day.”
She saw the glint of humor on his face though he bowed as if he accepted what she said.

“A new life begins this day for you, milady.”

“So it does, your grace.” She forced a smile. What would he say if it became her execution day?

She was to espouse herself to the largest of the giant Scots, forever, until she was called by her Maker. How unfair life
was to the Welsh. She knew one thing. She’d never bend to him. She was a royal from Wales. What was he? An outlaw who’d been
pardoned. The condition of his freedom and return of lands and name had been to align himself with the Welsh in marriage so
that the King of Scotland could command fealty from its people. So be it. She would not let him forget that she was the mortar
that buttressed every stone on his battlements.

If Ruric, Gwynneth’s husband who by Welsh mandate could be called her cousin-in-law, had lived, no such infamy would’ve occurred.
She might have been married to Tarquin of Cardiff and Lothb, if all had not been changed by false Fate. What would Tarquin
say when he heard of her marriage? She’d not seen him in many turns of the sun. He’d told her he wouldn’t have the heart to
visit after she’d told him they couldn’t marry. She’d read censure in his eyes, but she didn’t, couldn’t, explain about Rhys.

Had the saints deserted Llywelyns? She’d have to pray harder. Or if things became desperate, she would take up sword and cudgel
as she’d been taught and fight her way back to Wales with Rhys on her back. She’d not be defeated. The Scots would soon discover
she could wage war as well as any of them.

The king nudged her forward. “Come, milady, meet
your destiny with truth and grace. Are you not a royal Llywelyn of Wales sworn to protect all you hold dear?”

She heard the amusement in his voice as though he doubted she could. She didn’t move. Rather she faced the king. “I will go
through with this, as is my compact with my family and the House of MacKay. But first, as is my right, as a princess of Wales,
I seek a boon from Scotland’s king.”

The royal’s brows snapped together.

She could almost read his thoughts. Such was not the way of things that any woman being used as political tool would deem
to seek favor. No matter how the demand was couched, it was still that. Where had female humility gone?

When he stared at her, Morrigan knew he waited for her to beg pardon, to confess that she had erred. Then they would resume
their march to the altar without tomfoolery. The silence stretched. Morrigan held his glance. Too much was at stake to back
down now.

Edward sighed. “And what would that be?”

“I seek to be named princess regent to a holding.”

Edward’s throat bobbed with myriad emotions. “By being princess regent, you would become regent, in effect.”

“True. I wish to be named regent of the lands known as Trevelyan.” When the king bared his teeth, she almost faltered. Then
she thought of Rhys and persevered. “ ’Tis my right, I believe, your grace. Since my lands run with theirs, my people can
protect the holding. Since
I was kin to the last ruler, I can truthfully claim the right of family. This I can do since ’twould seem there’s no Welshman
of blood to claim the estate. I do not seek to manacle it to my lands. Instead I would ask that my regency run for two decades.
’Tis not unreasonable. After that time it could revert to the royals, or mayhap by that time an inheritor would be found.”
The blood running up those hard features told her she’d struck a vulnerable point. No doubt the king had meant to sweep the
Trevelyan riches into his own keep. Edward Baliol would be a fool if he didn’t negotiate some of the riches into his own depleted
coffers.