The Pledge (34 page)

She waved a hand to the hornsman, who brought her the trumpet to speak through.

She clasped the horn, then before any could guess at her intention, she clambered up upon the back of her steed, bracing her
legs on the wide saddle. She prayed the horse would be the same steady steed she’d had in Wales. To her relief he was immobile.
The test would be
when she shouted through the horn. “Urdred, you will hold my reins.”

“Aye, milady. Should you not come down from there?”

“He’s right, Milady Morrigan. Hugh will have our eyes if aught happens to you.” Rufus MacKay grimaced when her steed sidled.

“Shh,” Morrigan admonished. Putting the horn to her mouth, she shouted. The horse sidled again, then was still.

“Ho, Goll, you feckless coward, stand down and meet your doom. I, Morrigan of Wales and Scotland, throw down the gauntlet.
You are challenged to a joust with me alone, you son of bog slime!”

“Milady!” Diuran begged, the MacKays muttering at his back. “Seek not a personal challenge. Let us do that.”

“I beg you let it be me, milady,” Urdred importuned.

Morrigan ignored him and the pleading Diuran. “Goll! You hear me, craven dog that you are. Hide not within. Come out and fight
me. I challenge you in the name of Llywelyn and MacKay. I will serve your head to the wild dogs and they will vomit you out
of their mouths.”

Such dire threats were only thrown at sworn enemies. The insults were so rife as to call forth a blood feud.

Curses were thrown from the battlements along with the cheers of MacKays, the warnings from Goll’s warriors.

“Face your destiny, you lowly cur, you slime that only bogs produce, you filthy traitor to Wales and all honorable Welsh!
Entrails of a swine you are, feces of a mad dog,” Morrigan shouted until she was hoarse.

Silence shook over the cold glen surrounding the castle. As the wind whistled from the sea, rattling the leafless limbs of
trees, her invectives seemed to echo in every ear.

“Milady, I will be your champion,” Urdred demanded.

“Or I,” Diuran pleaded.

Morrigan shook her head, keeping her eyes on the battlements. The faces disappeared.

Long moments passed. Little was heard but the wind.

Then the godawful squeak and squawk of the drawbridge being lowered brought all to attention. The drumbeat and clarion challenge
of the horn sounded through the air, battling the sea noises.

Hugh lunged forward, caught about the middle by Keith.

“Not now, laird. ’Twould endanger all if you were to appear. The sight of you would be the impetus for a battle. Ere we reached
our lady she could be pierced by yon weapons.” He pointed to Morrigan. “She is most vulnerable and exposed where she is. We
must be most discreet, Hugh. Let her have her way for now.”

Hugh shook off his large warrior. “She’s challenged him,” he said through his teeth. “If he accepts he could charge and kill
her.”

Keith shook his head. “A ploy to draw him out, to be sure.”

“Pray you’re right.”

“I do, laird. Trust her. Our lady is just testing the waters. She would not joust with her cousin. ’Tis a trick to pull him
out of the castle into the open, so she might quiz him to your whereabouts.”

“Is it? Don’t be too sure. She’s daft with courage, damn her eyes,” Hugh muttered, then subsided, watching the people around
him. “Prepare yourselves.”

They nodded, solemn intent in every gaze.

Dermot lifted a piece of metal from the ground. The sun was watery but mayhap he could catch a beam.

Hugh saw and nodded.

“Be of good heart, Earl of MacKay. Your lady is surrounded by her people. Not one among them would not give his life for her,
Hugh,” Keith said. “Wait for the propitious time, then we’ll take the day, and rescue our lady.”

“I’ll not see her threatened.” Hugh bit off the words, his voice hoarse.

MacKays murmured agreement.

All had their eyes on the Princess of Wales, who stood atop her steed, her chin up, short sword in her hand. Welsh hearts
were proud even if she was going up against her own. MacKays quivered with anxiety, though their visages said they, too, thought
her gallant and intrepid.

Through the opening from the bailey rode the Welsh contingent, their battle flags upon spears.

Goll had his leather shield and hat upon his head, his own sword drawn. “Cousin, you’ll die this day,” he shouted to Morrigan.

“One of us will,” Morrigan answered. Then she slid down to a seated position. “You came at my husband like the traitorous
dog you are, Goll. For that you’ve forfeited your honor. As the ranking royal in our family I pronounce you proscribed, that
you are unfit to keep the name Llywelyn. Henceforth, you are Goll, the Nobody, and proscribed in all things Llywelyn, and
throughout Wales.”

Her curses rang in the wind, going to every ear. No one had thought to hear such. Mouths drooped in shock. Eyes widened in
surprise. Most had never heard such sanctions against any of the leading families. That the princess should oust a relative
meant there was nowhere for him to go, that he was lost to blood ties.

“Damn you to hell, Morrigan,” Goll shouted back.

“Arm yourself to face this MacKay, cur dog,” Morrigan yelled.

MacKays watched her, appalled, as she readied herself. “You will all stay back unless I’m beset from others. I order this.
Understood?”

Urdred shook his head, then nodded when she made him swear.

“I like it not,” Diuran told her.

“We’re here to get our laird. We will,” she told them, swallowing the quaver in her voice.

MacKays made a tunnel of themselves, arms at the ready, every other one facing an opposite way, the hillocks, trees, and outcroppings
manned by MacKay warriors.

“I go forth. Bratach Bhan Chlann Aoidh!” she shrieked. MacKay pipes sounded into the wind, preparing her way on the huge arena
where men on opposite sides looked like bugs to the other.

White-faced MacKays watched every move as their lady moved out into the flat land facing the holding, her steed sidling in
nervous reaction to the pipes. Though the destrier looked too large for her, her queenly stature gave lie to any weakness
some might utter.

“Come out, cur,” Morrigan shouted. “Meet me on your day of doom.”

Hugh was busy, though he watched every move she made. He went among his men, head down, proud that though MacKays recognized
him, they kept their silence.

Morrigan’s slow progression to the center of the ground that would be used for their jousting caught the eye of the hordes
of Welsh who pounded into the area from the surrounding holdings. Word had gone out that Princess Morrigan had issued a challenge
to her cousin. Death to the loser.

Timed to the second when most would be watching
the tableau unfolding, Hugh went to the men brought by Morrigan, seeing them, letting them see him. He gave them terse instructions.
Few were needed.

“There will be more than one assault on her person,” Hugh told them. “Watch for this.”

“Hugh, look. They seek to come at her from the side,” Keith said, strapping on a weapon supplied by another MacKay.

“Handle it.” Hugh’s eyes swept the area, catching the movement off to the other side. “Urdred—”

“I see. ’Tis our job.”

Hugh didn’t even check to see if it would be done as it should. There was no need to instruct MacKays. Their instincts had
been forged in battle; their mettle tested against formidable foes. They knew how to face down the enemy, prevent takeover.
Had they not done so since babyhood?

“Milord,” another from the group surrounding him got his attention. “We must do something now. Our lady—”

Hugh waved his hand. “I would we could. I sense my spouse has a stratagem in mind. Though I see it not, I cannot interfere
as yet.” Cold sweat dribbled over his body as he poised himself to move. Because there were so many MacKays he could slide
among them, doubled over, all but hidden from those from the opposite side. His heart squeezed within him as he pondered the
fate of his wife if he was unable to reach her. Timing was
going to be everything. If he missed a beat, his wife could die.

Morrigan waited until her cousin was a distance away, but facing her. They were in jousting position. “Before I skewer you
I would have the people of Wales know of your perfidy.”

“You stall, cousin,” Goll shouted, standing in his stirrups. “I come at you, armed or not, prepared or not. Brace yourself.”

“Wait! Are you so fearful of hearing your transgressions voiced aloud? Ask the people of Wales. Let them decide.”

“I’ll not let you stall—”

“Yes! Tell all. Tell all,” called the people.

Goll seemed transfixed that they could question him, that they had the temerity to do so. “Quiet!”

“Is it your plan to muzzle all who think freely, cousin? I think not.” Morrigan raised her voice, her scathing tones not lost
on the populace.

“Nay! Nay!” the burgeoning assembly caroled. “Speak out, Princess! We have the right to hear.”

“Quiet, fools!”

In his ire Goll didn’t see Morrigan’s smile at first. Then he caught it, realization coming in fulminating fury. “You’ll die!”
he shouted, spurring his destrier, paying no heed to the shouts of “Foul!” that followed him.

“No, fool, you’ll hang for being the treasonous scum you are. Wales has no place for such as you.” Morrigan
would have preferred a longer contretemps with Goll, a more prolonged insult match, a greater time to prick at his ego. In
such a way she could turn the gathering populace against him. No person of sense would go against the people. In such a Punic
combat there’d be no winner, if the people decided to take a hand. As she watched her cousin’s horse circle, readying itself
to gallop down the glen toward her, she knew her time for bluffing was over. The people were restless, questioning. Would
they rise up against Goll? There was no time to question that. She had to prepare herself to meet his sword.

Hugh paused in his preparations, listening to her, his anger not abating at his wife for endangering herself. His admiration
for her courage and ingenuity grew in spite of his ire.

“I, too, fear for my cousin,” Cumhal said, appearing at Hugh’s elbow.

“Then why the hell didn’t you stop your twin?” Hugh said through his teeth. “You come and go like a wraith. Why were you not
there to aid her?”

“I was sent on a wild-goose chase, Hugh MacKay. I’ve come back this hour. My people are telling me many things about my brother.”

“I’ll listen later.” And if he lied he’d skewer the bastard before he could get near Morrigan.

At the sudden silence, Hugh straightened. Goll was going to charge Morrigan! No more time. Damn the
woman! He’d convince her once and for all that she was not Boudicca, but his spouse, and he wanted her safe.

Once more he glanced at the two who held the assemblage in thrall, their steeds exhaling steam and pawing the ground. The
pewter-hued sky with its ponderous clouds drooping over them seemed a fitting canopy for the combatants.

Then he heard Goll’s furious squawk. As though on hidden signal, the silence broke into growing roars as the crowd reacted.
Morrigan and her cousin were racing toward each other, weapons pointed out front, battle cries issuing from their throats.

Hugh cursed, then grabbed at the nearest destrier. The rider quickly dismounted, giving his armor to his laird. Hugh flung
himself into the saddle, eschewing armor, holding a sword with one hand, reins with the other. Could he catch her? Digging
his heels into the destrier’s sides, he sped after his wife, MacKays parting like the Red Sea in front of him.

The cacophony of yelling, huzzahs, boos, and wagers became a hoarse mix, raging to crescendo. Warriors dropped weapons to
watch. All cheered a favorite.

Hugh heard nothing but the pounding of the blood in his brain, urging him to go faster.

Welsh watched Scot and vice versa, in wary study. At least they did when they could tear their eyes from the glen as Morrigan,
Princess of Wales, Lady MacKay charged at her cousin, Goll of Llywelyn, respected
baron of one of the oldest families in the country. Unheard of! That a Llywelyn would battle another? Mayhap in barbaric England
or Scotland old families would do such. Not in Wales, and certainly not the Llywelyns.

Some shook their head, disbelieving. Others were awed, staring, mouth agape. None could leave the fray. One day children would
listen to the sonnets about the time when the Llywelyns made war on each other.

Neither adversary gave quarter, nor held back. They galloped at each other, full tilt, sword at the ready, grim visaged, both
determined to end it their way.

Tarquin of Cardiff had all but decided how to handle matters until he saw MacKay. His self-importance had taken a beating
since dealing with Sir Goll of Llywelyn. Though they’d been acquainted since childhood, Tarquin realized he’d never really
known the complex Goll. Things had gone poorly of late. Nay, it’d begun to go down when the lords of Wales had decided that
Morrigan should marry the Scot. All his plans for wealth and status had flown. When Goll had suggested a solution to Tarquin’s
myriad financial problems, it’d seemed an answer from Heaven. But not lately. Too much had gone awry.

Neither English Edward nor Edward Baliol had come out strongly for the decree of annulment. Neither had they gainsaid it,
but it’d gone on too long. Morrigan had disappeared before they could make her sign the script and before she could pronounce
her vows to him. And
there were the suspicions that grew with each passing day.

For weeks he’d been sure that Goll was undermining him in some way. He didn’t know how. Hell, he didn’t know all of Goll’s
allies. What if they were the enemies of Tarquin? He was very sure he had to protect himself.

As he watched Morrigan and Goll, the distance shortening, he had the surety his problems would soon be solved. They’d both
be killed. He would inherit Trevelyan because he would insist that a marriage had taken place, and was legal. He, then, would
set his men on Cumhal, and take over the Llywelyn holdings to the west. Nothing could suit him more. Was not his family almost
as old as Llywelyn? If his father had had the monies and holdings belonging to Trevelyan and Llywelyn, he would have been
a baron.