Morrigan’s mouth lifted. “Even as a child, his games were always full of twists and turns, had no beginning and a rattle-tail end.”
“Goll could keep him steady. And we need a good, strong leader now. The two Edwards think to control us. I think they mean to devise a way to thread us through their schemes. If ’twere my chore, I’d not let them.”
Morrigan wondered, not for the first time, why he was never chosen as a leader for the eastern branch of the family. Stolid he might be, but he could factor and he had never put the family in peril. Some of Felim’s schemes could do that.
“More often than not you outwitted Felim and Goll in the games we played as children, Cumhal.”
Startled, he blinked at her.
She laughed. “Did you not know you had abilities?”
“Aye, I knew. I didn’t think anyone else did.”
Morrigan chuckled. “Come, we’ll sup and ready ourselves. Try not to worry, cousin. We’ll manage and the name of Llywelyn will keep its honor.”
“And you will accompany me?”
Morrigan sighed, thinking of Hugh. “We’ll leave before light on the morrow.”
The laird of Castle MacKay was in a rage. No one could approach him without getting the rough side of his tongue. He stomped about like a maddened destrier. Curses streamed between his lips.
Toric tried to placate him. “Fret not, Hugh—”
Hugh glared. “I come home after days and nights at court, bent double with ennui, riddled with expectations that Clan MacKay could be a target of English Edward, and you think I should be calm. I was expecting to see my wife, and she’s not here.”
“I know, but—”
“But nothing! I want to know where she is,” Hugh spat, his mind painting too many horror scenes. Fright was making him ferocious. Either she was coerced or she went of her own free will. The latter seemed more likely, since there hadn’t been a battle, and MacKays would have fought to a man to protect her. Neither would she have gone and not left a note with some sort of veiled warning if there was trouble. Instead the missive was short and not informative. His wife was canny. He respected her abilities. Right now he wanted her in front of him, explaining all. Then he would carry her to their bed where she belonged.
Why in Christ’s name had she left? “There’ll be war, lest I find her.” He smacked the scroll she’d written her cryptic note on, the crackly papyrus all but ripping. As though he realized it could be destroyed, he looked away from Toric smoothing the surface over and over again. She’d touched it, scribed upon it. It was his link to her.
“Find me something, Toric, anything that will direct me. Our runners so far have taken us to the Firth of Forth. There the news falters.” He ground his teeth. “If they’ve taken to boats, and I think they have, they’re not manned by any of the clans close to me.” He shook his head. “I should know more.” He banged the trencher board again. “Find me anything that will set me on my path.”
“I will, Hugh. I promise.”
Toric hated to leave him. Never had he seen his stalwart leader so torn, so ripped with frustration and trepidation. When Dilla had confided to him that Hugh loved his wife greatly, he’d smiled, thinking it romantic prattle. In the last two days since their arrival back at Castle MacKay, he’d changed his mind. Hugh was mad for her.
He left the great room at a run. Rounding the rear tower, he saw Dilla by the large baking ovens and approached. “Our laird’s soul is fair ripped. He grieves for her.” Surprise, awe, and questioning were in his tone.
“He loves her better than life. One day he’ll see that for himself.” Dilla tried to smile. “The boy is moping as well.” She looked around her. “Since she left many of them”—she gestured to the twins playing with Rhys and others—“have smiled little. Our Lady Morrigan was a sunshine on the dreariest of days.”
“What can we do? Where in Wales would she be? Why didn’t she tell us the exact location?” Toric knew that Dilla didn’t eavesdrop. He also knew that others told her things, and that she was a favorite of Lady Morrigan’s.
Dilla took a deep breath. “I do not seek to know all of milady’s affairs. I do know she is honorable, that she would not betray our laird.” When she saw relief flash across his features, she was irked. “Do you say that you suspect such?”
“No. I believe in our lady, too.” He exhaled. “I’d feel better if I knew where she was.”
Dilla looked thoughtful. “Mayhap we can find a trail.”
“What are you thinking, woman?”
“Your cousin Fergus, brother to Diuran. He’s closemouthed, and he might know a little. He and Diuran are like two peas in a pod. Where one is, the other would follow. If Diuran spoke to anyone it would be he. Mayhap a word was said. I’d be surprised if he knew much, but—”
“Where do I find him?”
“In the crofter’s hut, last I knew. He—”
Toric was gone on the run, the rest of Dilla’s words spilled into the wind.
The journey had been arduous. First they had the overland trip through some friendly clans. Since the MacKay tartan was well known, ’twas necessary to stop and greet spokespersons who hailed them.
When they came to the outer islands they took small, shallow-bottomed ships across the heavy waters.
More than once Morrigan thought they’d be swamped. No one else seemed worried.
“They’re expert seamen,” Cumhal assured her.
Morrigan tried to smile. She wasn’t as worried about being overturned in the cold sea as she was concerned about Hugh’s attitude when he found her gone. She had no doubt he would be in a temper. She longed to see him, whether he was angered or no. She hadn’t gone into detail in her missive because she was quite sure he would come tearing after her. There was no need for that because she wouldn’t be gone long. Besides, he wasn’t that long up from a sickbed and she didn’t want him pounding over the countryside seeking her. She’d be home before he missed her.
Sighing, she tried to put him out of her mind. Instead she studied the isles they passed. Living there on many of them were the pirates who preyed on shipping and the heavy purses carried by merchants. Only the Vikings were safe from the marauders, since they were always heavily armed and were expert sailors.
“I think we took too few warriors with us,” Cumhal pondered as they made a stop for provisions.
“Surely not. We travel in Scottish waters. My tartan and men are respected. When we are on Welsh soil, the name Llywelyn will guard us.”
“I trust you’re right, cousin.” He kept watch as they loaded their belongings and the gifts necessary to face Felim in Cardiff.
Morrigan, too, studied the waterways and terrain. “We should have enough men to protect us. Diuran is one of the most able of the MacKays. He commands six strong men and true.” She frowned, seeing Hugh in her mind once more. “Besides, I’d not put any more Mac-Kays at risk.”
Cumhal smiled. “You are smitten with the clan as well as its laird.”
She laughed, masking her morose feelings. It wasn’t Cumhal’s fault she missed Hugh so much, that she saw his face in front of her, awake or sleeping. She loved the man and longed for his loving. If she hadn’t had so much faith in Dilla and the other women she’d have fretted about Rhys and the twins, as well. No matter what occurred in Cardiff, Hugh and the children were safe.
“You’re happy, cousin,” Cumhal said. “That pleases me. I shall do all in my power to find a plan that will placate Felim and release Goll, so that you might return to your family with all speed.”
“Thank you, Cumhal. We will concentrate on Goll and where he could be kept. Once he’s found, you can handle the rescue and I’ll return to Scotland.”
Cumhal nodded. “I’ve been thinking on that. If ’twere me trying to hide someone, I’d take my prisoner to Druida.”
Shocked, Morrigan eyed her cousin. “You can’t mean that. ’Tis an awful place, and has been abandoned by all.” She shuddered as she envisioned the holdi
ng atop a rock cropping overlooking the sea. It had been abandoned by Llywelyns years ago and had been allowed to go to rack and ruin. She had only been there once, taken there by her father, when an old relative had abided in the castle. She had hated it then. It would be worse now.
“But no one can venture close without detection. That would be most important.”
Morrigan thought of the holding that was adjacent to Trevelyan lands. They’d played there as children. Ruric had shown her and Gwynneth a hidden entrance.
“What think you?”
She hesitated. “I feel we must put every effort forth to a scheme that would free Goll.” For some reason she didn’t want to discuss the hidden entrance to Druida with Cumhal. Actually she didn’t want to think of the holding at all.
“I will do as much and have pondered the problem.” He smiled at her. “I thank you for your caring.”
“We are Llywelyns.” She touched his hand, then he put his over hers. She smiled widely. “Not since childhood have we been so close, I’m thinking, Cumhal.”
“Aye. ’Tis a good feeling.”
For days and nights they made their slow way through the islands, the crafts seeming flimsy on the tossing sea. Sleeping on the small crafts was well nigh impossible. Most nights Morrigan curled in her tartan near the bow.
When Cumhal approached and sat down beside her, he studied her. “I know you think of your family most of the time, but other things bother you as well, Morrigan.”
“They do.”
“Are you worried about Felim?”
Morrigan bit her lip, a little surprised that her cousin had sensed her concern. “I am. I know how he can be influenced, and how stubborn he is after adopting a plan.”
Cumhal nodded. “Goll was forever after him. In fact, I think he was the only one of us who could sway Felim.”
The words hung between them like iron weights. Morrigan inclined her head. “Is that why you think he’s being held captive?”
“The theme is not without merit.”
Morrigan didn’t respond. When her cousin left her she went over and over their words. She couldn’t find a solution, nor come up with the name of the miscreants who held her cousin. Tired, wrung out, missing Hugh and the children, she settled down on her pallet, her body aching. In moments she was asleep.
The sun was slow to rise the next day, the misty morning making the light opaque.
“Land Ho!”
The cry had all rushing to the rail. The foggy atmosphere was all but impenetrable. They sailed on, using oars only, watchful of outcroppings that could pierce the hulls.
The mist lifted a bit, and the outline was clearer. Land! And it should be Wales. It seemed to take forever to maneuver closer. Then they entered a small bay, the wind dying almost at once, the heavy seas slackening.
“This is not Bridgewater Bay, is it?” Morrigan frowned.
Cumhal shook his head, striding to the steering dais, and querying the captain. When he returned to her side, he was still scowling. “ ’Tis said they cannot land farther south. There’s been a storm and trees have fallen into the bay, causing great hazard. He’s been instructed to stop here. I told him he should have informed us of that, and we could’ve gone overland and been more comfortable.” He glared at the steersman. “When did he get his information? And why wasn’t it brought to me at once?”
Morrigan bit her lip. “You raise good questions, cousin.”
“I like it not.” Diuran had moved up beside them. “I’ll question the fool.”
Morrigan watched her guardian flailing his arms as he quizzed the stoical steersman. “Diuran frets.”
“He reveres you, cousin. As do his men.”
Morrigan smiled and nodded. “They’re my clan.”
“Have you become Scot, then?”
Morrigan exhaled. “In some ways I’ll always be Welsh, as you are. In other ways I’ve changed.” Not even to her cousin could she discuss the wonders of her marriage bed, the tenderness of her lover and husband.
Cumhal looked at the sky. “Dismal. ’Twill not be a comfortable ride after our docking. Then again, it shouldn’t be more than five leagues along the sea to the Cardiff road.”
Diuran strode to their side. “The gomeril answered none of the queries to my liking. I like it not. Where are we to obtain horses?” He glared at Cumhal. “Milady has to have a worthy steed.”
Cumhal nodded, surprising Morrigan by not taking umbrage. “I’ll talk to the head boatsman.” He was gone some time. When he returned he was frowning, glancing at Diuran. “I like it less than you. The fool says there won’t be horses, then he assures me there will be.”
Diuran bristled, gazing at the boatsman, then back at his men. MacKays began to rattle their swords, tightening their leather jerkins, fastening their tartans at the shoulder and waist.
Cumhal’s eyes narrowed, then he saw to his own weapons.
Morrigan watched, then touched Diuran’s arm. “I’m sure there’s no need to worry.” If only Hugh were here. He would get information and defuse tempers. She couldn’t wait to put this journey behind her and get back north to Castle MacKay.
Diuran eyed her, his face somber. “We will be ready for anything, milady. You are Lady MacKay, precious to us, a foe to some.”
She nodded. “Then I, too, will be on guard.”
Diuran grinned when he saw her draw a short sword from her bag. She slung the wide belt around her waist, jamming the blade into the worked leather scabbard that carried the intaglio of Llywelyn.
Diuran touched the weapon. “ ’Tis a true one, I can see. ’Twill be a fine day when I fashion you a new scabbard with the MacKay intaglio on its surface.”
Morrigan smiled at the MacKays, who were chuckling, then went to the rail to watch as they bumped against a small landing.
“Don’t think she can’t use that sword she wields. It might look small to some, but I’ve seen her move it faster than the eye can follow.” Cumhal grinned. “She tipped my brother Goll on his back at one of our tourneys when we were children. I often wonder if he ever forgave her.”
Diuran grinned. “She’s a true MacKay. She’s made us proud.”
Mouth agape, Cumhal stared at Diuran for a moment, then remarked, “She’s considered a first-rate swords-woman in Wales where women are often combatants.” His smile was fading, worry etching his brow.
Diuran nodded. “I’ve read of your Boudicca, though I’ll see to it that milady comes to no such end.”
“Have no fear. We have many intrepid women in Wales. They can stand their ground,” Cumhal averred. “ ’Tis pride it gives a man when his spouse is so able.”
Diuran pursed his lips. “Do not think we don’t admire the same. Have you never heard of Princess Iona?”
Cumhal nodded. “The Icelandic who became a Scot. Yes. There are many legends about her warrior ways.”
“All true.”
Cumhal smiled at Diuran, who returned it, an unspoken pact between them from that moment.
Cumhal pointed. “Look at her, ready to lead the way.” He shook his head. “She was ever wrongheaded.”
Diuran smiled. “She is our lady.”
“There is reverence in the words. I see I must look upon my cousin with new eyes,” Cumhal remarked.
In not too long a time they disembarked, taking their possessions with them.
“There’re the horses.” Cumhal pointed.
Diuran and his warriors watched as the steeds were brought to them, some of his men as alert as he, their eyes scanning the surrounding woody areas. The rest studied the horses, frowning.
“Not the best mounts, would you say?” Diuran said from the side of his mouth to Cumhal.
“No. I’d not like them if our journey was a long one.”
When all was loaded, Cumhal helped Morrigan into her saddle, though she needed no aid.
In short order they were on one of the narrow stony paths that curve along the coast of Wales. One side was a sheer drop to the sea, th
e other was a thick growth of woody plants and greens, many stunted and bent by the strong ocean winds.
Morrigan tried to keep her mind on the tasks ahead, but she couldn’t blot out the image of Hugh, and what he would say when she returned. He’d bluster and stride up and down the great room. Her heart beat fast at how she’d soothe his ire, placate his pique. He would tell her she should’ve waited for him. Sighing, she wished he was with her at the moment.
He’d taught her about love. She’d thought she knew quite a bit because of her experience on the farm with animal husbandry. She’d discovered she knew absolutely nothing about what was between a man and woman.
The tall, handsome, dangerous leader of the wild MacKays had taught her about giving, about gentle nurturing, and hot passion. Could she ever have conjured up such a wonderful amalgam?
“Milady?”
“Yes.” She almost had to shake herself from her sweet thoughts. Hugh was so big in her life, in every corner. Through the haze of pondering she heard the urgency. “Something gives you angst, Diuran?”
“It does.”
Morrigan looked around her. “You sense danger.”
“I do.” He turned in his saddle, making a hand gesture. The warriors broke into a canter around her. “You must be ready on our signal to ride hard, milady, to find the sea and—”
Before he could say more there was a bloodcurdling war cry. Men erupted from the glen to one side of them, seeming to come out of the cliffs as well.
“Ride, milady,” Diuran called to her even as three men engaged him with swords almost before he could draw his own.
“No!” Morrigan shouted, pulling her short sword and kicking her lackluster steed into a charge. Before any of them knew she was there, she was laying about her, swinging her short sword at the nearest attacker. His yowl of anger and pain told her she struck right. When he turned, she slammed the flat of her sword against the backside of his steed. It shot forward, unseating the rider.
“Get back, milady,” Diuran shouted.
She was about to obey when she saw two men creeping toward his back. For a moment she thought she recognized one of them. A cousin? No! It couldn’t be. They’d not attack her entourage.
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