Her Warrior King

by Michelle Willingham

  She handed him the water bag. ‘What am I to call you? Your Majesty? My sovereign lord?’

  ‘Patrick will do.’ Though he had earned the rank of petty king, reigning over his tribe, it had been hardly a year. He had not yet grown accustomed to being their leader. He didn’t know how his father and eldest brother had shouldered the responsibility so easily. Every decision he made, he questioned. Especially the agreement with the Baron of Thornwyck.

  ‘You promised me my freedom. Do you intend to give it to me now?’

  He shook his head. ‘When we reach Eíreann. I give you my word.’

  ‘And is your vow worth anything?’

  He folded his arms. It was becoming apparent why Thornwyck had offered his daughter as part of the arrangement. ‘Are you always this difficult?’

  ‘Always.’

  Her bluntness almost made him smile. ‘Good. I’ve no need for a spineless woman.’ He lifted her atop the stallion once more. A flash of irritation crossed her face, but she made no complaint.

  She had courage; he’d grant her that. Even still, he could never forget what her people had done to his. Worse, the marriage was only part of the surrender terms. The rest of the treaty made slavery seem inviting. The price he’d paid for the lives of his people was far too high.

  As he urged his horse onwards, he could only pray that his tribe could endure what lay ahead.

  Isabel clung to the hope that somehow the improper marriage was not binding. She knew better than to try an escape. Without a horse of her own and supplies, she wouldn’t survive. Not unless she could find someone to help her.

  But who? Edwin de Godred had made it clear that he wanted this alliance. He didn’t seem to care that his youngest daughter was now bound to a foreigner, and an uncivilised one at that.

  Why had she ever agreed to this? She should have listened to her instincts instead of believing Patrick’s tale about captive women and children.

  They rode through a forest, the road curving in the midst of fallen leaves. Stately oaks and rowans crowned the path, their branches weaving a canopy high above them. The landscape of her homeland faded into a sea of green and rich earth.

  Near the Welsh border, slate-grey mountains wore a halo of afternoon sunlight. They rose above the landscape, beautiful and stark. Flocks of sheep dotted the hills, flecks of white against the sea of green. The spring air cooled her skin, a reminder of the coming night.

  Perhaps it would be the last time she saw England. She tried to quell the panic. You must not be afraid, she told herself. Keep your wits about you. Erin cannot be so bad.

  But her stray thoughts kept returning to the wedding night. She glanced down at MacEgan’s hands, roughened with labour. They were not at all smooth like a nobleman’s. His forearms controlled the horse’s reins, revealing a subdued strength.

  ‘Night approaches,’ she ventured. ‘Do you plan to ride in the darkness?’

  There was no reply. She tried again, raising her voice.

  ‘Perhaps when it has grown too dark to see our path, a tree will knock you senseless. Then I could run away.’

  Again, silence. The man might as well have been a statue from his stoic demeanour.

  ‘Or if I am fortunate, wolves might devour us.’ She pondered the thought, imagining other ideas that could make this day any worse.

  ‘You talk overmuch, a chara. In a few hours, we camp for the night.’

  Isabel clamped her mouth shut. The thought of stopping for the night, alone with this man, unsettled her. Even now, riding against the heat of his body, kindled her nervousness. He sheltered her, confining her in arms chiselled with a warrior’s strength.

  Would it be that unbearable to feel his body joining with hers? Her maidservant had sighed over the pleasure of lying in a man’s arms, but Isabel remained unconvinced. Her warrior husband had not a trace of gentleness. She dreaded the thought of sharing a bed with him.

  After a time, Patrick drew the horse to a stop. The lavender sky swelled with shadowy clouds. She could feel moisture gathering in the air. Ahead, she saw no inn, only more trees.

  Her husband moved with a fluid grace, pulling her down from the horse. ‘Do not try to run.’

  She almost laughed. ‘And where would I go?’

  ‘Wherever you planned to travel when you tried to steal my horse.’ He took her hands and led her into the woods. From his pack of supplies, he brought out a pile of heavy cloth, which unfolded into a small tent. It was hardly large enough for a single person, let alone both of them. He finished setting up the tent and gestured towards it. ‘Wait here. I’ll hunt for food.’

  Isabel glanced at the swelling clouds, hoping he meant for her to sleep within the tent alone. She started towards the shelter when Patrick stopped her. His gaze held hers, a predatory man who would show no mercy. ‘You should rest until I return. We’ve more riding to do before we stop for the night.’

  Isabel gathered her composure. ‘Don’t you have any supplies here? There’s no need to hunt.’ She glanced up at the twilight horizon, more than a little fearful. What if he abandoned her in this place?

  Patrick’s face was close enough to feel his warm breath upon her cheek. ‘I’ll come back for you soon.’

  Her body betrayed her with the warmth that flooded through her. She forced herself to look away.

  He deposited her inside the tent and tossed a length of wool at her. ‘Cover yourself with the brat to stay warm.’

  As he started towards the horse, her fear doubled. What if a thief or a murderer came after her? She would be alone, de-fenceless. ‘I would like a weapon,’ she added hastily. ‘Please.’

  He turned and shot her a look of disbelief. ‘For what purpose?’

  ‘In case someone attacks. Or an animal.’ Isabel crawled outside the tent and pointed to his quiver. ‘I know how to use a bow and arrows.’

  ‘No weapons. I do not intend to go far, and I’d rather you didn’t shoot me when I return.’ He drew up his hood and mounted the stallion, disappearing into the woods.

  At that, the rain began. It was a hard, pounding rain that soaked through the silk of her kirtle. A thickness rose in the back of her throat as Isabel huddled inside the tent. Rivulets of cold rain spattered against the heavy cloth, and she cursed Patrick for bringing her here. She cursed her father for arranging this marriage. She cursed herself for not throwing herself off the horse when Patrick had stolen her.

  Mud caked her lower limbs as the rain pounded harder. Her veil clung to her neck in an icy grasp. In the distance, she heard an eerie howling noise. Hastily she sent up another silent prayer.

  The last thing she needed was for her new husband to truly be eaten by wolves.

  Chapter Two

  P atrick’s stallion raced across the Welsh plains, the rain soaking through him. The brittle weather helped clear his mind of the resentment.

  When he’d accepted the kingship, it had meant making sacrifices. His personal feelings were nothing when it came to the needs of the tribe. He’d married the Norman woman, and now he had the means to free his people.

  Shadowed against the horizon, he saw his brothers’ camp, the firelight flickering against the orange-and-crimson sunset. When he reached the men, he dismounted.

  ‘Lovely weather,’ his brother Trahern remarked. He stood beside the fire, which they had shielded from the rain with a hide stretched before it. Trahern’s brown hair dripped with water, along with his curling beard. He towered over both his brothers, his height rivalling that of a legendary giant.

  ‘It seems appropriate for my wedding day.’ Patrick tethered Bel, patting the stallion.

  Their other brother Bevan stood, pacing. ‘I was wondering how long it would take you to arrive. I wouldn’t put it past your Norman bride to stab you in your sleep.’

  Patrick shrugged. ‘She’s harmless.’

  ‘We were there behind the church wall,’ Trahern admitted. ‘She didn’t exactly throw herself into your arms.’

  ‘You shou
ldn’t have risked it. I didn’t want you to come.’

  ‘And miss our eldest brother’s wedding? I think not.’ Trahern grinned. He lifted his face skyward and let the rain fall directly on his face. ‘The Norman guards never saw us. It was easy enough to remain hidden, so long as we stayed away from the guests.’

  ‘I don’t trust Thornwyck.’ Bevan sat before the fire, the light illuminating a scar across one cheek. Unlike his brother, he raised a hood to block the rain. ‘And we’d never let you go alone. The Normans might have taken you prisoner.’

  Patrick neared the sputtering fire and held out his hands to warm them. ‘Did Thornwyck’s men follow us?’

  ‘No.’ Bevan answered. ‘But I doubt he’ll wait until Lughnasa. He’ll bring more forces and try to take Laochre.’

  Patrick accepted a horn of mead and swallowed. Grim resignation cast its shadow upon him. ‘I won’t let our men become slaves to the Normans.’

  ‘And how will you stop him?’

  ‘I have plans,’ he lied. But he didn’t have any notion of what to do. The orders he carried would free his people. Yet, the rest of the surrender agreement required the Normans to be housed among them. The thought of blending the two sides together made his head ache.

  ‘And what about your bride?’ Bevan demanded. ‘You cannot allow her to rule as your queen.’

  ‘I know.’

  It seemed almost like a faded dream that he’d wed her. He didn’t feel married, much less to a Norman. Never would his tribe accept her. He needed to isolate her for her own protection. ‘I’m going to take her to Ennisleigh. She’ll stay out of harm’s way.’

  Bevan relaxed, resting his hands upon his knees. ‘Good. We’ve enough problems without her.’ He pointed off in the distance. ‘I assume you tied her to a tree? Otherwise, you’ll have to track her down again.’

  ‘I thought about it.’ Patrick recalled his bride’s attempt to escape before the wedding. ‘But, no, I left her in the tent.’

  ‘Why didn’t you bring her here?’

  ‘Because he wants privacy, dolt.’ Trahern elbowed Bevan. ‘A man should enjoy his wedding night.’

  Patrick said nothing, but let his brothers think what they would. He forced back the anger rising inside him. He had no intention of touching his bride, nor making her his wife. He couldn’t imagine siring a child with her.

  The marriage would not be permanent. After Lughnasa, as soon his tribe drove out the Normans, Isabel and he could go their separate ways. He intended to petition the Archbishop to end the union. A pity he couldn’t have wed her in Eíreann. The laws of his own land made it far easier to dissolve an unwanted marriage.

  ‘I should go back,’ he said quietly. ‘I have to hunt a meal for this night.’

  Trahern uncovered a brace of hares. ‘Take these to feed your bride a memorable wedding supper.’

  ‘I was going to eat those,’ Bevan muttered. But he shrugged and added, ‘Safe journey to you.’

  ‘We’ll meet you at the coast in another day.’ Patrick embraced his brothers and bid them farewell. ‘Slán.’

  He slung the hares across his mount and set forth to return to Isabel. He allowed Bel to take the lead, since the last traces of sunlight were slipping behind the mountains.

  As he galloped across the fields, he vowed that Isabel de Godred’s presence would not interrupt his life, nor would she threaten the MacEgan tribe in any way.

  When he arrived back at the tent, Isabel’s shoulders were bent forward, her wet hair plastered against her dress. Deep brown eyes blazed with indignity.

  ‘I’ve brought food,’ Patrick said, holding up the two hares. ‘And if you can endure the journey, there’s an abandoned cottage not far from here.’

  She nodded, shivering inside the tent. ‘Anything with a fire.’

  He helped her pack up the temporary shelter and eased her back on to the horse. She winced, but said nothing about the pain. When he swung up behind her, her body trembled violently.

  Coldness iced his heart. She deserved none of his pity. A means to an end, she was. Nothing more. Despite his resolve, guilty thoughts pricked at him for treating a woman like this.

  She is a Norman, his brain reminded him. He could not lose sight of that.

  Leaning forward, he increased the speed of his mount. Her posture remained rigid, not accepting any of his body’s warmth. He should be thankful that she didn’t weep or cling to him. And yet it was a first for him, to have a woman shrink away.

  As each mile passed, the silence continued. Finally, he reached the outskirts of a forest. Near the edge stood the abandoned hut he’d seen on his journey earlier. The last of the sunlight rimmed the landscape, unfurling the night. He slowed Bel and eased up on the reins, letting the stallion walk towards the shelter.

  When they arrived, he dismounted and helped her down. Isabel stared at the thatched wattle-and-daub hut, frowning. ‘I can see why it was abandoned.’

  The roof needed fresh thatching and one section of the wall sagged, as though the hut might collapse. Patrick let Bel wander over to a small ditch filled with water. Then he opened the door for Isabel.

  ‘Go inside while I tend to my horse,’ he ordered. He removed the saddle and rubbed down the stallion. When he’d finished, he entered the hut and was thankful to find a small pile of dry firewood inside. He used some of the fallen thatch to make a pile of tinder. With flint and steel, he sparked a flame. Isabel hung back, watching him.

  ‘I thought you had left me,’ she murmured.

  ‘Is that not what you wanted?’

  ‘I had no wish to be deserted in the middle of nowhere,’ she said. She shivered again, nearing the small blaze he’d kindled in the hearth. ‘I was frightened,’ she admitted.

  ‘Wolves?’

  Her lips pursed and she shook her head. ‘Thieves. Someone might have come, and I couldn’t have defended myself.’

  There was a grain of truth in it. She was right. He had been negligent in protecting her, but he made no apology.

  ‘Are you hungry?’

  At her nod, he continued, ‘I’ll start cooking the meat. In the meantime, there’s a flask of mead tied to the saddle. Go and fetch it.’

  Isabel stepped outside, and Patrick tended the fire until he had a strong flame burning. He didn’t worry she would try to escape. They were miles from anywhere, and the darkness would prevent her from fleeing.

  With his knife, he finished skinning the hares and spitted them. He set the hares above the fire and Isabel returned with the mead. Suddenly she shrieked and dropped the flask. It struck the earth, but did not shatter. Patrick drew his sword, but no one stood at the door. A large rat raced past her, darting around.

  When the rodent charged, Isabel grabbed a heavy branch from the pile of firewood and swung it, battering the floor and screeching when the animal neared her skirts.

  The rat skittered away from the fire, and Patrick ducked when her club nearly missed his head.

  ‘What in the name of Lug is going on?’ he demanded. ‘The animal is on the ground.’

  ‘Get it out of here!’ she wailed. Her horrified expression, coupled with the wild swinging of the branch, forced him to act. Patrick opened the door and kicked the rodent outside.

  Isabel stood on a wooden bench, still wielding the branch. She held her hand to her heart, her mouth tight with fear. This was more than the disgust he’d seen on the faces of most women. She’d been terrified.

  ‘You’ve seen rats before,’ he remarked.

  Though Isabel nodded, her fear didn’t diminish. ‘I hate them. And mice. And anything that nibbles.’

  He couldn’t resist the urge to tease her. ‘They’re probably living in the thatch.’

  A whimper sounded from her lips. ‘Please, God, no.’

  He moved closer and disarmed her, tossing the branch onto the hearth. Standing before her, he saw her shudder. Her veil had come loose from the thin gold circlet, and she clutched the crimson kirtle. Though she raised her eyes to
his, the fear in them was so great, he felt badly for his teasing.

  He studied her, the warm brown eyes and the pale cheeks. She smelled like a mixture of honeysuckle and rose, every inch a lady. Though she tried to keep her courage, her fear of something else was stronger. It was the fear of a woman who had never lain with a man before.

  Soaked as she was, the silk outlined every curve. His imagination conjured up wicked thoughts, of sliding the silk from her shoulder and tasting the warm woman’s flesh.

  He could not weaken. He’d not touch her, though it had been many moons since he’d known the pleasures of a woman’s body.

  Instead he changed the subject. ‘That bench is going to collapse.’ Isabel grimaced, her eyes watching the floor as though she expected an army of rats to invade the cottage.

  At her hesitation, he lifted her into his arms and carried her to the opposite side of the hut. Her body was cold against his, and he set her down upon a table. Isabel tucked her knees up, shivering. Patrick returned to the hearth and turned the roasting hares over. ‘Why do they bother you so much?’

  She covered her face in her knees. ‘My sisters. Patrice and Melisande played a trick on me when I was small. They put mice in my hair while I was sleeping.’ She shuddered again. ‘I’ve never forgotten the feeling of them climbing on my face, getting tangled in my hair.’

  ‘Are they your younger sisters?’ he asked.

  ‘Older.’ She raised her gaze to his. ‘I’m not a wealthy heiress, in case you thought to claim land.’

  ‘I have no need of land. And your father and I came to a different agreement during the betrothal.’

  An agreement where Thornwyck intended his grandsons to be future kings of Eíreann. Patrick tossed another limb on to the fire. There would be no children, his own form of revenge. Though Thornwyck could take his tribe prisoner, capturing Laochre and forcing an alliance, at least this was something the Baron could not control.

  His wife had stopped shivering at last. She removed her veil and finger-combed her long golden hair to dry. It glowed in the firelight, a vibrant contrast to her crimson silk kirtle.