The Pledge (36 page)

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 pace, 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—

Hugh took another hit, though it was a flat blow, not a slice; he castigated himself for losing his concentration. Bearing
down, his arm feeling as though it weighed ten stone, he eyed his opponent and decided to gamble.

Dropping his sword point, he fumbled for his dirk.

The Welsh roared, seeing victory for Tarquin, who
threw himself at the Scot, sword aimed at MacKay’s chest.

Scots sighed, recognizing the ploy, frozen in place at the peril MacKay had put himself into to bring a quick end to the fray.

Hugh, still turned, saw the point of the sword coming at him. In sudden reflex, he brought up his own, slashing hard at the
other weapon, deflecting it. In the same motion he came inside the other’s guard, bringing up the dirk and jamming it into
the chest of Tarquin of Cardiff.

Tarquin struggled to say something. All he could manage was a gurgle. Then he fell forward on his face.

Swaying, Hugh tried to look back at Morrigan, who raced to him, arms outstretched, calling his name. “Beloved,” he whispered,
smiling, then he slipped to the ground.

Urdred and Diuran lifted him.

Morrigan grasped him, screaming. “Latura!”

The hag shambled from the sidelines.

A burly Scot swept her up into his arms, while the Welsh watched, mouths agape. He sprinted across the field and deposited
her beside Morrigan.

“Help my husband,” Morrigan pleaded.

“Tut, tut, child of Trevelyan. Have faith.”

Hugh opened his eyes. “She’s not Trevelyan,” he muttered. “She’s MacKay.” He passed out, wringing a cry from Morrigan.

“We must get him home to Scotland,” Morrigan commanded.

Latura shook her head. “Not as he is. We must assume that the arrow could be tainted. Nay, nay, fret not. I will give him
herbs to counteract poisons. In a few days if he’s well, we’ll send him home. For now”—she looked up at the castle—“he must
stay here. Are there enough Scots to take the holding?”

The ayes bellowed over the glen.

Morrigan shook her head, a tear trickling down her cheek. “Let me speak to the people here. I want no more killing. ’Tis time
for peace.” Turning away from the MacKays, she walked toward the contingent of Welsh, stopping in front of them. “My people,
this day I would’ve fought against Wales to protect my husband from my cousin. And I would do it again. I do not consider
myself a traitor to my people. In all honor I ask a boon.” She let her eyes roam along the rows of Welsh. “That you let me
take my husband within the holding so that he may be tended.”

“I, too, wish it,” Cumhal said at her side.

The silence stretched across the glen, a raven cawing overhead.

As one the men moved back, forming a tunnel. As one they swept their hand over their chest. “Go forth, Princess, in peace,”
one said.

“Thank… thank you,” Morrigan managed from a throat choked with emotion. “I am so proud to be
Welsh,” she told them. The leather head coverings were swept off as many bowed to her.

Whirling, Morrigan glanced at Urdred, who’d been busy fashioning slings to carry Hugh in between two of the destriers. Although
the large animals seemed to balk at such a demeaning task, they were brought to heel by the Scots.

Soon the entourage was entering the castle. Latura’s shouted instructions were being heeded by attendants who appeared from
everywhere to obey the barked commands.

Morrigan saw nothing but her husband. As soon as he was settled in the upper chamber, she set about aiding Latura in her ministrations.
“He must live.”

“He will, milady, for many years to come.” Latura chuckled at Morrigan’s blinding smile.

All through the rest of the day and into the night Morrigan and Latura labored, finally finishing with Hugh, bedding him down,
then moving on to others, Welsh and Scot, who might need tending. Since there were far fewer to treat than there would’ve
been had there been a full-scale battle, they were soon done and could take to their pallets.

Morrigan was asleep as her head touched the tartan that covered her husband.

In the morning her husband’s groans awakened her and she was quick to check his bandaging. His fever was light, his skin warm
but not burning. There was
moisture to it, but not the sweating that comes from infection.

“I like it that you touch me, wife, but I could wish we were in our own chamber,” Hugh said, a faint smile on his lips.

“Do not brag about your prowess in bed, now, good husband. It won’t stand you in good stead. You’ve been wounded, but you
are on the mend.”

“I know. ’Twas only a paltry thing.”

“ ’Twasn’t! You could’ve died if Latura wasn’t here to succor—”

The door burst open as she spoke. Instinctively Morrigan threw herself across Hugh. He struggled to get her free of him and
get the dirk that was next to his pillow.

Morrigan relaxed, sighing. “Latura, you gave me such a fright. Why have you come…” The words died on her lips at the witch’s
pasty cast. “What’s wrong?”

“I know not. I woke from the vision, mystified.” She leaned back against the chamber door. “There’re guards throughout the
castle?”

“MacKays are always on the watch. No one need instruct them.” She ignored her husband’s chuckle.

“Then we must check the grounds,” the witch instructed. “I know not what it was, but I’m disturbed by it.”

Morrigan nodded. “Can you not place the peril so we might take action?”

“Shh, love. Diuran and Urdred are in charge. Naught can happen,” Hugh hastened to assure her, though his voice was weak.

“Why are Toric and Carmody not with Keith and the others?” Morrigan smiled at Hugh, the smile freezing when he looked away
from her. “Tell me.”

“Carmody was blinded. Both Toric’s legs were broken.”

“Dear God in Heaven!” When she gasped, placing her hand over her mouth, Latura approached the bed.

“Grieve not, good lady of Trevelyan. The men are on their way to Scotland, and have safe conduct. I, myself, succored them.”

Teary, Morrigan nodded her head. “Thank you, good friend.” Through her agitation Morrigan noticed how preoccupied Latura was,
how she kept looking at the door. “You mustn’t worry. No MacKay would let trouble come to their laird. In a day or two he’ll
be well, and we’ll be on our way back to Scotland.”

Latura was wild-eyed. “I see danger, Morrigan of Trevelyan. I cannot place it, so the jeopardy for all is great.”

“Why does she call you Trevelyan?” Hugh moved his head on the pallet. “Let me up. I want to talk to my men.”

“No! I’ll bring them to you.” Morrigan shook her finger at him, ignoring his question. She would answer at another time. “Don’t
you dare move, Hugh MacKay.”

Latura cackled, though she didn’t cease her study of the room.

“She’s a harpy is she not, Latura?”

“You love her. She loves you. Aught else means little.”

Hugh smiled, his gaze going back to Morrigan. “Too brave by half, my little beauty.”