‘They won’t harm you.’
Though she wanted the weapon, likely he was right. The folk had not bothered to open their doors when she’d needed fire. It hurt to think that they, like her husband, did not want to know her.
‘It is late.’ He extinguished two of the lamps and stood, donning his cloak. ‘I must return.’
She wanted to sigh with relief. And yet, she felt guilty for sending the other family away. It wasn’t right for her to use this hut alone, when others had the need. But she didn’t voice her feelings. At dawn she would find a way to reach the mainland.
Isabel extended her hand in friendship. ‘I bid you goodnight.’
Patrick didn’t move towards her, nor did he take her hand. She could almost feel the heat of his body, though he stood across the room. He took a long moment, his gaze memorising hers. She found herself drawn to his mouth, to the rigid jaw and the way he held himself back.
Though her hand fell away, she sensed another fight within him. A rush of unexpected feeling pressed through her skin.
‘Goodnight.’ The door closed behind him, and Isabel released a tremulous breath.
Patrick MacEgan was far more dangerous than she’d expected.
For the first time in her life, she could not plan the future. The idea of remaining prisoner upon Ennisleigh frustrated her. She needed to know what was happening, and she hated being idle.
A heaviness gathered in her chest, and she closed her eyes, trying not to despair. The first step was to get off the island.
Ruarc MacEgan itched for a fight. He wanted to unsheathe his dagger and bathe it in the blood of the Normans. Belenus, what had his cousin Patrick been thinking, opening the gates to them? Did the king not realize the enemy intended to weaken them and take over the rath? Even a simpleton could see that.
He watched them, waiting for one of the soldiers to make a move. They had finished eating and their faces were flushed from drink. Good. Let the mead dull their senses, make their reflexes slower.
He moved alongside the benches, searching for a target. When he reached the last Norman, he bumped against the man, sending him sprawling to the floor.
As he’d hoped, the soldier jerked to his feet and drew his knife. Ruarc dodged the slash of the blade, while around him he heard the cheers of his kinsmen. He let the Norman move in closer, biding his time. The ivory hilt warmed within his palm while his blood coursed with anticipation.
A fist moved towards him, and he bent backward to dodge it. With no armour to weigh him down, he moved swiftly. His opponent wore chain mail, and Ruarc swung a kick at the man’s legs, hoping to trip him.
Instead, the Norman blocked the kick. A vicious pain sliced through his arm when he missed a step. Ruarc waited for an opening to bury his blade in the Norman’s chest. He circled the enemy…waiting…
‘What in the name of Lug do you think you’re doing?’ Trahern bellowed. Ruarc fought to stay on his feet, but the giant shoved him backward, slamming a fist into his jaw.
‘Fighting,’ he remarked drily.
‘Not any more.’
The Norman soldier offered a cocky grin, swiping blood from his lip.
Bastard. He’d have won the fight if Trahern hadn’t interfered. But Ruarc kept his temper and stared hard at the enemy. He would have his chance for vengeance and soon, if he had his way about it.
Ruarc wiped the stinging cut on his arm and strode outside. Muffled sounds of conversation, and the faint cry of a child came from the circle of huts.
He shoved the door open to his own dwelling. There were no sounds of welcome within, only a gasp of fear. He raised the oil lamp and saw the face of his sister Sosanna. Pale and frightened, she breathed an audible sigh of relief when she saw it was only him. Her matted fair hair hung uncombed about her shoulders. She had not changed her gown either, he noted.
A hard ball gathered in his stomach. She hadn’t been like this before.
With a tentative smile, Sosanna rolled over and returned to sleep. She didn’t speak, just as she hadn’t spoken a word in all these months. No one knew what had happened to her during the attack, but Ruarc blamed the Normans. Their father had died in battle, along with his youngest sister Ethna. Ethna had tried to flee from the battle grounds, only to be trampled to death beneath the horses.
He’d found her broken body and wept for her. And for Sosanna, he held fast to his bitterness. One day, he would learn what they’d done to her. And if the gods had mercy upon her, they would heal the invisible wounds.
The others had suffered losses. But instead of fighting back, instead of seeking vengeance, Patrick had taken a Norman bride. A traitor, he was. One who deserved to lose his power.
He could not bring himself to call the MacEgan his king. Though Patrick had won the people’s support, already Ruarc could envision his cousin’s throne crumbling.
He intended to see to it personally.
Chapter Six
‘S ir Anselm wishes to speak with you,’ Bevan informed him. Patrick stepped outside the chapel, the air clinging with incense. He’d prayed for guidance at the dawn Mass. But the Latin rites had brought no comfort.
Outside, he surveyed the remains of the rath. The palisade wall needed repairs from the fire damage. Though they had made some progress, it was not enough to keep the tribe safe. Below the gatehouse, several vulnerable areas showed signs of crumbling.
Weariness etched heavy lines upon his men’s faces. They looked as though they hadn’t slept, like himself. He had returned to a quiet Laochre that night, the fortress silent yet watchful. Though he had slept in his own bed, he had found himself studying the space beside him. He still did not feel married, much less to a Norman bride. It should have relieved him to be gone from her side, yet he found himself wondering about Isabel. He didn’t remember sleeping, only staring at the walls and praying that the fragile peace would hold.
As he crossed the courtyard, knots of tension tightened every muscle. A few tribesmen had fresh cuts with swollen eyes and knuckles. Though he hadn’t seen any disagreements, it was clear that all had not been peaceful while he’d visited Ennisleigh.
‘What happened?’ he asked, nodding towards one of the men.
Bevan pointed towards Ruarc’s dwelling. ‘Ruarc started a knife fight, and though Trahern broke it up, a few of the others started a skirmish later.’
‘Any broken bones or more serious injuries?’ he asked.
Bevan shrugged. ‘None that I am aware of. But I bloodied a nose or two, myself.’
‘You shouldn’t have done that.’
His brother’s face grew taut. ‘They deserve far more than that, and well you know it.’
‘Now is not the time. Call the men together and bring the Norman soldiers in. I wish to address all of them.’
Though he trusted Bevan implicitly, his brother despised the Normans, his temper threatening to lash out. Yet Patrick needed every loyal man to protect Laochre, and Bevan was one who would fight to the death for their tribe.
He didn’t know what he would say to the men yet, but the Normans had to understand their limits. At the moment, they bowed to Sir Anselm’s authority. Though the Norman knight had behaved with dignity, Patrick wanted Sir Anselm’s oath of allegiance. Only then could he command the Normans and keep them separate from his men.
Patrick entered the Great Chamber, going over the words in his mind. In the privacy of his chamber, he changed into a more formal tunic and trews. Though he had not taken care with his appearance before, today he had to assume the role of king. If he could not control the situation, his tribe would weaken even further.
He wore the blue cloak given to him by his father. Though it held the bright colour and silver threads embroidered by his mother’s hands, it weighed upon his spirits. Often he doubted himself. He didn’t know how to be the quiet, resolute leader his forebears had been. He understood the use of a sword easier than the use of a crown.
But the people had chosen him. Whether he willed it or
no, he had to accept the responsibilities that came with the kingship.
A knock interrupted his thoughts. His brother Trahern stepped inside. ‘The men have assembled. Both the Normans and our tribesmen await your orders.’
Patrick gave a nod of acknowledgement. He opened a chest at the far end of the chamber and removed the ceremonial minn óir and arm bracelets. Beside the diadem rested a silver circlet and silver torque set with amethysts. It was meant for his queen. Isabel would never wear them. He’d sooner see the jewels destroyed than give them to a Norman.
‘I’ve not seen you wear that since your crowning,’ Trahern remarked, pointing to the golden diadem.
Patrick set the minn óir upon his head. ‘It has its purpose. Today the Normans must accept me as their king.’
‘You look fetching,’ Trahern teased. ‘Will you wear golden balls in your hair as well?’
Idiot. Patrick hid his grin and swung a light fist at his younger brother, connecting with Trahern’s shoulder. Trahern pounded him on the back, his laughter easing the tension.
‘Go and make yourself pretty,’ Patrick advised his brother. ‘You look like a swineherd.’
Trahern wore a faded saffron tunic and brown trews. Mud caked his boots. ‘But I am not the king, am I? It’s you who must make ceremonial speeches and give commands.’ He shuddered, leaning against the door frame.
‘Would that I could command them to leave.’
‘You can feed them a feast to remember,’ Trahern suggested. ‘It may put them in a pleasant mood, as well as our own folk. We’ve not had fresh meat in a long while. Or good bread. Do you suppose your new wife knows how to prepare better food?’
‘She’d sooner poison us all, I imagine.’ But he remembered the quiet night of conversation they’d had, and the way Isabel had silently filled his goblet without being asked. With her hair falling over her shoulders and the innocence in her eyes, she possessed a simple beauty. Patrick closed his eyes. She was not, nor would ever be, his queen.
‘Give the orders for a feast,’ he commanded his brother. ‘And have Huon bring my horse.’ Once he had finished donning the royal finery, Patrick moved through the narrow hallway and down the spiral stairs.
Inside the Great Chamber, his tribesmen had gathered together. Men and women alike stood at both ends of the Chamber as if awaiting instructions. A few of the smaller children chattered, breaking the silence, only to be hushed by their mothers. The men raised their knees in a gesture of respect.
He crossed the Chamber and stood at the threshold, looking back at them. None of the Normans were present. ‘Come. What I have to say must be spoken to everyone dwelling at Laochre.’
From the sullen expressions on their faces, his folk appeared more like stubborn children than grown men and women. But they obeyed, following him outside.
The Norman soldiers stood at the opposite side of the rath. Some of them were seasoned fighters, others barely past the age of his younger brother Connor, who was nine and ten. Patrick expected Connor to return from his travels at any moment, for he had finished his fostering two years ago.
He mounted his horse, leading Bel to the centre of the ringfort. ‘There will be no fighting this day.’ He let his gaze fall upon each man, woman, and child. ‘Not from my people.’
He turned to the Norman commander Sir Anselm. ‘And not from yours. Anyone who attempts to break the peace will suffer the consequences.’
Silence descended over the people, and rebellion brewed. He could feel their resentment, but it did not sway him from his decision.
‘Trahern,’ he called to his brother, ‘begin pairing them up. One tribesman to each Norman.’ Trahern’s eyes lowered, but he did not disobey.
‘As a penalty for fighting, you will spend this day working alongside each other. Each man will be assigned to a section of the palisade wall or to the main fortress. You will begin the repairs today.’
A few of the Normans glared at him, defiance written upon their faces. But when they looked to their commander, Sir Anselm gave a silent nod. Though the knight had done nothing to undermine his authority, frustration seethed within Patrick. This was his fortress, and he could not have the men looking to Anselm for commands.
He stood back, watching as Trahern matched the men together. The Norman forces outnumbered them, and when a score of men remained, Patrick said, ‘Bevan and I will take the rest.’
‘What should we do?’ a woman asked. ‘Shall we work upon the thatching?’
‘No,’ he answered. ‘Slaughter several of the sheep and begin preparations for a noon feast for the men. Those who accomplish their repairs will be rewarded. Those who continue to fight will go hungry.’
With the message delivered, he ordered the remaining Norman forces to follow him. Bevan walked among them, with unshielded hatred in his eyes. Though his brother had threatened to leave, Patrick was grateful he’d stayed. The only men he trusted at the moment were his brothers.
He led the men towards Baginbun Head, in clear view of Bannow Bay where the Normans had landed last season. Patches of new spring grass shifted in the breeze while the sea tide swept over the sand. Reddish-brown rocks lined the edge, as though the earth had absorbed the bloodshed from the invasion.
He drew Bel to a stop when they reached the summit of the hill. ‘Do you remember the battle?’ he asked the men, his voice grim. Upon their faces, he saw their memories. More than one man held the hollowness of grief from those who had died.
‘Our men killed one another last summer. We won’t ever put that behind us.’ Even now, he relived the moment when he’d seen his brother Liam fall, the sword cutting him down. He blamed himself still.
Patrick raised his eyes to the men. ‘And I know that both sides would like nothing more than to kill each other now.’ His hand moved to the hilt of his sword, palming the familiar ruby. ‘But though we may be enemies, I ask that you live among us in peace until the end of the harvest.’ He said nothing of Thornwyck’s intended visit, nor his own plans to send them back to England.
He turned to Sir Anselm. ‘And I ask for your oath of allegiance.’
The Norman knight’s face turned rigid with anger. His hand moved towards his sword, as if to defy the order. Before he could speak, Patrick added, ‘I am king of these lands. I have wed Thornwyck’s daughter, and if you are to live among us, you must accept our laws.’ He rode closer to Anselm, meeting the knight’s gaze with his own hard stare. ‘I won’t tolerate disobedience. Or disloyalty.’
He addressed the remainder of the men. ‘Each of you has a choice to make. If you refuse to give your oath, you will live outside the rath. We will provide you with nothing.’
‘And what if we choose to take what we need?’ Anselm asked, his dark eyes glittering.
‘Then the battle will begin anew.’
He didn’t want war, but neither could he allow the Normans to take dominion over Laochre. Though he knew not if he could gain their obedience, there was no alternative.
This was, quite possibly, the worst idea she’d ever had. The water was brutally cold, like knives against her skin. Isabel’s teeth chattered, her limbs half-frozen as she struggled to reach the opposite shore. The waves battered at her arms and face, filling her mouth and nose with salt water.
She clung to a broken segment of the palisade wall that she’d used as a makeshift raft, forcing herself to keep swimming. The stout limbs were tied together in a rectangular shape, but they would not support her weight as she’d hoped. She had placed a small bundle containing her gown upon it, but even that was soaked.
Isabel had made up her mind this morning that she would see the mainland and fortress for herself. She had not yet seen the extent of the damage, and she needed to know the truth—not to mention she was dying of boredom.
The problem was, she could not find where the islanders kept their boats. None were visible along the shoreline. She didn’t know how Patrick had reached the opposite side a few nights ago, and so she was left with no
choice but to form her own vessel.
The mainland had seemed so close, and yet, with each stroke, her arms felt heavier. If she drowned, she could imagine the souls of the dead laughing at her idiocy.
Well, she’d come this far. She had no choice but to reach the shoreline. With one arm grasping the raft, she continued swimming.
It seemed like hours, but eventually her feet touched bottom again. She staggered upon land, her shift clinging to her body. The late afternoon sun offered no warmth at all.
She couldn’t remember ever being this cold. Shivers coursed through her, and she clutched her arms, unable to feel anything in her fingertips. Perhaps her husband would find her dying body here, frozen.
From inside the bundle, she pulled out her shoes. Her fingers trembled as she tried to put them on. Though she hated the thought of donning a wet woollen gown, at least it would protect her modesty. The clammy fabric weighed down upon her, offering no warmth.
A fire. She dreamed of a roaring fire and warming herself before it. The thought elevated her spirits, and she trudged up the bank until she reached the rise of the slope. Shielding her eyes, she nearly groaned when she saw the distance to the ringfort.
But at least she’d found it. The fortress of Laochre dominated the landscape, with even fields of seedlings dotting the hills with new green. Beehive-shaped stone cottages with thatched roofs encircled the structure, while a wooden palisade wall protected the inhabitants. Beyond the wall, a large ditch and embankment offered further defences.
When she reached the fields, Isabel pressed her hands to her mouth. At a closer view, she saw the blackened walls and the crumbling homes. She had imagined a place of grand wealth, a fortress worthy of a king.
But this…
The desolate ringfort had been brought to its knees by her father’s forces. She could almost smell the smoke, hear the screams of those who had died. It hurt to look at it.
And she suddenly realised why her husband hadn’t wanted her to see it. This was not the glorious kingdom of a warrior, but the dying remains of a tribe. Isabel tried not to imagine the women and children who had suffered. She huddled with her arms wrapped around her middle, struggling to think.
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