Seeing it brought back all the harsh memories of the destroyed village and the crying child. She hadn’t acted then, and she carried the guilt upon her conscience still.
The weariness in her husband’s eyes, the unseen weight upon his shoulders, became evident. She felt it as though it were her own. Could she help him in this task? But her stoic husband would likely refuse any assistance, particularly from herself.
With each step forward, she understood the decision she had made. She was going to stay here, because it was the right thing to do. She couldn’t abandon those who had lost so much, not when she had married their king. Even if her marriage remained a distant arrangement, she was needed here.
Isabel moved towards the ringfort, passing through the underbrush and beyond small groves of trees. She stopped to rest, still shivering violently. Only the thought of a fire and her own stubborn refusal not to die kept her moving.
In the distance, she heard men’s voices. It was too late to hide, and so she squared her shoulders.
Behave like a queen, she instructed herself. She tried not to think of how bedraggled she looked. Nor how angry Patrick would be when he discovered her escape.
Men surrounded the palisade wall, ripping away broken limbs and binding new ones in their place. Her father’s men worked alongside the Irish. Now and then she heard the lilting tones of the unfamiliar language, but not once did she hear her own tongue. The Normans held their silence. One stared at her, and Isabel’s throat went dry at the caged hostility in his face. It felt like she were stepping into the midst of a battle. Her husband didn’t want the Normans here. And now she wondered if she’d made a mistake.
Isabel turned her gaze away from the man, moving towards the gatehouse. She nearly screamed when a boy’s face loomed before her, out of nowhere.
‘Ewan,’ she gasped. ‘You startled me.’
The boy grinned, his gamine face delighting in the trick he’d played. His shaggy blond hair curled around his ears, and he jumped down from the wooden ladder. ‘Come.’ He grabbed her hand and led her inside the ringfort. ‘Before he finds you.’
Isabel didn’t have to ask whom he meant. She wasn’t entirely eager to face Patrick. Like as not, he’d drag her away and force her back to Ennisleigh again. She obeyed Ewan, following him through the gates.
The interior of the ringfort was as bad as the exterior. Blackened by fires, destruction surrounded them. She shuddered at the sight, her own nerves gathering strength at the thought of what Patrick would say. Then she stopped short when she spied a child.
A young girl stood nearby, so thin Isabel could see the sharp angles of her bones. Pale and weak, the child stared with curiosity. And she wasn’t alone. Other children, frail with hunger, eyed her and Ewan with interest.
Her resolve to help them only strengthened. No child should have to suffer, especially not from hunger. Whether Patrick wanted her help or not, she wasn’t going to stand aside.
‘What happened to them?’ she asked Ewan.
He didn’t seem to understand her question at first. Then comprehension dawned. ‘The Normans destroyed our winter stores. Laid siege, they did.’
Isabel expelled a breath. By the Blessed Virgin, how could her father ever believe the two sides could be brought together? The answer came quickly enough: he didn’t. He expected the Normans to conquer the Irish. And what of herself? Was she supposed to govern them as their queen, ignoring their suffering?
No. She couldn’t turn aside and pretend she didn’t see what was happening. As lady of these lands, she knew her duty was to protect the weak.
With her family’s wealth and her dowry, she could restore their fortunes and blot out the evidence of hunger. Her mind hearkened back to their wedding day. Patrick had warned that his people would die if he didn’t wed her. She hadn’t wanted to believe him, thinking that her father would never make such a terrible bargain. But seeing evidence of the conquest made it clear Patrick was right.
Ewan stopped in front of an empty storage hut. ‘You could wait here. No one will see you.’
‘That isn’t why I came,’ Isabel admitted. She had no intention of hiding herself. Though she had no idea how she would begin taking her proper place, she would find a way.
‘I think you should stay here until Patrick comes,’ Ewan warned, his adolescent voice cracking. ‘They cannot speak your language.’
He tried to pull her inside the hut, but Isabel stood her ground. ‘I’m not afraid of them.’ Perhaps if she said the words aloud, they would become true.
Ewan seemed about to protest again, but a male voice called out him in Irish. ‘Wait here,’ the lad said. ‘Trahern has asked for me.’
Isabel nodded. ‘Go on. I’ll be fine.’ And yet, at the moment, she felt terribly isolated and afraid. She waited until Ewan had disappeared, and then studied the remaining huts.
The rich scent of roasting mutton filled her nostrils, and she decided to enter a large stone hut that appeared similar to her father’s kitchen. A group of women spoke Irish to one another, their voices mingling in pleasant conversation.
For a moment Isabel hung near the door, forcing away the shyness she felt. This would be so much easier if she could speak their language. She only knew a few words, hardly enough to converse.
This is your duty, she reminded herself. These are your people now. She stepped inside the hut. ‘Good morn to you,’ she said.
Their conversation ceased. No one smiled, no one offered any word of welcome. Instead, the women turned their backs on her.
Isabel moved to stand beside the fire, not looking at anyone. They worked in silence, keeping their distance. The roasting meat sizzled over the open flame, the fat catching fire. Isabel found a heavy cloth and turned the spit over the fire, while the warmth of the flames dried her sodden gown. She had never performed such a task before, but it seemed better than letting the meat burn.
The women’s infuriated looks made her wary. She decided to attempt speaking Irish, hoping that she would not sound foolish.
‘I am Isabel,’ she said. Her voice came out weaker than she’d wanted, but at least she’d managed an introduction. She forced a smile on to her face, feeling all the world like an outsider.
At their blank expressions, she repeated her name again. ‘Isabel.’
A red-haired woman glanced at her peers. ‘Alannah,’ she replied. Rapidly she spoke to the other women, and even as they stared at her, they made no gesture of welcome.
Isabel struggled to remember a simple greeting, but could not recall any of Patrick’s words. She acknowledged the woman with a nod. None of the others offered their names.
Alannah’s attention narrowed upon Isabel’s damp gown. She voiced a question, pointing at the fabric.
‘I swam,’ Isabel explained, making swimming motions with her hands.
Their eyes widened, and one of the women giggled. Isabel did not return the laughter, but instead pretended as if she didn’t hear them.
They talked amongst themselves, and no doubt it was about her. Isabel vowed to learn their language as quickly as possible. She could never be mistress here unless she learned to talk to the people.
The thought sobered her, for it was going to be much harder than she’d thought.
She warmed herself by the fire, her spirits sinking. Everything seemed so different here. Her husband preferred to exile her, rather than to help her fit in. She stared into the flames, thinking of the night in the cavern when he’d drawn close to her. He claimed he would never touch her, and though she should feel grateful, now it made her even more aware of her loneliness.
The women began chopping vegetables for the noon meal, so Isabel moved forward and stood among them. As soon as she did, they moved away. She mustered a smile. ‘You aren’t going to make this easy, are you?’ Since they didn’t intend to speak with her, it meant nothing if she spoke her opinions.
Seizing a carrot, she looked around for a knife. They eyed each other, as if trying to decid
e what her intentions were. She motioned to them as if chopping the carrot; finally, Alannah handed her a dull blade. Isabel scraped the skin from the carrot, behaving as though nothing were wrong. She had watched the servants prepare vegetables a thousand times before, but she struggled with the task. The knife slipped and knicked her finger. Every pair of eyes watched her.
‘I suppose queens aren’t supposed to work, are they?’ she muttered. ‘But since I haven’t anything else to do, I might as well be useful.’
After she had peeled three carrots, they stopped staring and resumed working. Once or twice, the women’s gaze shifted upon her.
Isabel strained to catch a familiar word, but the language was too difficult to understand. Now and again, she heard a name, but that was all.
She kept her gaze lowered and caught another woman staring at her from the shadows. The woman had an unkempt appearance to her. Her long fair hair hung in greasy ropes around her dirty face. The gown she wore was stained and the hemline frayed.
The woman reminded her of a wild animal, too afraid to draw near. Isabel offered a slight smile, but she did not return it.
‘Isabel,’ she said, pointing to herself. The woman moved far away, huddling against the corner of the hut.
At her questioning look, Alannah named the woman. ‘Sosanna,’ she said, pointing. Isabel wondered why the woman had not answered for herself, but the others seemed wary.
Outside, Isabel heard the sound of men’s voices. Her husband’s voice issued orders, and she caught a few men muttering protests in her own language.
What was happening?
Isabel moved stealthily to the entrance where she saw rows of her father’s men lined up. Beside them were the Irishmen. The two groups stood in sharp contrast. The Irish wore no armour, their rows uneven. Some stood openly glaring at the Normans. More than a few had raw sores upon their faces, bruises forming.
Patrick strode towards the Normans, rage creasing his face. ‘When I give orders, you are to obey them. If you expect us to feed and house you, then you must help us complete the task of rebuilding.’
‘We’d have been better to burn it to the ground,’ one Norman remarked beneath his breath. ‘At least then we wouldn’t have to live here.’
Isabel couldn’t believe the soldier had the courage to voice such insolence. How could Patrick let him speak in such a way? His disrespect was unacceptable.
She took a step forward from the hut, staring at the men. Her stomach clenched at the thought of interfering. This was Patrick’s battle, not hers. And yet, she felt an obligation to speak, despite her apprehension.
Isabel moved to stand before the men, aware of her dishevelled appearance. Though she didn’t know many of the soldiers, she recognised a few faces, including her father’s captain Sir Anselm.
‘What of your families?’ Her voice came out hardly above a speaking tone, but a few glanced in her direction. ‘Would you have them sleep on the ground when they arrive? If this is to be your home, it is not unreasonable to ask for your help in rebuilding it.’
Behind her, Patrick moved in. His hand curled around her upper arm like a steel manacle. ‘Go inside the Great Chamber.’ His voice held a tangible threat, but Isabel refused to back down.
‘My father has arranged for a truce between our people,’ she said to the Norman soldiers. ‘You won’t be going back to England.’
‘Trahern.’ Patrick nodded to his brothers. ‘See that the men are fed. Our men first, then the Normans. Any man with cuts or bruises from fighting will not eat.’
His words startled Isabel. Would he really deny the soldiers food? Surely things weren’t that bad.
Her husband’s grip tightened over her arm, and he half-dragged her to the building. Isabel didn’t fight him, not wanting to make a public spectacle. But she intended to discuss several matters with Patrick, especially the treatment of her own people.
Inside the entrance, he closed the door. ‘What are you doing here? I gave orders for no one to bring you to the mainland,’ he demanded. His grey eyes blazed with untold fury. Dark hair framed an angular face, his mouth a harsh line.
‘I brought myself.’ She raised her chin. ‘And I swam, if you must know. It was rather cold.’
‘Have you lost your wits? You might have drowned.’
‘No. But you have lost yours if you believe those men will obey your orders.’ She placed her hands on her hips, meeting his anger with words of her own. His methods would only result in more conflict and anger.
‘They will obey, or they will not eat.’
‘And that will make them respect your authority?’ Isabel could not believe he would be that cruel. ‘Denying them food will only breed more hatred.’
‘If you’ve finished, I am taking you back to the island.’
‘I have not.’ She poked a finger at his chest. ‘I am your wife, and I belong here. Not buried upon an island far away from where I’m needed.’
‘You aren’t needed, Isabel.’
‘That’s where you’re wrong,’ she insisted. ‘If you intend to bring the Irish and the Normans together, I can help you. I know these men.’
‘Bringing the Irish and the Normans together was never something I wanted.’ The coldness of his tone sliced at her heart. What did he mean, it was never something he wanted? Wasn’t it the reason for marrying her? To heal the strife and end the battle?
‘What’s done is done,’ she said softly. ‘We must make the best of it. Including our marriage.’
Patrick shook his head. ‘We have an arrangement. Not a marriage.’
She straightened, feeling the tenebrous anger exuding from him. Though he made no move to touch her, the brunt of his frustration was tangible. His fists clenched, but somehow she sensed that there was more behind it. He held the burden of an entire tribe, struggling to keep his people alive.
Isabel took a step forward and touched her hands to his fists. He froze, startled by her gesture. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong. You’ve no cause to despise me the way you do.’
His hands relaxed their grip, but he did not move away. ‘You aren’t very good at following orders.’
She shrugged. ‘That may be. But do you truly wish for our marriage to be so distant? We could be friends.’
The mask of distance shadowed him once more and he moved his hands back. ‘It can be no other way.’
‘Why?’ She couldn’t understand what was wrong with her. ‘Am I not fitting to be a wife?’
He lowered his gaze. ‘Someone else’s wife, perhaps. But you were never meant for this.’
A heaviness gathered in the pit of her stomach, and she didn’t know what to do. Tears pricked at her eyes, but she refused to lower herself by begging. If he didn’t want her, so be it.
‘Dry yourself by the fire. I’ll come for you soon.’ A moment later, warmth covered her shoulders. When she looked up, Patrick had gone. Across her shoulders, he’d draped his own cloak.
The heat from his body clung to it, along with the spicy scent of him. An angry tear broke free, sliding down her cheek. Isabel let the cloak fall to the floor and cursed herself for ever thinking she could be a part of the tribe.
Chapter Seven
I f his mother were alive, she’d flay his hide for treating a woman this way. As Patrick hammered pegs into the palisade wall, he took out his frustration upon the wood. Isabel had asked for peace between them. Friendship, even.
Though her request was innocent enough, he couldn’t see them becoming friends. Their lives were too different.
He glanced up at his dwelling and saw her standing at the entrance, his cloak wrapped across her shoulders. Even soaking wet, she carried herself like a queen. She reminded him of one of the ancient female warriors, fearless and bold.
He still could not believe she’d swum the channel. A more reckless move he’d never seen.
And Christ’s bones, she captured his attentions. Though he knew he would never share her bed, it didn’t stop him from desiring her. T
he innocence of her touch had sent need blazing through him. Deep mahogany eyes stood out against her gentle face and the shining gold of her hair. Her mouth tempted him like Eden’s fruit.
Patrick hammered another peg and split the board. Cursing, he tossed the wood aside.
‘Brother, you should not be doing such work,’ Trahern cautioned. ‘You are the king. It is beneath you.’
Patrick knew it, but he’d be damned if he stood on ceremony. He’d only been a king for less than a year, and it struck him as arrogant to stand back and watch the others sweat and toil.
‘I’ve a need to do the work.’
He picked up his mallet and slammed another peg in place. Only an hour ago, the Normans had given their oath of allegiance while they stood near Baginbun. Even Sir Anselm.
Though each man had pledged himself, Patrick had not missed the fury and resentment in their eyes nor the bruises from recent fighting. It was a small step forward, but he didn’t trust any of them. His reward, in return for their oath, was the promise of permanent living quarters for the men. He supposed that was why the men had agreed, for all seemed tired of living within tents. And, he suspected the words meant little to them. Their hearts were loyal to Thornwyck and their countrymen, not the MacEgan tribe.
Trahern glanced in the direction of the donjon where Isabel stood. ‘I thought you said she was going to stay on Ennisleigh.’
‘She was supposed to. The woman swam across the channel.’
Trahern expelled a low whistle of admiration. ‘Not something I expected from a noblewoman. I’ll admit it, she has courage.’
‘She won’t listen to orders. I swear by the gods, I’ll have to chain her down for her to obey.’
Trahern chuckled. ‘Were it me, brother, I’d chain her to my bed.’
The thought of Isabel lying naked upon his bed was a dangerous one. His imagination could think of several things he’d like to do. Gods, he needed her to remain on Ennisleigh, away from his sight. It was easier not to think of her, nor to be tempted by her. ‘I’m taking her back to the island after she’s dried her wet clothing by the fire.’
Her Warrior King Page 8