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 decide 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 N
ormans 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
If 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. The 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.’
‘Why send her back? She’s done no harm.’
For if he didn’t send her far away, he didn’t trust himself not to claim what rightfully belonged to him.
‘I don’t want her becoming part of our tribe. After Lughnasa, I’m setting her aside. We’ll have driven the Normans out by then, and Thornwyck as well.’
His brother’s face turned troubled. ‘I hope you’re right. But you married her upon English soil. It won’t be easy to divorce her.’
‘With enough gold to bribe a Church council, anything can be done.’ Patrick didn’t concern himself with the Norman politics. ‘We both know it’s best for our people if a tribeswoman is our queen.’
‘Is that what you want?’ Trahern asked quietly.
His brother seemed to see past his words, as if knowing how much he desired Isabel. ‘It is the good of our people we speak of.’
Trahern picked up another mallet and joined him in the repairs. ‘Does she know the marriage is not permanent?’
‘No. And there is no reason to say anything yet. Let her believe what she wants. I vowed I’d give her freedom. And so she shall have it, upon Ennisleigh.’
Trahern shook his head. ‘I’ve a feeling your new bride will have a lot to say.’
‘I will speak with her this night.’
‘You should do more than talk, brother. It might ease that foul mood of yours.’
His brother’s hint did not go unnoticed. But he would not share Isabel’s bed. There could be no child between them. He wanted nothing to bind them together after they separated.
And, it was more honourable to let her go as an untouched maiden. She could make a suitable marriage to a Norman lord and go to him as a virgin bride. He clenched his fists, his irrational temper darkening at the thought of another man touching her.
‘I need to take her back.’ Patrick set down the mallet, testing the strength of the palisade wall.
‘A word of advice, Patrick.’ Trahern leaned against the fence, his green eyes amused. ‘Take the chess pieces with you.’
‘Why?’
‘You need to keep up appearances. At least, for now, make it seem that you are sharing her bed.’ Trahern winked. ‘And the chess board will give you something to do on those long nights with her.’
Patrick handed his brother a replacement post. ‘It sounds as if you’re the one who needs a woman.’
As he strode towards his wife, Trahern called back, ‘I wouldn’t complain.’
He sent Trahern a look of death. ‘Gather supplies to send to Ennisleigh. She needs food and mead for the next sennight. Load them on one of the horses and I’ll bring them along.’
* * *
At his brother’s teasing, Patrick’s temper had softened. When he returned to the donjon, he found Isabel back inside the Great Chamber. She had found a broom and was sweeping cobwebs from the corners of the room. Her damp hair spilled down her back, and it made her seem as if she’d just come from a bath. She appe
ared vulnerable, and utterly alluring.
He gritted his teeth, forcing his attention away from her face. ‘It is time to go. Are your léine and overdress dry?’
Isabel lowered the broom and shrugged. ‘Well enough.’ She turned and studied the interior of the Great Chamber. ‘You should take down that wall there, and open the chamber up. Then you could bring everyone inside for a gathering.’
‘And why would I want to do that?’
‘You could make this place into one of the most powerful castles in Erin. It has wonderful potential.’
‘It’s a rath. Not a castle.’ His ringfort was half the size of the Norman structures he’d seen, and he had no intention of copying their designs. Her idea of changing the interior caught him by surprise. He struggled to envision the changes she was suggesting. ‘We’ve no need to alter the structure.’
‘I disagree. You could not defend it during your last attack.’ She ran her hands across the wooden surface, nodding to herself. ‘You’ve seen my father’s castle. If you change the design of this, it would give you more space.’
‘And it would diminish the inner bailey. I won’t infringe upon my people’s homes, even if it is my land.’
‘I didn’t say that. Widen the fortress. There is room. And when you finish the palisade walls, whitewash them. From a distance, it will appear like stone and your enemies will stay back.’
Though her suggestions had merit, he didn’t like her insinuation that the fortress was vulnerable to more attacks. ‘We’ve no need to make such changes. We’ll repair what we have and train the men to become better soldiers.’
‘The bones of this dwelling are strong. Can’t you imagine it? Tapestries hanging on the walls. Musicians. Dancing. Feasting.’ She smiled at the thought.
‘I am not replacing my home with a Norman fortress. The rath has stood for centuries.’
‘Until last summer,’ she said quietly. ‘More Normans will come. The Earl of Pembroke won’t rest until he’s taken more territory.’
The MacEgan Brothers Series Volume 1 Page 36