“To be sure, milady, such was it called, eons past. ’Twas such a wild and woolly group of roisterers they didn’t much care what they were called. And so it was Morgan.”
“And as mine is Welsh and pronounced Morgan, I see a faint similarity, but not enough to be important,” Morrigan replied. Perhaps she sounded stuffy. Nervousness had always made her poker up, rather than cry, which would’ve been more acceptable, mayhap. Nay! She’d not satisfy any of their black prayers. If they expected her to beg for mercy, plead to return to Wales, they’d wait till their bones rotted. She was Llywelyn. Her chin lifted.
The giggles increased to hoots as word of what she said flew among them.
“I think she just insulted her future rib,” one of the ladies called to another.
“ ’Tis not a thing she’ll do often if all that’s said of Aodh MacKay is true.”
“Aye, ’tis true he’s ruthless, that he’d skewer one for frowning at him.”
Morrigan steeled herself not to shiver. She was happy no one could see her knees. They quaked like dry branches in the wind.
“ ’Tis a shame the laird is so closedmouth about his liaisons. ’Twould be a grand tale to know it all.”
“My, I think not. Yon one would faint,” said one, her head jerking toward Morrigan.
The hilarity increased.
Morrigan rubbed her wet palms on a piece of precious material that’d been trimmed from her garb. She couldn’t close her ears to the ribaldry that was so much a part of the Scots, though she wished she could. Hearing about the outlander who’d be her spouse put a bad taste in her mouth.
These Scots were an unseemly people with little good sense. She’d never experienced such in Wales. The men might talk in a lascivious way to one another. She’d overheard such when she’d been hidden away in a cupboard. No such talk of coupling was stated openly by Welshwomen as was done with Scotswomen. Had they no shame? If truth were told she knew a goodly amount of what went on between animals. She’d been raised among the hills and dales where sheep and goats played and rutted. Weren’t the actions of men and women the same? She knew enough, and didn’t care to hear her future privacy with her spouse discussed. Nor did she wish to ponder how their coupling would progress.
“… and they say he’s hung as a destrier is. What a ride she’ll have…’struth he’s bedded enough wenches to people a village… nay, they were glad to be plowed by such a stud.”
When they grinned at her, Morrigan nodded as though she had not understood such words, though she struggled to control the blood flowing to her cheeks.
The women thought her illiterate, as some were in Wales and their own land. How could they know she’d been tutored as her brothers had been, in Greek, Latin, with a background in Euclid and the Egyptian healing ways? She’d been instructed, too, by the witches in the keeping and preserving of herbs.
To be sure they were no different from most who thought her an adulteress, a woman who’d bedded a man not her spouse, and had only been protected by the Llywelyn name. So, now she was mother to one thought to be a Llywelyn by bastardy, not a Trevelyan by birth, who was heir to a large, imposing holding. It was not in Rhys’s best interest that anyone know he was not a natal Llywelyn. One day—
“Milady, do not thread your hands so,” one of the seamstresses urged. “Each motion pulls the fabric out of the stitching line.”
“Sorry,” Morrigan whispered. Her life could be over that day when it was discovered she’d not known the touch of a man. Would she be entombed in her bride’s clothes? She had to force herself to remain still and standing. How ironic that she could and might be castigated for being a possible conspirator against the Scots because of her virginity, if only because they believed her to be a mother.
The solution to her dilemma had eluded her these many days since her betrothal was first trumpeted throughout Wales. Many of the Welsh thought her little more than a human sacrifice. They understood the need, but pitied her, and she could expect little more, being a fallen woman. None of them knew her problems were greater than they perceived.
As the ceremony grew closer, her desperation grew. She had to find a way to protect herself. If her husband decided to kill her who would take care of Rhys?
Taking a deep breath, she stared at the water clock. It took all her mettle not to grab Rhys and run. Foolhardy! She wouldn’t get far.
That very night she’d be joined with a man she didn’t know. She’d seen the joinings of animals and such. It didn’t assuage her trepidation. If anything such ponderings magnified her fears. She didn’t know, beyond that, nor did she care to, about the detailed intimacies a man and woman shared, since she was a virgin. Most in Scotia and Wales thought her well past bedding and breeding because she was beyond two decades by three changes of the moon, and had a child by another man. Proving them wrong didn’t set well. It could mean a very painful death if her new husband questioned her, demanded an explanation. If she could save Rhys by confessing his parenthood, she would. Mayhap the wild MacKay would listen to reason and spare Rhys. Lord knew he was as much at risk as she.
She glanced out an open lancet and tried not to shiver. Scotland with its gaunt and endless mountains seemed not a country at all, but a place of darkness and goblins.
One of the ladies patted her. “I’m Lilybet, milady. Not a chatterin’ gomeril like some is,” the retainer said, jerking her head at the giggling ladies. “Time to go, ’tis. Dinna fret what ’awn say. ’Tis naught but the wind, ye ken. Aodh MacKay is a man of great wealth. Were he not to wed and bed you his lands would be forfeit since he fought against the earls who put Edward upon the throne. Since the king knows ’Tisn’t wise to battle the Norland lairds, that the Highlands are peopled with stalwarts he cannot afford to gainsay, he’s opted for compromise, ye ken. ’Tis proud you are to be the key to such.”
The words fired Morrigan’s inner strength. Proud, is it? she fumed. To be a pawn makes no Welsh woman proud. Am I not Boudicca’s spawn who fought the Romans to their knees before their duplicity caused the great queen’s death? More fool Aodh MacKay if he thinks I will bend, that I will be grateful for his name. I am a princess of Wales. He’s naught but a barbarian from the north. Instead of voicing her fury, Morrigan smiled and nodded.
“Were you not to procure an heir for MacKay, yon lad could lose his Welsh monies and holdings that come from you. Not so?”
“Why do you say so?” She struggled to stay calm. Had Lilybet the power of vision? How could she know about Rhys?
“Fret not. Yon boy will not do ill with MacKay. You’ll see. The we’en will not need your own monies. He’ll benefit from MacKay, and rightly so.”
Not so! His wealth is Trevelyan! He will inherit! Her mind screamed it. Her mouth muttered ayes as she passed the canny Lilybet, and preceded her ladies-in-waiting from the tower room.
“Aodh! Ready yourself, the king comes.”
“I’m ready, Toric.” He turned to look at his men gathered around him in the keep below the west turret. Looking upward, he scanned the battlements. It would not be impossible to storm the castle at the first sign of treachery. Though Edward had given his gauntlet, the sign of his honor, Scots were not fooled by such. Had not Wallace lost his life because of English infamy?
“Toric, you, and the others”—he let his eyes rove his large complement of soldiers—“know what you must do. Protect our guidon, our tartan, our name.” A smile touched his mouth. “I’ll unbend a bit more and use my Anglo name. No more will I be called Aodh. The Gaelic gives way to the English Hugh.” He nodded once when some groaned a complaint. “Flinch not at small cost. The name, honor, and our wealth are in balance. Even if this comes off with the dreaded Welsh woman, naught changes for us. We are Scots and MacKays.” The expected roar to such a battle cry was greeted with the silence of wisdom. Not one word of their counterplan would be known to the royal. Nay, his very existence as monarch would hang in the balance until the moment when they would have their rightful heritage returned.
Only to spare his people further death and pain had Hugh MacKay agreed to having a Welsh spouse. If Edward Baliol thought him cowed by the pact he didn’t know his Scot.
If the Welsh wanton sold herself to gain power among her people and his, she didn’t know MacKay. He’d bed her until she brought forth another son. The one she had now would inherit some of the MacKay holding, but no Welshman could ever command the land, name, and people. If she brought no heir, then he…
His thoughts were jarred by the second striking of the gong. He sucked in a breath and looked at his men.
Bratach Bhan Chlann Aoidh!
The murmur grew until it was on all their lips.
The White Banner of MacKay!
Shields were brought forth with the bulrush painted on the white banner. Shoulder clips were touched with the same insignia. Man looked to man, standing straighter. Clenched fists slammed into chests, the Viking signal meaning death before dishonor that had come to them from the Icelandics who’d married into the clan. The warlike MacKays would never suffer perfidy. If Edward Baliol sought to betray them with the Welsh tart, he’d swallow revenge before the sun set.
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.
TWO
A little thing indeed is a sweetlysmelling sacrifice.
Judith
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.
The Pledge Page 2
