“I WANT YOUR LOVE, MORRIGAN.”
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
Books by Helen Mittermeyer
The Pledge
The Veil
Published by
Warner Books
Copyright
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
I want your Love, Morrigan.
Books by Helen Mittermeyer
Copyright
Prologue
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Epilogue
To Cristine, my youngest child. Your courage and generosity are a constant inspiration. You 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 The Pledge. Bonne chance!
Helen Mittermeyer
PROLOGUE
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.
ONE
Courage, daughter! May the Lord of heaven turn your grief to Joy!
Edna
Scotland—1332
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.
The cavalcade north into wildest Scotland, bordering an even wilder ocean, was as arduous as the seers had predicted. She was to marry one of the mightiest lairds in Scotia to seal the king’s bargain, not a border lord as she’d supposed, but a warrior descended from the mighty Vikings. The most barbarous of Scots! Aodh MacKay wouldn’t have agreed to the marriage had he not so much to gain. The promise of reclaiming his own lands, lost when he’d battled against Scottish Edward’s fight for the throne, had been the powerful inducement.
Now she was here with the godless Scots in a land as wild as they were, with a host of ladies surrounding her as she was readied for the vow taking. She felt more like a lamb led to the slaughter than a bride prepared for her groom.
Perhaps her primitive betrothed might be able to speak Anglo. She could. She’d not admit to understanding the discordant Gaelic that tripped off their lying tongues but she knew it well, having had a housemaid from Hibernia who could speak the language. She needn’t tell her husband of her understanding. Just a small deception on the list of larger ones. The handmaidens who spoke freely in front of her did not realize she comprehended.
“If you’d but smile, milady…”
At Morrigan’s cold look the handmaiden’s broken Anglo faltered then subsided.
Morrigan glanced over at Rhys, who jumped and fidgeted no matter which lady tried to entertain him. She forced a smile. He would feel her tension just as he always sensed her moods. At five years of age he was a brawny, healthy lad. Rhys was a pure Celt and she was proud of him. Recalcitrant at times, bullheaded too often, he was a true son of Wales. That he called her Mother, and knew no other, was his safety net.
“Be good, Rhys,” she commanded quietly. It wouldn’t do to show fear, though if truth be told she’d been frightened on and off, since Rhys’s birth. Even protected by the Llywelyn name she’d been the subject of scorn. More than one illicit liaison had been offered to her. Some had all but threatened. Somehow she’d prevailed, even in the absence of her brothers.
Her husband could put her to death if he discovered her secret. She would do anything and everything to protect the knowledge buried in her heart. Keeping silent about Rhys’s true birth was the only protection for both of them. Old Nell was gone. Though Diodura, the only other person who knew the truth of Rhys’s birth, was still alive, she’d say nothing. No doubt her sister, Lature, would also know. She would be silent, as well. They were the only ones, outside of Morrigan, who knew Rhys was heir to the vast holding of Trevelyan. One day when Rhys reached his majority, when he could manage an army, his true identity would be revealed.
That didn’t hold sway in her mind at the moment. Getting free of the Scottish entanglement, and how to manage it without war,
had filled her head for weeks. So far she’d not come up with any workable plan to liberate herself and Rhys from the terrible alliance that faced her. Choices dribbled away as fast as time on the water clock. It was getting late.
Rhys roared his disapproval when one of the ladies tried to wipe the chocolate from his chin.
“Rhys! Remember your place,” Morrigan chided.
He scowled at her, opening his mouth.
Before he could speak the gong sounded throughout the castle and the merriment increased. Shouts and laughter bounced off the walls. Perhaps it was this that made the tapestries sway, and not the sudden bitter wind that’d swept down from the northern isles.
It had been pointed out to her that the castle was on the coastline of the Pentland Sea. Beyond the mists were the dreaded Orkneys wherein the Vikings, loyal to the MacKays, dwelt. Not only were they aligned with MacKays, they were kin. What could be worse? A combination of savages. Could the mighty traders be any more dangerous than those on this forbidden land called MacKay?
“The king is here, milady! Edward Baliol, himself, will give you to the great laird of the Norlands. The wondrous Highlands will be blessed by the presence of MacKay. His mother came from the Orkneys, you know. A rare beauty she was. ’Tis said she spoke naught but the Icelandic tongue so common there. What a twist of families there is this day, wouldn’t you say?”
“I… I know not your meaning,” Morrigan said.
“Is it not strange that your name, Morrigan, is the same as the clan you’ll marry into, milady?”
Morrigan whirled around, upsetting the seamstresses who were putting the last stitches in her raiment. “I thought the name was MacKay.”
“Not Mak-kay, milady. ’Tis Mac-key, or as the laird, Aodh, calls it, Ma-ky’, milady, with the heavy accent on the last syllable.”
“I see. Then why not call it Clan Morgan?”
The Pledge Page 1
