The MacEgan Brothers Series Volume 1

by Michelle Willingham

  Isabel bit her lip. And wasn’t she well aware of that? ‘You know what I meant. A frustrating man.’ He expelled a low laugh, and she was caught up by the rumbling sound. ‘I didn’t think you knew how to laugh.’

  His palm lowered to the back of her neck. Gently, he massaged the knots at her nape, and she grew still. The sensation of his hands upon her skin, the feeling of surrender, made her long to embrace him. ‘I know many things, Isabel.’

  ‘What do you want from me?’ she asked softly. His body was so close, she fought her own feelings. He made her desire more, though she could not understand what it was she needed.

  ‘I know well enough what I want,’ he said huskily. ‘But it isn’t what either of us needs.’

  Abruptly, he released her. ‘I won’t see you for a few days. I’m going to meet with Donal Ó Phelan on the morrow.’

  ‘He tried to kill you,’ Isabel protested. Why would he want to risk his life meeting with the chieftain? A sudden coldness swept over her conscience. He wouldn’t be going to see the chieftain, were it not for what she’d done.

  ‘I owe him corp-dire, a body price for his injuries. I’ll pay the fines and restore peace.’

  She couldn’t believe what he’d said. The king of Laochre intended to lower himself to that thief? ‘He was trying to steal your cattle! He doesn’t deserve peace.’

  ‘I don’t need a war with the Ó Phelans as well as with the Normans.’

  ‘You would seek peace with their chieftain and not with my father’s men?’ Why were her people any different?

  ‘The Normans killed our men. A far greater crime than stealing cattle.’

  She had believed there was hope of moving beyond the conquest. But it seemed impossible. ‘You won’t ever let the past lie buried, will you?’

  ‘No. I can’t.’ He folded his arms across his chest. ‘I’ve received word that more invasions are happening in the east, at Ath-cliath.’

  Isabel didn’t look at him, afraid to hear what he was about to say.

  ‘Over three thousand men were driven from their homes. The Normans are capturing the chieftains.’

  ‘For what purpose?’ A numbing chill passed through her at the thought of someone taking Patrick captive.

  ‘Execution.’

  ‘And they’re coming here?’ Her voice trembled. She knew without having to ask from his austere manner.

  Patrick nodded. ‘I’ve received word that they are not far from Port-lairgi. If we are to survive, we need the help of the Ó Phelan tribe.’

  ‘And my father’s men.’ Trepidation iced through her body. She had never seen the face of war, not in her nineteen years of life. But she knew without any doubt that their survival depended on bringing the men together as one.

  ‘They’ll never fight for us.’ The grave tone in his voice sounded distant and hollow.

  She feared he was right, not if his men continued to treat the Normans as enemies. ‘When do you expect the invasion forces here?’

  ‘At any moment. And my men aren’t ready.’ He studied her, concern lining his face. ‘This is why I wanted you to remain on Ennisleigh, away from our battles. But now they may invade our lands.’

  He softened his tone, reaching out for her hand. ‘I could send you away, far from the bloodshed.’

  Though he’d given her the chance for a reprieve, to take it would mean turning her back on everyone. Their fate should be her own. Isabel laced her fingers with his. ‘I won’t deny that I’m afraid. But my place is here.’

  He watched her, his expression discerning. ‘Perhaps one day you’ll have a castle of your own, with many sons and daughters. And you’ll forget about all of this.’

  Though his words were meant to reassure her, instead they pierced her with the knowledge that he would never view her as his wife. Only an outsider.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  At sunset, Patrick returned to release her from the chamber. She was barely aware of how much time had passed, so troubled had been her thoughts. All her life, she was accustomed to looking after people. Her father’s castle, the servants, and the common folk all knew her. She felt responsible for their care and well being.

  But here, she was only a burden. And no matter how hard she tried to forge a place for herself, her husband fought her at every step. Part of her wondered whether she should give up.

  While Patrick went to collect more supplies for Ennisleigh, Isabel walked across the ringfort towards the Norman soldiers. She studied the faces of the Irish as she passed, and most turned away, pretending as though they didn’t see her. She squared her shoulders, hiding the disappointment.

  Sir Anselm stood near a group of Normans sparring. He was correcting one of his men, but when he saw her, he bowed. ‘Queen Isabel.’

  The title almost felt like a mockery, but she did not say so. ‘May I speak with you for a moment?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She stood at the gatehouse, leaning up against the wood. Ewan MacEgan sat above them upon a wooden platform. Listening to their conversation, no doubt.

  ‘Why didn’t you help the Irish during the raid?’

  He crossed his arms and flicked a glance towards the tribesmen. His gaze was set in stone, merciless. ‘The MacEgans follow their own path, my queen. They want no part of us, and we would rather not help them.

  ‘They seek to provoke us at every moment,’ he continued. ‘My men must constantly be on guard for a knife in their backs. It is better to remain separate.’

  So nothing had changed. And she didn’t know if there could ever be a difference in their thinking towards one another. ‘Do you want to return to England?’ she asked.

  ‘My men would leave within the hour, if the order were given.’

  ‘And what of yourself? Do you want to leave?’

  ‘It matters not whether I go or stay,’ he admitted. ‘My sword belongs to Lord Thornwyck. But there are those among my men who long for their wives and children.’

  ‘If I sent for them, would your men make their homes here?’

  Sir Anselm shook his head with a sad smile. ‘They would only fear for their wives’ safety among the Irish. The division is too deep between us.’

  ‘Is there any way to end the animosity?’ she asked.

  ‘No.’

  Though she suspected he was right, she hated the thought of abandoning hope. Within the ringfort, the Irish resentment was palpable. The men could not see past their previous battle.

  But it would be much harder for children to stay away from each other. Their natural curiosity might help bring the sides together, however grudgingly.

  Her earlier thought of bringing the wives and children gathered strength. If the men would not come together, the women might. The more she considered it, the better it sounded.

  She studied each of the people, and when she saw Ewan still eavesdropping, she relaxed. She would bribe the boy to send a message to her father. With any luck, before summer’s end, her father’s men would find a reason to shift their loyalties.

  * * *

  Spring blossomed into summer, and with each passing month, Isabel understood more and more of the people around her. Her grasp of the language had moved beyond pitiful, and she now could speak enough Irish to hold a minimal conversation with Annle. Though the people upon Ennisleigh had not yet befriended her, at least they seemed to tolerate her presence.

  Today the rain poured down, and she huddled near the fire inside the fortress. A fortnight ago, she’d convinced the islanders to help her patch up the roof of the donjon. It had allowed her to move out of the cottage, and she’d spent time fixing up the interior.

  Though the Great Chamber was not a large one, she had spread fresh straw rushes and Patrick had granted her some furniture from Laochre. Trahern had made her a new chair, and Isabel had coaxed Annle to bring in one of the weaving looms.

  The rhythm of weaving and the familiar wool set her mind at peace. In the past moon, she hadn’t seen Patrick but once or twice.
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  Ever since the night he’d almost shared her bed, he had avoided her. She tried not to think of it. They had agreed to go their separate paths after her father’s visit.

  And yet, somehow, she missed him. Even on the fleeting moments they had seen one another, he’d watched her as if drinking in the sight. As though she were forbidden to him.

  The door burst open, and Ewan rushed inside. ‘We need to use the Great Chamber.’

  Isabel stood and set her wool aside. ‘Why?’

  He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, half-dancing with excitement. ‘Trahern has come for the storytelling. But he can’t use the gathering space because of the rain, so they’re coming here.’

  ‘Who is coming?’

  ‘The islanders. Trahern is one of the best bards, and he has some new tales to share.’ Ewan’s crooked grin showed brotherly pride.

  Isabel winced. ‘But I don’t have any food or drink for them.’ It was the first time she’d had to host a gathering since coming to Erin, and no doubt they would judge her hospitality. Or lack of it.

  ‘You have to help me,’ she urged Ewan. ‘Go back to Laochre and bring food and a barrel of the finest wine we have. Get the Normans to help you. Send for Sir Anselm and his men.’

  Ewan shook his head. ‘I can get the food, but the tribesmen won’t want the Normans here.’

  ‘I am not concerned about what they want. This is a chance for both of them to have a night of entertainment without any fighting. I want them here, mingled with the Irish.’

  It might take a barrel of wine to make both sides drunk enough to endure each other’s company, but it would be worth it if the men would put aside their differences.

  ‘We might need two barrels of wine,’ she corrected. And she prayed to the saints that the men would not fight amongst themselves.

  Isabel pushed the loom to the side and began straightening up the space. ‘We haven’t enough room for them to sit. Oh, by the Blessed Mother, what’s to be done?’ She muttered to herself, thinking fast. Then she whirled upon Ewan. ‘Why are you still standing there? Run! They will be here before long.’

  The boy scurried outside, and Isabel stoked the fire, adding more peat to warm the space. Lighting torches, she set them inside the iron sconces upon the walls. Before long, the Chamber glowed with a warm light.

  She lifted her brat over her head, dashing outside into the rain. She needed Annle’s help to bring in more seating.

  Outside the rain poured, and Isabel pounded on Annle’s hut. Her husband Brendan let her in, and Isabel stumbled past the tall, thin Irishman. Quiet and softspoken, he was one of the few men to show her kindness.

  ‘What is it?’ Annle asked. ‘Is something wrong?’

  ‘Yes, something is wrong.’ Isabel glanced around the small hut, counting benches and stools. ‘I need your help getting enough benches and stools. Trahern is coming to the island for storytelling.’

  Annle shrugged. ‘I know it. We’ll have the gathering inside the fortress as we usually do.’ She frowned. ‘That is, if you do not mind.’

  ‘Of course not. But there is nowhere for anyone to sit,’ Isabel moaned. From the shadows, Sosanna moved forward. Her fair hair was braided across her forehead, the rest spilling down her shoulders. She wore a simple green léine with a cream overdress. Her stomach swelled out in late pregnancy, and she supported her back with a hand.

  ‘Will you help me?’ Isabel pleaded, her gaze upon both women. Sosanna offered a tentative smile, glancing at Annle.

  ‘This is important to you, isn’t it?’ the healer asked.

  She nodded. ‘I need to find enough benches. And then I haven’t enough food or drink for the people. There aren’t any decorations either.’

  Isabel wanted to bury her head. This was her first, and perhaps only, opportunity to be a hostess to the MacEgan tribe. Though the people did not seem to despise her any more, neither did they welcome her.

  ‘We’ll make do,’ Annle said. She remained calm and sincere. ‘You should go and ask the others to bring their benches and stools. And food.’

  Isabel hesitated. ‘I thought I should be the one to feed them.’

  ‘There is not time for you to cook enough, and it is not expected. Each will bring a dish to share, you’ll see. Go and speak to them.’

  Isabel would rather have faced a den of lions, but she knew Annle was right. She had to ask for their help. Hard memories intervened, of when she’d first asked the islanders for a torch and they’d kept silent. Would they turn her away now?

  She swallowed hard. ‘All right.’

  She didn’t mention anything about the Norman soldiers. It would only make them angry. Her nerves stretched even more, worrying that she hadn’t made a good choice in asking Ewan to send the men.

  Annle embraced her, pressing her cheek to Isabel’s. ‘It will be fine.’

  * * *

  Isabel paced the length of the dwelling, nervously awaiting her guests. The past hour had frayed her nerves down to a single thread. Though each of the islanders listened to her request, their expressions showed no welcome. It was as though she were still a stranger. But she’d mustered her courage and managed to visit each of the huts.

  Now she stood at the entrance and saw Ewan and the islanders struggling with the barrels of wine. There was no sign of the Norman soldiers, nor her husband. Her spirits fell, for she’d hoped they would join in the celebration.

  She wanted Patrick to come, to see him once again. Though he had stayed apart from her, each sennight he’d sent more supplies, and always a gift. Once, he’d sent a mirror of polished silver. Another time, he’d sent silk fabric in the same colour as her ruined wedding kirtle.

  They were almost gifts a man might send to court a woman. But the gift that moved her the most was when he’d sent the grey-and-white cat. She’d named the feline Duchess, and on many days the cat would curl up on her lap, purring softly.

  ‘Drink some wine,’ Annle urged, after the men had set up the barrels. ‘There is no need to be anxious.’

  Isabel accepted the cup and took a deep sip of wine. The spicy aroma of fermented grapes mingled with the flavour of the barrel, and she forced herself to calm down.

  Annle’s husband and the others had joined together to bring several low tables into the hall. The scent of roasting venison mingled amid the peat smoke, and as each guest arrived, more platters of food were set upon the tables. Boiled turnips, carrots, platters of salmon, loaves of bread, and even a dish of boiled goose eggs were part of the feast.

  Isabel breathed a little easier when she realised there would be more than enough food. As the folk drank wine and enjoyed the meal, she sat down near the entrance where the night air blew inside. The wetness of rain mingled with the warm interior, and Isabel moved away from the downpour.

  Conversations rose in a din of merrymaking, and though Isabel could now understand most of their talk, she leaned back against the wall. She didn’t feel comfortable joining them, not even after spending almost a season upon the island. Shyness prevented her from speaking to them.

  ‘Why are you hiding in the shadows?’ a voice asked. Isabel turned and saw Patrick. Her heart gave a leap, and she mentally berated herself for feeling like a lovesick maid. But it had been so long since she’d seen him last.

  ‘I’m not hiding.’ She did not move from her place, not knowing what he expected from her.

  His black hair was pulled back, emphasising his handsome face. He wore a tunic of deep red with dark trews, and his sapphire cloak was fastened with an emerald brooch. Upon his head, he wore a circlet of gold that was slightly tilted. Gold gleamed about his muscled arms.

  ‘You look like a king this night,’ she offered.

  ‘It’s expected of me.’

  Isabel set her wine goblet aside and studied him a moment. She reached out and straightened the circlet on his temple. ‘This looks better.’

  ‘I know of no one else who would dare to do such a thing.’

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nbsp; ‘A king should not wear a crooked crown.’

  ‘It is called a minn óir.’ He took her hands from his temples and held them at his side. The touch of his rough palms took her by surprise.

  She closed her eyes, afraid to look at him. Something cold and heavy fastened around her throat, and she opened her eyes. ‘What is this?’

  ‘A gift.’

  She reached out and touched a silver torque set with amethyst. ‘This is too fine. Why would you give me this?’

  His look grew distant. ‘I hadn’t intended to give it to you at all. But it is your right, as my bride.’

  She shook her head. ‘I’ve no need for jewels.’

  He shrugged. ‘Your dowry arrived this morn at Laochre. It will greatly help our people. This is my token of thanks.’

  ‘You could sell it and gain more supplies.’

  ‘It belonged to my mother,’ was all he said, and she understood why he would not part with it.

  The weight of the silver was uncomfortable, for she did not feel worthy to wear it. ‘I am not their queen, Patrick.’

  ‘No,’ he admitted, ‘But this is my repayment to you. On the morrow, I will send the remainder of your dowry and household possessions for you to use here.’

  She would rather have brought them to Laochre, her husband’s home. It seemed strange using the goods in a home that wasn’t truly her own. After spending all spring here in Erin, she still felt like an outsider.

  Patrick gestured towards the islanders. ‘Annle tells me this celebration was your idea.’

  ‘Ewan said Trahern was coming to tell stories.’ She touched the torque, fingering the beautiful amethysts. ‘I did not want the people to feel unwelcome.’

  ‘You’ve done a great deal with the rath. It looks almost as it did long ago.’

  Isabel tried to smile, but she couldn’t seem to muster it. When he reached out to touch her hair, she flinched. ‘What are you doing?’

  ‘This belongs to you also, as part of your bride price.’ He removed her veil and placed a silver circlet around her head, winding her hair around it to hold it in place. ‘Take my hand, and we’ll go.’