Her Warrior King

by Michelle Willingham

  He lifted his gaze to hers. ‘Until winter.’

  ‘Where will I go?’

  ‘Wherever you like.’ He took her hand, stroking her knuckles with his thumb. ‘I have many allies, chieftains and other kings. There are men who would not care about your heritage. They would see only a beautiful woman.’

  Beautiful. The word cut her like a shard of glass, for he had never taken the time to know her. He would not allow himself to be her husband, for the burden of kingship overshadowed all else.

  ‘I want something in return from you,’ she said. ‘If I am to live here for a time, I want my dowry sent to Ennisleigh. And something else.’

  He shrugged. ‘Ask.’

  ‘I want you to send for the families of the Norman soldiers.’ When he was about to protest, she set her hand upon his shoulder. ‘Hear me out. The men have not seen their wives and children for nearly a year. My father would not allow any women to travel with the soldiers.’ She blushed, for not even the camp doxies were allowed. ‘If you bring their families, you’ll gain their co-operation.’

  He stood. ‘You want me to make their lives comfortable.’

  ‘Yes.’

  Fierce anger darkened his expression, and she involuntarily took a step backward. His voice took on a deadly tone. ‘They killed our people, Isabel. I am not about to make their lives comfortable.’

  He would not forgive the Normans for his people’s loss. Though the battle might have ended, the war was not over. Not in his eyes.

  The easiest path would be to turn away from the MacEgan tribe, to be blind to the people’s needs. She could live upon the island in peace, without any knowledge or care of what was happening to them.

  But then, that was a coward’s path.

  He’d said she would never be a true queen. Perhaps he was right. Though it was the habit of kings to wage war, it was often the queens who built peace.

  Was there any way to overcome the resentment festering from their losses? Though it might seem insurmountable, Isabel wanted to believe she could help.

  If she could somehow bring the tribe back into prosperity and gain the help of her own people, they might come together. Instead of killing each other, they could live in peace.

  But she wondered if it was worth it, to fight for a marriage that was destroyed before it had even begun.

  Chapter Ten

  T he following morn, Patrick and his men watched as the Normans sparred outside the ringfort. Bevan stood at his side, analysing every move the men made. Though both he and his brother wore leather armour, they did not don the heavy chain mail armour of their opponents.

  ‘They’re stronger,’ Patrick remarked, ‘but slower. The armour weighs them down.’

  ‘It does,’ Bevan agreed. ‘But our men should be fitted for chain mail. The weight would help them in training.’ He met Patrick’s glance, and he knew what his brother was thinking. Their speed would be even faster one day, if they grew accustomed to the extra weight.

  ‘Have we the funds to make it possible?’ Bevan asked.

  ‘No.’ Outfitting all of his men would be far too costly. And he needed the funds from Isabel’s dowry to bribe the Archbishop and end their marriage.

  If the Baron of Thornwyck had provided gold, that is. Patrick suspected that the dowry would be little more than blankets and a carved bridal chest.

  ‘What did you pay as her bride price?’ Bevan asked.

  ‘I agreed to house and feed the Norman army.’ He shot his brother a sidelong glance. ‘More than enough for a queen.’

  His brother grunted in acknowledgement. They watched the Normans move through practice drills, their movements precise and trained. Patrick had seen exercises like these before, but his greater concern was the reaction of his tribesmen. They were leaning back to watch, drinking cups of ale and joking.

  It was sobering, to see the enemy’s discipline exceeding that of his own men.

  He strode forward and addressed his tribesmen. ‘Unless you learn to fight against them and know their strategies, you’ll never defeat them.’

  Ruarc stepped forward. Red chafe marks lined his upper arms and wrists from where he had been bound. Dark circles ringed his eyes, but instead of exhaustion, fury tightened his features. ‘We need no strategy to defeat them. Only an opportunity.’

  Patrick lowered his voice. ‘And you’ll gain that opportunity soon enough.’

  Ruarc gave a thin smile. ‘I don’t believe you. You’re turning into one of them.’ He glanced at his tribesmen. ‘He married a Norman, and now he thinks they are better fighters than us.’

  ‘They are better,’ Patrick said darkly. ‘While you sit around drinking, they grow stronger.’

  ‘And what have you done?’ Ruarc demanded. ‘Nothing except invite them to live among us. They eat our food, take our supplies, and now you’re building homes for them.’

  ‘They won’t be here for much longer,’ Patrick replied. ‘Your hatred blinds you.’ His temper held by the barest thread, and at the moment, he wanted nothing better than to fight his cousin. The satisfaction of bruising Ruarc’s pride was far too tempting.

  ‘I’m not blind.’ Ruarc drained the rest of his mead. ‘But our tribesmen’s eyes are opening. They’re starting to see you as I do.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘You’re a traitor to us.’

  Patrick grabbed his cousin’s tunic, but Ruarc reached out for his throat. In defence, he dug his fingers into the sores upon Ruarc’s wrists. With a swift twisting motion, Patrick sent his cousin sprawling to the ground. ‘You’ve caused enough trouble here. I should banish you.’

  His men looked uncomfortable. He could feel their doubts and Ruarc’s anger undermining his authority.

  ‘Go on, then.’ Ruarc rubbed his wrists. ‘I’d rather leave this place than watch you betray our tribe.’ The darkness of his cousin’s hatred was palpable. ‘What sort of king imprisons a man trying to defend his sister’s honour?’

  Patrick’s expression hardened. He hadn’t told Ruarc of Sosanna’s attempted suicide. ‘She is safe now.’

  ‘Now?’ Ruarc whitened, his fists curling. ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘She is on Ennisleigh and will remain there until she has healed.’

  Ruarc expelled a foul curse. ‘How badly was she hurt? If the Normans—’

  ‘She is alive, and I’ll take you there. Isabel is looking after her.’

  ‘You let one of the Gaillabh take care of Sosanna?’

  ‘I let my wife join the healer in tending your sister’s injuries. Sosanna tried to take her own life.’

  Ruarc’s visage turned forbidding. With his palm curling over the colc sword at his waist, he unsheathed the blade. ‘I could have saved her, if you hadn’t imprisoned me.’

  ‘Put your sword away,’ Patrick warned. ‘And it’s Sir Anselm you should thank for saving her life.’

  His cousin’s face drew in tighter. ‘You’re right.’ His voice was deadly quiet as he approached Sir Anselm. ‘I should thank him.’

  Before Patrick could move, Ruarc drove his sword towards the Norman knight. Sir Anselm defended the blow squarely, without any emotion. In contrast, Ruarc poured himself into the sparring match, releasing his battle rage in a driven, vicious fight.

  Although Sir Anselm met every strike with a deflection of his own, he didn’t make any moves to challenge Ruarc. Patrick watched his cousin growing tired, and though the Norman had several opportunities to end the fight, he did nothing to humiliate Ruarc.

  His cousin’s strength was undeniable, but the knight was a superior fighter. As the fight wore on, more and more men gathered to watch. A few of the Irish began chanting in Gaelic, encouraging Ruarc’s blade. Patrick saw their faces, their desire to see the defeat of the Norman commander. They had pinned their hopes on Ruarc. Though he hadn’t intended it, with each clash of steel, the gap between the men widened. He needed to stop the fight.

  Sweat poured down his cousin’s cheeks, his dark eyes
filled with hatred. But Anselm calmly continued the battle, letting Ruarc expel the last of his energy.

  Patrick scanned the crowd for a glimpse of one of his brothers and at last found Bevan. He strode towards him and said, ‘We must stop them.’

  ‘You can’t. It’s too late for that.’ The hardness in Bevan’s tone made him suddenly realise that his brother wanted Ruarc to win. He didn’t want peace either, nor did he believe it could happen.

  Instead, Patrick unsheathed his blade and stepped between the men, blocking his cousin’s next strike. His muscles strained to keep Ruarc from releasing another blow.

  ‘Enough,’ he said quietly. To the commander he said, ‘You fought well. For you and your men, I’ll send a barrel of our finest ale.’

  Then he turned to Ruarc. ‘We’ll go to Ennisleigh now. You can see to your sister’s welfare.’

  The burning ire upon Ruarc’s face had not lessened. ‘I want nothing from you.’

  ‘Meet me at the shoreline if you want to see Sosanna.’ Patrick walked away from the ringfort and heard his men grumbling amongst themselves.

  ‘He’s becoming one of them,’ he heard a voice say.

  ‘What do you expect?’ another replied. ‘He’s wedded to a Norman.’

  Patrick stopped short, training his gaze upon each of the men. ‘Is there something you wish to say to my face?’

  A few reddened, but no one spoke. Patrick stared back, his own tension gathering. Gods above, he’d given up everything for these men. And he could see them turning away from him.

  He was among family and friends. Despite it all, when he looked into their eyes, he read the doubts. They didn’t trust him, didn’t understand what he was trying to accomplish. How could they defeat the Normans if they refused to learn from them?

  When Patrick strode away, he caught sight of Sir Anselm. The Norman knight met his gaze with a steady look of his own. When the Norman inclined his head, the unexpected gesture of respect caught Patrick unawares.

  Like a knife in his own heart, the twisted fact remained that he planned to betray the Normans out of vengeance. He intended to drive them out and kill them, once his men were ready.

  Anselm could have shamed Ruarc before the others in that fight, but he had chosen not to. The commander had honed skills from countless battles. By refusing to attack, Anselm had lifted his stature in Patrick’s eyes. Then, too, the commander had rescued Sosanna, risking his own life for hers. Why?

  Patrick wondered whether he would have done the same, if a Norman woman had thrown herself into the sea. He thought of Isabel standing in Sosanna’s place, and the answer came. Enemy blood or not, he’d have dived in to save her.

  Isabel wanted to bring the men together, to make one tribe. Though he still did not believe it was possible, the idea of slaughtering the Normans seemed like an unnecessary waste of life. A coldness settled across his shoulders. Were his people right about him? Was he turning traitor without realising it?

  Patrick refused the offer of a horse and walked the long distance towards the shoreline. When he reached the sands and waited beside the boat, he tried to dispel the unexpected guilt building within his conscience.

  Somehow he had to rid Laochre of the Norman forces. He had to detach himself from them, to see them as the enemy once more.

  If he didn’t, his men would lose faith and he’d have nothing left.

  Isabel laid more stones around the fortress, this time accompanied by the islanders’ children. More often than not the boys threw rocks at each other instead of rebuilding the wall. But it felt good to be around people once more.

  She listened to them speaking, trying to catch words that Annle had taught her. The children had giggled at her efforts to speak, but after a few corrections, they taught her to speak simple greetings.

  When the afternoon sun rose high above the island, warming her with its rays, Isabel saw Annle approaching.

  ‘How is Sosanna?’ she asked.

  Annle shrugged, which Isabel took to mean there was no change. Though Sosanna had opened her eyes once or twice, she hadn’t spoken. Terror lined her face, and only when she touched her stomach and felt the reassurance of the unborn child’s movement, did she grow calm.

  Annle spoke slowly, gesturing towards the ringfort entrance. Isabel understood only a word or two, something about a boat and men. She wiped her hands upon her léine, and joined Annle. ‘Is it Patrick?’

  The woman nodded. Isabel shielded her eyes and saw the figure of her husband entering the ringfort accompanied by a dark-haired warrior she didn’t recognize. Beside her, Annle murmured, ‘He is Ruarc.’ Though Isabel did not understand the rest of her words, she sensed that Ruarc was related to Sosanna.

  Patrick moved with confidence, his gaze moving across each of the people. He wore leather armour over a forest-green tunic. His toned arm muscles seemed tight against the leather bracers upon his forearms. Around his upper arms he wore twisted bands of gold. Though they proclaimed his rank, Isabel was beginning to understand the truth. Her husband was both a king and a slave to his tribesmen. Never did he let down his mask, never did he let her see the man behind the king.

  Most of the islanders greeted him, but even as Patrick spoke with them, his eyes searched for her. Guilt lined his expression in an unspoken apology.

  Isabel turned away and continued her task of rebuilding the wall. It kept her busy without having to face him.

  A shadow fell across her work, in spite of her desire to avoid him. ‘How is Sosanna?’ Patrick asked.

  ‘As well as can be expected. Her child will be born by harvest time.’

  ‘Lughnasa,’ he murmured.

  ‘Yes.’ The mention of Lughnasa reminded her of her father. Edwin would return, expecting her to bear a child from this marriage. Isabel’s throat closed up, for she didn’t know what she would say to him.

  ‘I’ve brought Ruarc to see his sister. He’s a cousin of mine.’

  The tone of his voice suggested a low opinion of the man. Ruarc had followed Annle inside the dwelling. ‘You don’t seem happy to see him.’

  ‘He causes trouble among the men. I should send him away.’

  ‘But you are his family,’ she said quietly. She saw the indecision on her husband’s face, and understood that Ruarc’s place was more secure than her own.

  His plan to end their marriage stung her pride. She found herself wanting to fight for her place here, for there was so much she could do to help the people. No longer did she want to be a nobleman’s wife, content to supervise the estates and weave tapestries. She wanted to rebuild this place and to be a part of it.

  ‘I dispatched a messenger to your father this morn. I’ve asked him to send your dowry.’

  She acknowledged his words with a nod. ‘Thank you.’ Her attention was drawn to his hands and the skin that was darkening as summer neared. A flush suffused her, and her body wanted to draw closer to him. His black hair hung freely about his shoulders, his dark grey eyes piercing. He was a warrior king, not an ordinary man.

  Patrick ran his hands along the stone wall and added, ‘You’ve done well here.’

  ‘It gives me something to do.’ She reached to lift another stone. Patrick took it from her and set it atop the wall. The light touch of his hands against hers meant nothing. And yet, she felt the warmth of his touch sinking beneath her flesh and into her heart.

  ‘Go and see Sosanna,’ she murmured. He hesitated a moment, capturing her gaze. Isabel forced herself to look at him, her heart beating faster.

  After he left her side, Isabel clenched her hands together. Though it was a fruitless endeavour, she wished she could know this man better, to become his wife in truth. But whenever he looked at her, she no longer knew whether he saw an enemy or a woman.

  She walked towards the edge of the ringfort. Beyond the stone wall, she stared at the cerulean sea. White clouds skimmed the horizon, and the bright sun should have made her feel better. Resting her chin upon her palm, she saw the stretch of g
reen land up to the massive fortress of Laochre, the kingdom she would never rule.

  Patrick was right. The people there did not want her as their queen. The uncomfortable silence and lack of welcome made that clear.

  And she didn’t know what to do now.

  Ruarc entered the darkened interior of the hut, the only light from the glowing peat upon the fire. His sister’s back faced him as she slept, her arms wrapped around her stomach.

  He trod softly, almost afraid to awaken her. When at last he reached her side, he saw that she was staring at the walls.

  ‘Tá brón orm,’ he said softly. But he was afraid the words of apology were not enough. He’d been so consumed with thoughts of revenge, of destroying the outsiders, he hadn’t looked past his sister’s pain to see the truth. She carried a child created in violence.

  He drew up a wooden stump and sat beside her. ‘It’s my fault. And though you might not wish to live, we will face this.’

  Tears filled her eyes, and he took her hand. ‘Do you want to leave Laochre? I could take you somewhere far from here.’

  She shook her head, her hands covering her stomach. The silent tears cut him down. He hated the helplessness of not being able to take away her pain.

  ‘I will help you,’ he vowed. ‘I’ll find the bastard and kill him.’

  She lowered her head and squeezed his palm. And he vowed that, no matter what, he would avenge his sister’s honour.

  Isabel’s hands sank deeply into a wooden bowl filled with bread dough. One of the baked loaves cooled upon a low table while she kneaded the new batch. Annle had given her the yeast mixture and she’d been pleased with the results.

  The mindless activity helped push her mind away from her crumbling marriage. Saints, she was such a cursed idiot for kissing Patrick. It had been better not to know what it felt like to be in his arms, to be tempted by desire.

  She punched the dough, working out her frustration. Outside, the afternoon sun was sinking, the evening light fading. After reshaping the dough into a soft ball, she covered it with a cloth and set it near the hearth to rise again.