The Pledge (35 page)

When he saw MacKay come out from a group of his men, racing after his wife, he almost fainted. Turning to the mounted men
around him, he shouted, “Get him! Him! The Scot.” He pointed to MacKay. “He’s a traitor.”

When the men hesitated he swung at them with the flat of his sword. “Go! Go! I will lead you,” Tarquin screeched at them.
Then he lashed his own steed forward. “We must kill him!”

Only three followed.

Hugh wasn’t blind to the dangers surrounding him, the numbers of Welsh who would count it a triumph to slay
him. Still he’d waved off his men as he saw Morrigan rush to engage her cousin. “I’m sending that fool who dares to attack
my wife to his grave,” he muttered. Though he hadn’t ordered his men to follow, he knew they’d be at his back.

“I heard you and I’m with you,” Cumhal said, appearing at Hugh’s side, his horse as lathered as Hugh’s. “You needn’t trust
me. You can’t order me away. And if Morrigan doesn’t finish Goll, he’s mine.”

Hugh didn’t bother to respond. He’d have the fool called Goll beheaded in a trice. His relative could deal with the corpse
any way he chose. Another time he’d deal with the elusive Cumhal, who never seemed to be there when Morrigan needed him.

Hugh put all out of his mind but Morrigan, even as he felt her cousin pounding toward the jousters with him.

Headlong down the jousting field, more than a half a league in length, he and Cumhal rode head to head.

“Attackers!” Hugh waved his sword in signal. Cumhal seemed to comprehend and veered toward Tarquin and his men.

Hugh cursed when they managed to cut him off from getting to Morrigan. He recognized the Welshman. He had to go through him
and his men to get to Morrigan. So be it.

Full tilt, Hugh went right at Tarquin, who screeched orders, excoriating the laggards to charge the Scots.

Even as his few men tried to stand their ground, Tarquin gave way, galloping back the way he’d come.

Hugh ignored the others racing through them as they scrambled to get out of his way.

Welsh loyalties were being ripped apart, torn in two directions as the family Llywelyn polarized itself.

“He’ll die for the temerity of wanting her,” Hugh hissed, leaning over his horse’s neck, urging it to more speed.

Cumhal managed to hear him over the din, and smiled. “He desired gold more.” Even putting everything he had into it, it wasn’t
easy to keep up with Hugh MacKay.

“He’ll live until I skewer your twin, and get my wife from harm’s way.” Hugh lay over the destrier’s neck, urging the animal
in the reckless run to overtake her in time.

Scots faced their adversaries, challenges issuing from every throat. Chafing at the bit, they awaited the laird’s directive,
though more than one shivered with dread. It was not a good sign that their lady was in the forefront of battle.

Morrigan was so stunned when Hugh shot past her, she couldn’t react. Her sword dribbled downward, her destrier slowed, her
focus left her cousin to be burned into the man who’d elbowed her out of the firing line. “Wait!” Her admonition came out
a husky mutter.

“You! Son of Satan, this day you’ll join your master in the nether kingdom,” Hugh bellowed.

More than a few crossed themselves. No one should call upon the demon world. Gazes narrowed on Goll. Was he consorting with
a succubus? He’d never bothered with neighboring girls. Had he married a demon’s daughter? Macabre tales flew from mouth to
mouth, the deep-seated fear of the devil’s kingdom giving their imagination free rein.

As though Goll sensed the growing antipathy of Welsh and Scot, he reined in his steed. “My cousin has need of a barbarous
Scot to do battle with me?”

“She’s my wife,” Hugh bellowed, pulling up as well.

“Nay! She’s but a whore!”

The roars that came from the throats of the Scots bent the trees, shook the heavens. Many more shouted protests came from
the Welsh.

Had not a grim-visaged Urdred contained them; if Diuran, his features contorted in rage, not stayed them, all MacKays would
have flung themselves at the Welsh, stormed the castle, and turned the holding to ashes.

Tarquin pulled up his steed, bitter that those Welsh at his back had paid him little heed. He could’ve had it all. Goll and
Cumhal killed along with MacKay. Then he would’ve taught the Llywelyn tart about obeisance.

He’d always known that Morrigan commanded great loyalty. That she should still have such power, that it should come from all
sides, boiled his innards. It stirred his vitriol that those who should be under his command looked to her who’d married a
Scot. He’d make her pay for her sins.

He studied MacKay. He’d made the world stand still. Welsh and Scot eyed him. The contretemps between Goll and MacKay took
center stage. It was like a tale from Homer. Ire had Tarquin grinding his teeth, though he couldn’t take his eyes from the
tableau in the glen.
Reason told him that whoever won, he could be in danger. Something must change that.

Hugh MacKay was fighting to control his black humors. Temper was eating at him. Tarquin blessed the fact that Goll was his
target, even as he vowed to have Morrigan’s cousin killed if he survived the day.

Studying the MacKays, he noted their fury. It would be put to good advantage. Tarquin would triumph. Then he’d make sure that
Morrigan kept to the vows she’d made with him. He knew the annulment and vow taking could be questioned, but there’d be no
one to do that. As soon as he had control of her estates, Morrigan and her brat would die. For today, once the balance of
power was his, he’d keep her locked away until she was no longer useful. There were other women, more interesting than the
haughty Llywelyn shrew. He’d have his place in the aristocracy at last, commanding armies, fraternizing with kings. Mayhap
one day he’d be King of Wales, as was his due.

He pulled his mind back from delicious ponderings and settled on what needed doing at that moment to further his cause.

He’d hated the Llywelyns for years. They thought they were born to be fawned upon, catered to by all and sundry. He had fought
for every bit of space and stature he’d gained. The marriage to Morrigan would’ve been a coup if the earls hadn’t decided
to bestow her on MacKay. Who’d think the Scot would be so incensed
over losing an adulteress, or that he’d fight the decree of annulment? The barbarians were hard to understand.

Goll threw another challenge at MacKay.

Tarquin read the signs and spurred his steed down the aisle of Welsh archers who screened him from the combatants and the
Scots. His victory was at hand. He could almost taste it.

Morrigan had moved up to the side of Cumhal. “If you’ve come in good faith, you’re welcome. If you’ve come to support the
slime who faces my Hugh, I challenge you now.”

Cumhal’s smile was sour. “I’ve come to reclaim the good name of Llywelyn.”

“Don’t insult me. The Llywelyn name has not been sullied by such as your brother. He has disgraced himself, not my blood.
He has not the wit or grace to be any other than he is, a by-blow of Satan.”

Cumhal studied her, his smile slow in coming. “We’ve all underestimated you, haven’t we, Morrigan?”

Morrigan’s chin lifted, her glance sliding to the two shouting combatants. “Not Hugh MacKay. He knows my worth as I know his.
If your words are true, good Cumhal, you’ll take your place as head of your branch of the family. If you play false I’ll hunt
you down and kill you.”

“Even if all is not right at the moment, I’m sure your life will come about, Morrigan. I respect you, and never would deceive
you. You can believe in that.”

“Thank you, cousin. I’ll not give any covenant except to Hugh until this day is finished. If he falls”—grief choked her for
a moment—“I will take up his banner, and I shall war against my family and all others who’ve dared to take up arms against
MacKay.”

“Fair enough, cousin.” Cumhal’s glance held admiration. Then his gaze turned to the two facing off each other, as was custom.
Men could come onto the field of battle, call names, list their grievances, shout threats until such time as both were ready
to charge. “I would tell your spouse ’Tis my fight not his.”

“Have a care. Do not attempt to break my husband’s concentration.”

“I seek to do battle only with the dog who had betrayed me and mine. If our older brother Felim, who was three kinds of a
fool to trust Goll, ever speaks or knows any of us again, ’twill be a miracle. Felim didn’t have the wit to see he’d been
duped. He thought he was doing the right thing, cousin.”

“I will admit that Felim is rash and foolhardy, but neither do I see him as traitor.”

“He was stupid to trust Goll. It cost him his senses. I know full well ’twas Goll who struck his mind askew. For that I will
demand payment.”

“ ’Tis just.”

“Wish me well, cousin.”

“I do,” Morrigan whispered to his back, aware that he was no match for his brother in swordplay, manus a manis, or any other
war game. Goll was a past master.
She’d been sure she might get hurt battling him. She’d also been positive she could win. Hugh didn’t know her cousin’s tricks.
Cumhal didn’t have the devious mind to accept that his brother was as tricky as he was. She had no intention of taking her
eyes from Goll Llywelyn.

A flash of fight struck her eye. She knew, before she turned to trace its path, that it’d been the watery sun hitting steel.
Armor or weapon? Since none had moved among the onlookers in the glen, she scanned the castle battlements and saw the flash
again. Fixing her eyes on the spot, she made out a metal visor. That could’ve caught the sun. Why was a warrior up there when
the battle would take place on the field? An archer! An excellent one if he expected to hit a target from there. Even the
lower lancets would be too long a distance. The light hit again as though the archer had a bejeweled visor. What was his target?
Why was he readying himself? Had he a long bow that could be pulled with enough force to kill a man at such a distance? It
would take an outstanding bowman. Drawing an imaginary line down to the ground, she gasped. His objective was Hugh!

“Ambuscade! Ambuscade!” Morrigan screamed, kicking her horse to a gallop down the glen toward Hugh.

Hugh turned. When he did, Goll charged. So did Tarquin.

So did Cumhal. He leaned over his steed, whipping it to furious speed, as though he would reach the battlers. “Brother, I’ll
end this infamy this day. You treacherous
dog,” Cumhal muttered. “You would attack another when the foe’s focus is elsewhere. If I die this day, I, Cumhal of Llywelyn,
will stop you, Goll.”

Hugh was aware of the danger, as both Tarquin and Goll charged him. What worried him was his wife, riding recklessly behind
him, yelling something he couldn’t make out. He felt some relief when he glanced back and saw Cumhal and Urdred racing after
her.

He studied the two men coming at him from opposite sides. Dilemma! How to take them? He was sure he could; he was also pretty
certain he’d take a wound or two in the doing. He stiffened when he heard the pounding hooves at his back.

“I’m for Goll,” Cumhal shouted, going past Hugh at a gallop. “Tarquin is yours. Watch him, he’s fast and tricky.”

“So is your brother, if what is said be true,” Hugh called after him. Then he looked away and watched the other come at him.

Readying himself, he checked his sword. He heard the whistle of the missile cutting the air. Years of survival training had
him taking defensive measures, without thinking. He flung himself to one side of his steed. “Aaagh!” Hugh yowled as the arrow
tore through the fleshy part of his left arm, the force rocking him back, staggering him. He heard Morrigan’s scream.

“Stay back, wife,” he shouted, putting down his sword and breaking the arrow. The stump would remain
where it was until he finished the man who’d dared to try to take his wife. An unforgivable crime. “I want this one.” He slid
to the ground when Tarquin was almost on him. He lifted his sword and smacked the flat of it over the nose of Tarquin’s destrier,
making the angry steed rear.

Thrown off balance, Tarquin couldn’t bring his sword into play. Trying to turn the steed did no good. He lost his seat and
his advantage. Scrambling to his feet, he swiped a hand over a mouth frothing with ire.

“I’ll kill you this day, Scot.”

“So you say,” Hugh answered him, shaking his head to clear it. Had the shaft point been poisoned? He would only have moments
then before his vision blurred. When the Welshman took his stance, Hugh read the movements of the well trained. It would be
challenging. He had a taste for it.

Morrigan pulled at Urdred, who held her firm. “I would go to him. You mustn’t hold me back.”

“I cannot let you distract him, milady. That is why I detain you. I wouldn’t keep you from your laird.”

Morrigan patted his arm. “Good Urdred, you are thinking for both of us.” She winced when she saw Tarquin strike at her husband.
“Cur. I would dispatch him myself.”

Urdred leaned closer. “Fear not. Our laird is more the man than any Welshman living, wounded and unarmed.”

Morrigan chuckled, though her worried gaze stayed on her husband.

As though he realized what he said, Urdred stammered an apology. “Milady… I didn’t mean…”

“Nonsense. I understood. Do you think I don’t know that MacKays are valuable, that they are my people? Shame on you for not
knowing that, good Urdred.”

Morrigan didn’t see his protective smile, his soft look for her alone.

“I did know this, milady, and—”

Diuran poked him on the back, then leaned over him. “Did you hear our lady?”

“Just now…?”

“No. When she screamed ‘ambuscade’ and looked up. I saw no one, but when this is settled”—he jerked his head toward the combatants—“I
will tell the laird and we will besiege the holding.”

“Good. I’ll be at your side.”