Read The Pledge for Free Online

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.
    Morrigan looked up, off balance, relieved to find the altar in front of her. When the cherubic face next to the prelate grinned
     in encouragement, she had to smile back. Who was this monk, tonsured as required, but not as obsequious as the others who
     attended the lofty churchman? When she saw a slight bow to the left of the monk, she noted the younger, almost pretty, young
     man standing not quite behind the cardinal. When he smiled, she smiled back. That must be Kieran MacKenzie.
    The cardinal lifted his hands and there was a semblance of quiet. He turned to the altar and began.
    Morrigan took her place and bowed her head, startled when she felt the warm body of MacKay touch hers.
    The mass and ritual droned on until most fidgeted, some yawning and wiping their faces, some sneaking away for various reasons.
     Finally, the vows were to be repeated.
    “Whosoever would come forth and find against this woman, let him speak now?” the cardinal intoned, his words ricocheting from
     the mouths of the many callers.
    It was on Morrigan’s tongue to tell him that she was as good as any man there, and a good deal better than the man next to
     her, if all of the foibles described by the ladies and laid at his door were true. Let them come forth who would find against
     the man, not her. She said nothing. The world she would be living in henceforth would not be much different from the one she
     left. In the Llywelyn world, and among some of the other families in Wales, there was a difference. Women had to make decisions,
     lead families if that was their duty. The old Celtic laws and customs had come down from Boudicca, whose very fierceness and
     courage colored all Welsh declarations. None among the Llywelyns thought them strange.
    “Wise,” her intended whispered, bending down under the guise of pushing back her veil.
    “What is that?” she whispered back, trying to recall what was said.
    “If I read your thoughts, you see the prelate as I do. And though I applaud your desire to call him for the jackass he is,
     better not to do it. He’s a pompous idiot, more than willing, milady, to bring our peoples to war over the merest slight—”
    “’Twouldn’t be mere,” she muttered back, mirth pushing at her throat. He’d make her laugh at this solemn occasion? He was
     unruly. She put a shaking hand to her mouth. “Stop,” she pleaded behind her fingers.
    He chuckled, his fingers going over her headdress and lingering. “… that’s why I sent for Monteith to aid the cardinal during
     the mass. He has a way of moving things along, and he’s much less puffed up.”
    “You… must… not… say… so,” she muttered, hard-bent not to double over. Unaccustomed to hilarity as she’d been the last five
     years, she almost didn’t recognize it. Morrigan had to press her hand tight to her lips to hold back the laughter. She tried
     to glare up at her husband, but the monk called her attention to repeat the binding words. That sobered her. She’d not looked
     forward to saying them. The words stuck in her craw.
    “Ah, I will, under God and Wales… er, ah Scotland… ah, er… and England, keep the vows pronounced by me, Morrigan Dafydda Nemed
     Agnomon Llywelyn, nor will this bond ravel or be broken by me on this day and forever. I swear this as a royal princess of
     Wales.”
    MacKay pronounced his the same way without stumbling over the countries as she’d