The Pledge

by Helen Mittermeyer

  She pulled hard on the reins, turning the sluggish steed around, and charging at the two who were intent on taking Diuran from the back. She dug her heels into the horse, cannoning forward, passing Diuran by inches, gripping her reins with one hand, her short sword with the other. A battle cry tore from her throat. More than one MacKay gaped, before redoubling efforts to take down the assassins who would dare assault their valiant lady.

  Morrigan plowed into the two back stabbers, the wide chest of the horse taking the two men down before they could collect themselves to escape. Momentum carried her past the area of battle. When she succeeded in turning the large overexcited beast she saw that Diuran was no longer in sight. Neither was Cumhal. She raced back to the fray, waving her sword like a guidon.

  “Stop! I am a princess of Wales. Cease this attack at once,” she commanded, not sure her voice or her authority would work.

  Silence descended like a tattered cloak. Cries, moans, groans of the wounded were the only sounds for several breaths of time.

  “You… don’t command us, but you will come with us.”

  Morrigan inhaled, looking around her. They had five times the men. “I will see to my people first.”

  “No need. We’ll finish off those who are not already dead.”

  Heartsick, Morrigan’s mind raced. “Wait! Since I was their captive I claim the right to end their misspent lives.” Off to one side she saw Cumhal stagger to his feet holding his head, blood oozing from his fingers. “I would have a dagger, if you please. The rest of you stand back.” She turned and stared at Cumhal.

  “Hold! I, too, am the captive of the Scots. I would do my share of finishing the rabble.”

  Morrigan stared at him, hoping she read the right message in his eyes. “ ’Tis your right.” God help him if he killed any MacKays. She’d burn his eyes out with a poker.

  She took a dagger from the nearest man, noting its rusted edges. They were rabble who took little care of their weapons. They’d slay no MacKays if she could help it. Waving them back in imperious fashion, she strode to where Diuran was lying.

  His eyes were closed.

  She leaned over him, raising the dagger. “Spread your arm from your body, please,” she said through her teeth. She saw a flicker behind his slitted gaze. “Go to the witch on the river. It leads from this place less than a league. Go south. Her cottage is there. Give her the word Taranus. Tell me you comprehend.” The eyes blinked. “Dog of a Scot! You die,” she screeched, bringing the blade down in his armpit, praying she didn’t touch skin.

  She rose to her feet. “Now, the next one.”

  Cumhal staggered close to her. “My turn.”

  “Tell them Taranus.”

  “Of course,” he muttered, then raised his voice. “I’ll strike down the dog,” Cumhal swore.

  Morrigan noted one of the intruders right behind her. “ ’Tis almost done, and needed doing.”

  Suspicion crossed his face. “You were a long time with the first one.”

  “Indeed I had to be. I called upon the Prince of Darkness to come take his soul.”

  Blanching, the man stepped back, as did his cohorts who’d been listening.

  “And did you lose many?” Morrigan tried not to gag at the gore, at so many lying wounded.

  “We’ll finish our own.”

  Horrified, she watched the man dispatch his wounded comrades. No Welshman should treat his own like this! Who were these men? Mercenaries that prowled the countryside looking for any kind of killing work? Predators who sought out the weak to rob and slay? Not a word passed her lips though she quivered with outrage. One day she’d see them hang for this day’s work.

  “Mount up.” The leader glanced back at his men.

  Morrigan eyed the wounded Cumhal, blood streaming down his face, reeling from weakness and fatigue. “My cousin must be seen to at once. He, alone, freed me from the dreaded Scots.” She saw the pernicious look the leader gave Cumhal and knew that he would’ve subjected Cumhal to the same treatment he would’ve afforded the Scots had she not been there.

  Cumhal shook his head. “I’ll be along on my own. I have my own medicaments.” He looked at the leader. “Of course you know you’re on Welsh soil, that eyes follow your every move. If any even speak wrongly to the Princess of Wales, you’ll be boiled alive in the black pools that come from the earth.” Cumhal looked thoughtful. “Perhaps you’ve not seen it done.” He pointed through the glen. “Yon pools are magical. A burning faggot put to them causes a blue flame to rise.” He gestured with both arms, though the effort caused him to groan. “The man chosen is then tossed into the center. His howls can be heard for miles. ’Tis great entertainment.”

  Cumhal’s ghoulish smile had some shivering, the leader blustering he was paid to deliver her intact. Morrigan would’ve smiled if she hadn’t been so heartsick and worried about the MacKays on the ground.

  The leader grasped her reins. “Come along.” He glowered at Cumhal. “You’ll have to catch up on your own. We mean to collect our pay before the sun hides.”

  Morrigan had barely time to wave to her cousin before they were off at a gallop.

  Cumhal watched them disappear, then he went to Diuran. “Can you hear me?”

  “I surely can. I hope ’Tis not us you plan to fry.”

  Cumhal grinned. “Come, I’ll give you what medicines I have, then we’ll be on our way to find Diodura—”

  Diuran clasped his arm. “No, we look for Taranus as Morrigan said to me.”

  Cumhal smiled, nodding. “He is the god to the ancients. There are some who practice the old ways like Diodura. She is a great healer. Witches are honored among us, not harmed as they are in other places.” He turned around and looked at the others. “I’ll try to help them.”

  Diuran struggled to a sitting position. “Dermot went down, I saw that.”

  In moments they buried Leamon and Deil, fashioned a tumbrel of sorts with sticks and vines, for Dermot. Only then did they begin their trek to the river.

  NINE

  Absence makes the heart grow fonder.

  Propertius

  Castle MacKay was in turmoil. The lady was missing. The laird was in high dudgeon. Parties had been going out for days, trying to find her trail.

  She, six MacKays, Diuran, and one called Cumhal, a relative to Lady MacKay, seemed to have vanished in the sea. None had seen them disembark at Cardiff, if that was their destination. Messengers had brought the word she’d been summoned to a family meeting there. Yet none had seen her arrive, nor had any seen her since.

  “I want her found, no matter what it takes.” Hugh slammed his fist down on the trencher board, his bitterness palpable. Not since childhood had he felt so betrayed.

  “You don’t know that the scrolls are accurate,” Dilla began, earning her laird’s wrathful gaze. “I do not care if you proscribe me, I’ll not believe she betrayed you.”

  Dilla’s husband gaped at her, then went to her side. “I ask you to punish me for my wife’s thoughtless words, milord. I’ll not let her be—”

  “Stop!” Hugh shouted, making man and wife jump. “I’m not angry with Dilla.” He glared at her spouse. “Since when is it against the law for any MacKay to express an opinion?”

  He grimaced. “ ’Tis not.”

  “Then stop defending Dilla until she needs it and—”

  “Where is maman?” Rhys shouted, tearing into the room and plummeting into Hugh. “I want her now. She needs me. Avis and Conal will cry if she doesn’t come. She’s to help us with our lessons.” Despite his strong words, the lad’s chin shook and his eyes were suspiciously wet. The twins stood in the doorway, faces and limbs quivering.

  Hugh scooped him up, holding him close. For the five days Morrigan had been gone, and the three he’d been home, he’d hardly been separated from the trio. Hugh slept in Rhys and Conal’s room on a cot. Lilybet had stayed with Avis. If either boy woke he could touch them. Lilybet often spoke of Avis’s restlessness. Most nights Hugh didn’
t sleep, his mind boiling with anger and fear. Before the sun rose he was usually up, sending runners, waiting for the return of others. Morrigan! Her name rang in his head, in his chest, all through him—

  “Where is maman?” Rhys leaned back in Hugh’s arms. “She needs me. You must know that.”

  “I know. I’ll find her and bring her back home. You must believe in that. You’re a MacKay. You must have faith in your laird.” Hugh heard Dilla’s smothered sob. From the corner of his eyes, he saw her husband pull her close. His insides were shredded with worry. No word in all that time. Five days and he didn’t know where she was. His wife and her coterie seemed to have vanished. Runners had been all over Scotland, Wales, and England. Nothing.

  Hugh inhaled. “We’ll mount a new campaign.” He eyed Tone, who’d hovered nearby since they’d found Morrigan gone. “I’ll lead it. You’ll stay with the boy, guarding him along with—”

  The flurry and shouting at the gate alerted him and started him running. As Hugh passed Dilla and Andra, he shifted the boy to her. Andra lifted the twins.

  Rhys began to wail the minute he was out of Hugh’s reach. Tears ran down the twins’ cheeks.

  “Shh, we’en, ’twill be fine,” Dilla crooned. “Will not our laird see to it?”

  Rhys shook with his sobbing, though he nodded. “Maman needs me.”

  “She does indeed. What mother would not want to be with you, Avis and Conal. And she will be soon.” Dilla swallowed her own sorrow, wise enough to know Rhys was saying he needed his mother, however many times he repeated that she needed him. She hugged him close. If truth were told, the three had become as dear to her as her own. “I’ll take you to the kitchen, and we’ll have sweets and a game. What say you, dear ones?”

  They tried to smile but their eyes strayed to the great doors that’d been flung open by the laird, where the hustle and bustle of the bailey sounded loud and clear.

  Hugh bared his teeth when he saw the litters bearing his men, MacKay horsemen surrounding them. He fixed his gaze on Diuran, who was held in front of Alex MacKay, his cousin. He was wounded; so were the others. Bringing up the rear of the ragtag entourage was a hag on a long-haired pony.

  Hugh strode to the horse carrying Diuran, lifting the mighty warrior down as though he were a child.

  “Hold, fool. Would you undo my work? Is his litter made for him? Where are my medicaments? Hurry, you foolish gawps. Do as I bid.”

  MacKays stared openmouthed at the raspy attack on their leader by the frail but fierce witch. Then as though burned by her words they ran in all directions to do her bidding.

  “I’ll carry him to his litter,” Hugh said, his tone quiet but firm.

  “Lord,” Diuran whispered, his pain obvious. “She was alive five days ago. It’s… taken… this…”

  “No more talking,” the hag interrupted. She stared up at Hugh. “She’s not dead. I’ve seen it in my visions.”

  Hugh felt as though a great weight had lifted from his chest, though he only nodded. Why he believed the crone he wasn’t sure. That she knew Morrigan seemed possible. That she might know where his wife was itched at him. He longed for Morrigan with a terrible ache. Underlying the longing had been a dread that their happiness was illusory, a fantasy that couldn’t last. How could something so beautiful be forever? It was simpler to reflect that she meant to betray him, that her body and words lied to him when they’d been entwined in love. Why would a lie be more comfortable than the truth? She’d betrayed him only by not waiting for him, by not including him in her plans.

  His heart filled with fury toward those who’d had the temerity to attack MacKays, especially his wife. There would come a reckoning. He’d see to it if it took his last breath. Those who’d come at MacKay would feel his steel. No one and nothing would come between him and his wife. Neither would any invade his clan without retaliation. It ate at him that all the long years of being exiled from his holdings had not been payment enough to ensure peace.

  More than breathing he wanted serene days for his people, a long, warm life with Morrigan. If Fate was playing the malice game with him, if his beautiful wife was to be denied him, then he’d dedicate his life to his clan, to the elimination of those who would assault it. He would fight to the death to protect it.

  At the witch’s insistence he hurried Diuran to her care.

  His dark thoughts prodded him to the healing room. Trying as he did to comfort Diuran, he couldn’t drive the angst from his head. Where was Morrigan? Did anyone know?

  When the MacKay women pushed him aside in the healing room, not questioning the witch’s authority, Hugh backed to the wall. He had no intention of leaving. He never took his eyes from Diuran and the others.

  Dilla came into the room. “The boy’s with Mavis and other guardians, milord. Eamon is with them.” She waited for his nod, then went to look at Dermot and Clovis. One of the women moved from the side of the sick, talking in quiet tones to Dilla, gesturing to the witch. Coming back to his side, Dilla waited.

  “Well?” Hugh’s voice was harsh.

  “Two have died as you know, milord.”

  “Aye. Leamon and Deil.” His face stretched tight over his bones, a muscle jumping at the side of his jaw.

  “The others will live because of the ministrations of the witch, called Diodura. She’s Welsh, and loyal to the family of Trevelyan.”

  Hugh’s head swiveled toward her. “You mean Llywelyn.”

  She shook her head. “Leana said the name twice because it twisted her tongue. Trevelyan.”

  Hugh pondered that. ’Twas no secret that his wife was regent of Trevelyan. That that would be known by a witch, who was no doubt isolated from most of society, Welsh and Scot, made him wonder. Such persons had to stay by themselves because the many who believed in them were counterbalanced by the erratic disbelievers who were known to stone, burn, or even skin them alive. No, the woman would have little touch with society, unless in truth she saw everything in visions. Though Hugh hung on her words that Morrigan was alive, he didn’t countenance much that came from soothsayers and the like. He would quiz her as soon as he could. Did she know where Morrigan was?

  “I will have words with Diuran when he’s able and can speak with me,” Hugh rasped, his fury barely contained. He glanced at Dilla. “And nothing to the boy.”

  “Aye, milord,” Dilla said, sympathy in every line. “She’s safe. I know it.”

  His lips cracked upward. “Thank you, Dilla.” He left the healing room, his long strides ringing down the stone corridor.

  “Our lord hurts,” Leana said, behind her.

  “He’s fair torn apart,” Dilla said on a breath.

  Cardiff looked the same to her, though Morrigan hadn’t been there much since childhood. Noisy with the clatter of wagons, the shouts of vendors, the scurrying of sedan chairs and their pullers, it had an alien feel. She felt choked by the sounds. She longed for Castle MacKay, the people… Hugh. She couldn’t get him out of her mind. Would he forget her? They’d shared so much that she could never put aside. She’d had but one man, and she loved him. How many had he loved? Still loved? Was she even on the list? Countless questions assaulted her even as she studied the world around her.

  Whatever had to be done for Goll must be done speedily. It annoyed her that the fools escorting her hadn’t listened to her directions. It’d taken three days to get there instead of one. Though she’d come to no harm in the company of the riffraff, she’d chafed at the waste of time. She had to get back to Hugh. She could almost feel him pulling her into his arms, planting small kisses along her cheek as he was wont to do. Sweet Mary! She missed him.

  Stop! Stop thinking of Hugh. Torture! Think of Rhys and the twins. She did, but even then, Hugh was there. Always. Around her, inside her, filling her. Baffling. She’d not imagined a man could take over her life in such a way. Most of her existence had been dedicated to the crusade of saving Rhys and his inheritance. She’d been quite sure nothing could intrude on that. It would remain t
he prime mover in her life. Now there was Hugh, and she couldn’t envision a future without him or Rhys and the twins. The children had become a force in her life. Her passion and emotion for Hugh had increased her love for the three children. Her life with them was all she needed, all she could ever want.

  “Yonder, lady. There’s the castle,” the leader called Raulf informed her.

  “I see,” she answered as though she hadn’t known. She’d told him she was a princess of Wales. Why hadn’t he assumed she’d been to the castle? She was perplexed by the men who’d escorted her to Cardiff. Who’d hired such rowdies that would attack her coterie of MacKays? Why were they set upon at all? How did they know they were coming? Cumhal had said nothing about sending a messenger. Had they been watching for them? Why wasn’t an advance guard of Llywelyns sent instead of the no-name hooligans? All the questions needed answering. Felim would respond to the perfidy or she’d leave Cardiff that day and return to Castle MacKay, on her own if need be. Five days of journeying! Why had it been necessary to come such a circuitous way? She’d have answers or she’d skewer Felim with his own weapon. She scanned the men around her. Their bunch seemed smaller, and there wasn’t a familiar one to be seen. What was the connection between these rowdies and her arrival in Wales? Obviously she alone would face those who held Goll captive. She’d not turn to Felim when she interceded for her cousin’s release. Felim would be overbearing. He’d bluster and set up the backs of the absconders. No, she’d have to go alone. If only she had Cumhal interceding—

  They approached the castle on a curving road.

  In a flurry of trumpets and full-dress destriers, the welcoming committee disgorged from the castle in a feckless display that wouldn’t have passed muster in Castle MacKay.

  Felim trotted through the middle to pull his large steed up in front of her. “So, you’re well, cousin?”

  “If I’d not been set upon by marauders, I might’ve been better,” she shot back. “As a princess of Wales I demand an explanation, cousin.”

  “What?” Felim growled, his many-layered features quivering with ire. “You were to be escorted to me, not set upon—”