The Pledge

by Helen Mittermeyer

  SEVENTEEN

  And now I have finished a work that neither thewrath of love, nor fire, nor the sword, nor

  devouring age shall be able to destroy.

  Ovid

  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 cou
ldn’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.”

  Diuran sucked in air. “Evenly matched, more’s the same,” he said in Gaelic.

  “Aye. ’Twould not be so had not some dog shot our laird.”

  “I agree,” Morrigan said, standing in front of the two. “I’ll find the accursed vermin, I swear as Princess of Wales.”

  When the two men looked at each other over her head, neither smiled.

  “We will do all to aid you in finding the dog, milady,” Diuran whispered.

  “I know that,” Morrigan stated, not taking her gaze from her husband.

  Back and forth they went. Hugh had not underestimated Tarquin’s strength or his talent with the sword. He knew he was tiring, that his strength had been sapped by the arrow. He had to end the duel, and he intended to be the winner. Morrigan! Every time he thought of her in the clutches of his opponent, his thrusts strengthened.

  She’d yelled just before he’d been hit. She’d been watching and then raced to his aid. Was there ever a more intrepid woman? No wonder she revered Boudicca. She was her modern soul mate.

  Hugh was brought back to the combat when he felt a slice up his side. He countered, then moved inside and struck his forearm against the other’s shoulder.

  Tarquin stumbled back, steadying himself. Gritting his teeth, he rushed the Scot. “Why haven’t you weakened? The broken shaft still protrudes from your upper arm. Damn you!” he gasped.

  Cumhal was still atop his horse though Goll had nearly toppled him twice. His twin was in far better shape. Since he’d spent much of his life working with weapons, testing himself, it was no wonder. Cumhal decided to bait his twin, figuring he needed an advantage. Goll’s conceit could be it. “ ’Tis amazing that such as yourself who looks like a girl could be so able with weapons. I compliment you on your skill, little lady.”

  Teeth bared, Goll urged his horse into another assault position. “You insult me, brother, as you’ve always done. Killing you will free me from your presence for all time.”

  “Nay!” Cumhal turned his steed and readied himself for the assault. “You’ve sought Lucifer as your partner, lo these many years. This day you can make him your lover, scab of the family.” It was a gamble. Cumhal took it because it gave him the only hope he had of putting his twin off stride. Goll’s greater skill with sword and ax, and excellent horsemanship, needed leavening.

  “You’ll die this day,” Goll screeched.

  Cumhal didn’t move, even when the destrier under him quivered and pawed at the ground to answer the charge. Though Goll was a fair distance from him, he’d turned his steed once more and headed back the way he’d come. Cumhal needed an advantage. Goll was a master at the full jousting charge. He’d practiced his skills from childhood, never seeming to get enough of the battle games. He would finish him unless Cumhal found an edge. Goll was using a sword. He needed another weapon.

  Glancing about him, he noted the lance carried by the lead soldier displaying the guidon. In one imperious gesture, Cumhal called the man to his side. “I want it.”

  “ ’Tis Lord Tarquin’s guidon,” the man said, faltering.

  “And I am Llywelyn. Don’t gainsay me.” Cumhal faced the man even as his peripheral vision told him his brother was gaining on him.

  He looked up at the sky. His mother was in Heaven. Would she forgive him for killing his twin? She’d have to, for if he didn’t Goll would most likely skewer him. If Goll came to power, Wales wouldn’t be enough for him. He’d put the world to fire.

  “Stand off, man, or you can be a victim,” Cumhal said through his teeth, grasping the spear and swinging it hard to bring it to bear. The man looked down the field, then scampered back to his fellows.

  Cumhal looked back at his twin. It startled him to see how close his twin was, how intent he was on killing. Not this day if he, Cumhal of Llywelyn, could help it.

  Cumhal had to admit to a quaking of the soul when he heard his brother laugh. In truth he was in league with Satan. Remembering what his twin had put Morrigan through, Cumhal felt his arm gain strength when he aimed the spear. Letting the animal under him sidle, Cumhal waited, shoving down the urge to spur his own mount forward, to enter the fray at a gallop as Goll would want him to do. No, there’d be a chink in Goll’s armor and he’d find it. Goll was faster, more agile, accurate, and better trained. Cumhal would rely on his factoring powers, his cool head to conquer Goll.

  He gritted his teeth, hearing the cheers and jeers of the crowd. They’d be sure this would be an easy win for Goll.

  Goll seemed as certain. “Prepare yourself to meet your Maker, Cumhal. You gutless dog, I’m glad to do the deed.”

  Not all could hear his shouts, but those that did crossed themselves.

  Cumhal stayed still.

  “Die!” Goll screamed.

  At the very last moment, Cumhal moved forward a pac
e, put up the spear and kneed his steed into Goll’s. His startled horse sidled hard as Cumhal figured. Momentum carried horse and rider into clumsy contact, surprising Goll and his horse that were coming full tilt.

  Force met force with the screeching of horses and men melding with the clash and clatter of steel.

  Cumhal saw the point of Goll’s sword sliding toward him. At the very last second he swung his elbow, sliding the spear along the saddle, ducking the other way at the same time.

  His horse screeched as Goll’s sword sliced him.

  The spear sped on its path along Goll’s leg into his middle and out his back. The roars of the crowd rose to a crescendo.

  Cumhal was almost unseated by the force. Goll was skewered.

  “You’ve killed me, spawn of Satan,” Goll screamed, blood spurting from his mouth. He was still fumbling for his dirk when death took him.

  “Go to join your evil counterparts,” Cumhal whispered. When a Welshman approached, Cumhal glared. “Throw him in the bog. Set it afire. Let him not be shriven.”

  The Welshman nodded, white-faced.

  Brother has just consigned brother to Hell, came the murmurs. What an unholy day for Wales!

  Cumhal leaned over his steed, taking deep breaths, his eyes moving to the two who still battled down the glen. He turned toward them, letting his horse pick its way. He patted his neck. “You’ve done fine this day. I’ll see you succored.” He hailed another countryman, giving the orders to care for his steed. He slid to the ground, his knees shaking, his hand going to his face.

  When another horse was brought to him, he mounted in silence, head down, kneeing the horse toward the combatants.

  Hugh’s ears rang with the clatter of swords and shields each time he and Tarquin made contact. It would have to end soon. He was wearying and he couldn’t risk that the slime lived. His men would protect Morrigan but Tarquin would try to prevail. He’d overheard the guards talk of how he’d said nuptials with Morrigan. If he, Hugh, were dead, the dog would try to make his vows to her stick. He would importune—