The Pledge

by Helen Mittermeyer

  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.

  “And why would you want to hold such in trust, milady? You are not a blood tie as you have admitted. Am I correct?” The silky tone held menace.

  “You speak truth, your grace. ’Tis my loyalty to my people that makes me want to protect Welsh for Welsh. Would not a Scot do the same?”

  The smile was reluctant. “I fear ’twould be so.”

  “Well, then?”

  “Your argument is thin.”

  They’d stopped and faced each other, neither cognizant of the rising murmurs around them.

  Since Morrigan didn’t feel she could be any more threatened than she already was by being betrothed and soon to be married to a Scot, she persevered. “I, a true Llywelyn, and as such bound in ancient times to Trevelyan, can be held responsible for this, as my brothers can’t. Welsh law allows a woman to be regent for a specified time. I am the only one left who has the blood and connection to hold such riches in trust, honorably, until such an inheritor can be found—”

  “ ’Twould seem you know your Welsh history and customs.”

  “ ’Tis true.” She’d also learned how to wager and gamble at her father’s knee.

  “And you do not consider this royal person equal to the task of protecting such lands and monies?” the king thrust at her, his face mottling.

  She’d risked his anger and it would seem she’d fired it. Morrigan swallowed and wondered if she’d even make it to the marriage dais alive.

  The murmurs rose higher through the sudden silence. Morrigan was sure that the onlookers, including her intended, could read the royal’s ire as well as she. She looked at none but the king. “I, and all who know your reputation, respect your royal acumen,” Morrigan stated.

  The royal unbent enough to glance around him.

  Morrigan looked to the assemblage on the raised platform. She saw lips move and was sure they were discussing the delay.

  “Can you discern their meaning, Hugh?”

  “No. They are rigid enough to have argued.” He didn’t turn to look at Toric. His gaze was fixed to the woman.

  “She’s not just a princess, but a beauty as well, eh Hugh? ’Tis a surprise, I’ll be bound.”

  “Yes,” Hugh said in terse tones.

  “Perhaps ’Tis a fluke of the sun. Her tresses cannot be midnight black shot with fire? Her brows are like blackbird wings. Even those arches seemed to be touched by that auburn fire. Though her rich raiment covers her from head to toe, I would say that she’s as well formed as my mare. What say you, cous
in?”

  Hugh cursed. “What keeps the monarch and princess from the dais?”

  “I sense you’re more angered by my words, than by their hesitation.”

  “Hold your tongue, Toric.”

  His cousin laughed. “I swear you wouldn’t have cared a fig on waking if she had been covered as well as a nun with only the tips of her fingers and face showing. Now you do.”

  “Must you go on with this?”

  “I must,” Toric responded, hiding his mirth. “Is she not like the wonderful enamels fashioned in Mercia? And her skin shines like sunny moonlight. Ah, if only we could see her eyes.”

  “How poetic you’ve become, cousin.”

  “I’ll ignore the vinegar in your voice, and tell you to remember the covenant that will enrich MacKays with these nuptials.”

  “I forget nothing.”

  Ignoring his cousin’s restraining arm, he leapt down from the dais and strode toward the duo.

  Hugh perused her as he moved, noting the rich elkskin of her boots. The narrow, womanly foot was well shod. The intricate lace of her underdress spelled wealth.

  “ ’Twould seem the vows are to be put off by discussion?”

  Morrigan had to call on all her reserves not to fall back. She knew without looking that the harsh tones barely coated by civility belonged to her future spouse. When had he come upon them? When last she’d looked he’d been among the throng on the platform. She didn’t turn her head.

  “All proceeds as it should,” she said in her haughtiest tone. She was rewarded by the king’s elevated brow, and a fractional lifting of one corner of his mouth.

  “Your blood beats hot, MacKay. Even from a distance I noted your charge to reach us. No doubt ’twould be my needs that would call you, and not the loveliness of your intended.”

  “My heat would be for my intended, as you say,” Hugh interjected, his smile almost hiding his annoyance. “Perhaps the lady had bewitched both of us, highness.”

  “To be sure she must be. And more than that the lady has a mind for opportunity, MacKay. Your espoused wife would have me sign over Trevelyan to her regency, MacKay. What think you?”

  “I think her perspicacity in enlarging my estates is admirable. What think you, most lovely intended?”

  Silence gouged through the gothic curves of the stately trees dotting the glen. His words had been beyond courteous, though spoken in lazy fashion. Some murmured they had loverlike tones. How could that be? MacKay didn’t know the princess, had never met her.

  “I think…” Morrigan said in measured tones, knowing her enunciated words would carry. “… that I cannot receive what is not to be given. My riddle is simple to solve when one is bound in the truth that I alone, by blood, can carry the Trevelyan estates in my regency.”

  The bald, bold statement brought gasps, sighs, mutters, and groans. Then a light chuckle that began with her intended and brought a reluctant response from the king allowed the onlookers to breathe again.

  Morrigan shook inside like a pudding, but she pressed her lips and knees together and prayed for strength. Her gaze touched the man who was soon to be her spouse.

  Taller than any man there. His hair seemed dark until it hit the sun, then it was auburn flame as were his brows. His cheekbones were wide. Such breadth of shoulder she’d not seen in all her family. His mouth was as firm as his jaw, and some would call him handsome. The colorful tartan became him. The claymore proclaiming his title of laird looked like a giant’s weapon, yet he wore it with ease. His eyes were black, then blue, or both. His skin had a smooth, ruddy tautness that covered his strong bones. Though big, he looked so smoothly muscled one couldn’t call him brawny. This man was formidable—and more comely than any warrior she’d beheld.

  There was a movement to the right. A woman richly dressed, though in the black of mourning, her gem-encrusted gown and headdress winking in the sun, stepped to the side of MacKay. “Has my godson need of me?”

  MacKay turned, noting the agitated frown. “No need to fret, milady. I believe you know our royal.”

  The woman sank in deep curtsy, bringing a smile to Edward’s face.

  “And this is my intended, the most beautiful woman in Wales.”

  There were titters and murmurs. The lady’s brow elevated just a trifle.

  Hugh touched his godmother’s arm. “Lady Maud MacKenzie, my godmother. Lady Morrigan Llywelyn, soon to be MacKay.”

  Morrigan was impressed by the woman’s lustrous skin, the blue-black hair that peeped from the side of her headdress. She was struck at how beautifully the mourning colors became her, how they enhanced that white skin and her bejeweled garb. “ ’Tis an honor to meet you, milady.”

  “The honor is mine, dear one, since you are soon to be espoused to my godson.” She waved her hand in a languid, graceful way. “ ’Tis my son who will support the cardinal at your vows.”

  Morrigan turned to look. “He’s a priest, then?”

  MacKay chuckled. “Not quite. Kieran MacKenzie hasn’t taken all his vows as yet, though he soon shall. He’s too caught up in his Latin and Greek studies.”

  His mother sighed. “ ’Tis true.”

  The king coughed and Lady MacKenzie bowed, then faded back to the throng. “ ’Tis past time for the vows.” He glanced at Morrigan. “Shall we, milady?”

  Morrigan pressed her lips together. “I would have an answer to my query for regency, if it please your grace.” She could tell that the monarch wished she had forgotten it and not mentioned it again.

  MacKay stepped nearer. “What say you of my intended, good royal? We stand before you and God to say our vows. This day truth will be spoken.”

  The king nodded once. “I’ve been outflanked by the Celt,” he murmured for her ears alone, though the widening of MacKay’s smile said he’d picked up the words. “Let us proceed.” He waved his hand and all the frozen retainers unbent, surreptitious gripping of weapons relaxed.

  Morrigan hadn’t received a verbal promise, but she felt encouraged that she hadn’t had a negative response. She’d persevere.

  Instead of returning to his place as custom demanded, MacKay offered his other arm.

  She looked up at him, reeling at the heat she saw there, the interest. This was unexpected. That she could be drawn to a Scot had not entered her thoughts. At best she’d thought to tolerate him. Now her innards quivered like treacle because he eyed her.

  For the first time her carefully built resistance wavered and Morrigan could feel a trembling at the back of her knees. Her neck was so stiff it’d cramped between her shoulders. Her soon-to-be-spouse was even larger than he’d looked at a distance. His shoulders were like doors, though there was a smoothness to him, a quickness she sensed. Danger surrounded him like the lunar aureole.

  His face had been chiseled to rock hardness, his eyes the brown of a Welsh hill with golden slashes around the outside. He’d made such a quick complete impression on her, she could recall the slight scar at the corner of his mouth, a similar one to the side of one eye. She felt the beat of his blood under his hand. Not as fast as hers. She’d not expected to like his features, to find him winsome in a manly way. She must be sickening with something to find a Scot appealing.

  Her hesitation was enough to make MacKay aware she was more of a reluctant bride than he’d been led to believe. Annoyance had him moving closer to her so that her right hand slid down over his, his thumb locking her there. The flowers she carried drooped between them.

  Morrigan was out of breath and off balance. She didn’t know why MacKay had such an effect, but she knew it was he who’d caused it. All at once her modish raiment felt mussy, uncomfortable, lumpy. Each and every step had to be handled with care for her limbs had become like softened wax.

  It was more than awkward to try to traverse the glen, manage the train of her gown and the heaviness of the bliaut, with her arms lifted to the limbs of two haughty men. To make it more cumbersome, the chin guard of her headdress began slipping up and covering her
mouth. She took a deep breath and wished for the long trek to the altar to be over, when just short minutes past she’d wanted it to go on forever. What a paradox. She needed an ending that she sorely didn’t want.

  Her two escorts paused at the foot of the platform. As quickly and quietly as she could she pushed and pulled at her raiment, trying to keep it in order.

  The king preceded the bride and the laird upward. He held up his hands to the crowd, accepting their huzzahs, ignoring their boos.

  Morrigan looked up the short steps to the platform and sighed. Too steep. Were they rickety as well? Surely she’d fall from them and break her neck. That might solve the problem. She lifted one foot.

  MacKay bent toward her, eyes alight. “Let me assist you, milady.” He scooped her up to thunderous applause.

  “Fool! Would you have them scorn us?” Morrigan felt dizzy, disoriented. She clutched at him. Never had she felt anything but a need to handle her own destiny. In one quick swoop MacKay had rendered her helpless. It was not a wholly unsatisfying sensation, though unseemly. She was surely going mad! Not minding being held by a Scot! Ridiculous.

  “They dare not,” he answered her shocked query.

  Why did he look at her so? He seemed taken aback. Did she repulse him?

  “Surely your flashing emerald eyes would tell them they are in the presence of a queen.”

  “Surely not, since I’m a princess,” she shot back, more shaken by his touch than she’d ever been. No other living person had wielded such potency over her. Black magic, that’s what it was. MacKay was in league with Satan himself. Consigning him to the devil had a leavening effect on her nerves, though her being continued to tingle from his touch.

  The papal representative, Cardinal Campbell, was a long-suffering, sour man who’d taken martyrdom as his cloak when only a young priest. He wore it like a second skin and it had served him well. His glowering glance would’ve stayed upon the Welsh woman, had not the hard glance of MacKay intercepted it. He schooled his features into what he was sure was a pious look.