She caught a glimpse of her husband watching her, and his gaze seared her with the memory of this morning. Though she understood the reason for bringing all of the people to Laochre, she sensed the disorder it would bring. The lack of space, coupled with the resentment of the Irish, would only increase the tension between the two peoples.
But if they remained separate, the invaders would conquer them all. The women and children remained blissfully ignorant of the circumstances, and Isabel intended to do whatever she could to soothe the animosity between both sides.
The boat rocked gently upon the journey to the mainland. Annle and Sosanna joined Isabel, along with the Norman women and children. The Normans fawned over Sosanna’s baby, exclaiming at the sight of the delicate hands and ears. Sosanna glowed with happiness.
At the bow of the boat, Sir Anselm’s face softened at the sight of the newborn boy. He offered Sosanna a gruff smile, and her face coloured in response.
Isabel wondered if the pair might not become more than friends. It seemed possible. She tucked her knees in, watching the green coastline. Patrick rowed along with the other men, his muscles flexing. He continued watching her, and her skin warmed under his gaze. Yet the only thread holding her marriage together was the threat of invasion. Though Patrick desired her, his feelings did not run any deeper.
She wanted so badly to believe that he might claim her as his true wife and make her queen of Laochre. More than ever, she wanted to be at his side. But she could not forget Donal Ó Phelan’s offer—for Patrick to divorce her and wed his daughter instead.
When they reached the shoreline, the Norman women walked with eagerness, as if anticipating a new home. Children raced ahead, a mixture of both Norman and Irish, laughing when they tripped and collapsed into a grassy heap. Sir Anselm walked beside Sosanna, offering her his arm and letting her take a slower pace.
Patrick brought forth a horse from the small shelter near the coast, a creamy mare. Isabel recognised his own horse Bel, a sleek black stallion. Patrick lifted her atop her saddle, then mounted his own horse.
They rode side by side, not speaking, towards the massive ringfort. She was intensely aware of him, from the fine clothing he wore, to the crown upon his brow. ‘How long will we stay at Laochre?’ she asked quietly.
‘Until the invasion is over. It’s safer if we stay together.’
‘What if our people fight one another?’ she asked. She didn’t trust Ruarc not to start another disagreement.
He looked over at her, his own doubts mirroring hers. ‘I’ll need your help. The women may be of use in keeping the peace.’
It was the first time he’d openly asked for her assistance. Isabel tried not to behave as startled as she felt. ‘I will do what I can.’
He said nothing, but stared back at the surrounding landscape. Isabel was surprised to see the expansion efforts at Laochre. In the past few weeks, Patrick had begun plastering the exterior a pure white, to give it the appearance of stone. Just as she’d suggested.
‘It looks almost like you’re building a castle,’ she said, marvelling at the changes. Although it was far from complete, she could see his efforts to transform the fortress into a Norman motte and bailey. Long rectangular wattle-and-daub houses formed barracks for the Norman soldiers.
‘You approve of the changes, then.’
‘Yes.’ She couldn’t hide the awe in her voice. Wooden scaffolding stood high above the donjon, while men worked to build battlements.
‘Sir Anselm sent one of his men, Roger, to help with the designs. He worked on the plans for Thornwyck’s castle, as I understand.’
‘It isn’t quite the same as my father’s.’ She noted differences in the structure. ‘How long will it take you to finish it?’
‘Years, most likely. That is, if no one attacks us again.’
When at last they reached the inner bailey, she handed the horse to a stable lad and followed Patrick inside his dwelling. She lowered the brat from her hair, drawing the shawl across her shoulders. The interior of the donjon, though still needing decoration, had been cleaned and fresh rushes were scattered. The trestle tables had been pushed to the side, providing a large gathering space. Baskets filled with bilberries stood waiting.
‘We will speak with the people here,’ he said. ‘I want them to know what lies ahead.’
Isabel drew the ends of her shawl closer. ‘What do you mean, “we”?’ He didn’t expect her to address the people, did he? Her nerves tensed at the thought.
‘You will address the Normans while I speak to the Irish.’ He reached into the basket and lifted out a ripe bilberry. As if to bribe her, he brought it to her lips. She tasted the blue berry, its sweetness spreading over her tongue.
Her heart quickened with fear. ‘They would never listen to me, Patrick.’
‘Can you not pretend to be a queen? They will heed your command.’ She doubted it, but let him lead her up to the dais.
Through the door opening, she could see the people approaching. Her hands felt like they’d been frozen in ice, her pulse racing. She hated speaking in front of large groups. Saints, even her knees were shaking.
As the Normans and islanders filled the Great Chamber, they were forced to stand shoulder to shoulder. Once all had arrived, almost a hundred men, women, and children filled the space. Isabel noticed that hardly any of the people of Laochre had come; only the folk from Ennisleigh. Most of the Irish stood on Patrick’s side while the Normans stood on her own side.
Isabel wanted nothing more than to flee, to hide beneath a table. But her feet remained rooted, even as she fought to keep her composure.
‘I will speak in Irish,’ he said in a low voice. ‘Translate for me into your own language.’
‘But my Irish is not good enough yet,’ she protested. ‘I do not know all of your words.’
‘You know enough,’ he said, squeezing her hand. Addressing them he began, ‘People of Laochre, we are about to face another invasion.’
And so, as he spoke, Isabel translated for her own folk. They listened without interrupting, nodding their heads when she spoke of the difficulties they would encounter. As time drew on, she relaxed, realising the enormous trust Patrick had placed in her.
He had granted her the chance to be queen, even if only for a short time. It humbled her, and she suddenly understood the immense responsibility of caring for her tribe and her folk. He’d given her that gift. She straightened, finding the strength inside to be the queen he needed her to be.
‘If we are to survive what is ahead,’ Patrick continued, ‘we must not divide our forces.’
A few of the people looked uncomfortable, but did not voice their opinions. When Patrick had finished speaking, somehow Isabel found the courage to speak on her own.
‘We will face many enemies in the coming weeks,’ she said, ‘and the tribes do not want us to join together. Look around you,’ she said, gesturing towards the immense crowd. ‘They wish to keep us apart because they know that no tribe in all of Erin can defeat us if we stand beside one another. If we falter from this path, they will destroy us.’
Patrick translated her words into Irish for the islanders. But there were no sounds of approval, only a sullen silence. Isabel’s face flushed. Had she overstepped her bounds?
Her husband dismissed the people, ordering the soldiers to bring their wives and children to the barracks.
‘Where were your people?’ Isabel asked Patrick in a low voice. ‘The only Irish folk I saw were the islanders.’
‘Likely hiding in their homes,’ Patrick replied. ‘They will answer for it later.’ He followed the others, and Isabel hung back in the Great Chamber.
She stepped down from the dais, studying the interior. The empty space on the walls made her wish for her loom to weave tapestries and other decorations. For a moment she stood in the space alone, wishing she could stay. Although Ennisleigh had become a home, Laochre was a castle of dreams.
She stared at the two chairs on the far end
of the room, one for Patrick, and the other for his queen. Looking at the carved wooden chair made her wonder if another woman would ever sit there.
Would he reconsider Donal Ó Phelan’s offer? He’d said he would not put her aside, not until the threat of the Norman invasion was past. She blinked, wishing for all the world that she could be a part of this kingdom.
As she neared the door frame, she saw Sosanna waiting with her child in her arms. A few of the Norman women milled around near the entrance, speaking quietly. One of them moved forward and curtsied. ‘Queen Isabel, what may we do to help? The others won’t speak to us.’
Isabel glanced outside at the stone huts, understanding that the Irish were silently rebelling against the visitors. ‘I need to prepare the Great Chamber for our guests and also arrange the food for the afternoon meal.’
She turned to Sosanna. ‘Will you help the women?’
Sosanna looked down, her face showing her dismay. Isabel reached out and took the young woman’s hands in hers. ‘I need your assistance.’
The woman looked doubtful, but then Sir Anselm entered the fortress. In halting Irish he asked about the young mother’s health. ‘Conas tá tú?’
Sosanna nodded and managed a faint smile. She lifted the infant to her shoulder, patting him lightly.
‘You…sit.’ Anselm’s Irish was barely understandable, but he gestured for her to rest.
‘Anselm, will you help Sosanna find a place where she may sit and help the Norman women work among the others?’ Isabel asked.
The knight agreed. He drew close to Sosanna and waited a moment before lifting her into his arms. The young mother did not protest, but looped an arm around his neck, to Isabel’s surprise.
One of the Norman women drew closer to Isabel. ‘I’ve never seen him in such good temper,’ she remarked. ‘Sir Anselm was one of Lord Thornwyck’s best fighters, but I’ve never seen him smile before.’
‘Much has changed,’ Isabel replied. ‘And I hope you will find a new home here.’
More than that, she hoped the Irish would eventually welcome them. The stony reception did not bode well for the future.
* * *
Throughout the morning, the Norman women worked while their children gathered peat for the fires and played games together. Despite their efforts, the tribesmen and women of Laochre kept an awkward silence, behaving as if none of the Normans were there.
Isabel never stopped moving throughout the morning, instructing the Normans, and trying to engage the folk of Laochre and the islanders in the preparations. Whenever she approached one of the people, they stiffened and turned their gaze away as if they didn’t see her.
* * *
By the noon meal, Isabel was near tears. She gave final instructions to the women and walked up a winding stone staircase to Patrick’s chamber, hoping for a moment alone. If she could just have a good cry, she could gather herself together again.
But when she pushed the door open, she saw Patrick standing inside. His earlier finery lay upon the bed while he stood wearing only his trews. It appeared that he was about to change into sparring attire, to train with his men.
‘I’m sorry,’ she murmured, and turned to leave.
‘Don’t go.’ He approached her, closing the door so she was forced to stay inside. With his bare skin so near, she tried to keep her eyes away from him. But saints, he was a handsome man. She wanted to wrap her arms around his waist, bury her face in his neck, and forget all about the problems with the Irish.
‘What is it?’ he asked.
‘It’s been a difficult morning,’ she admitted. ‘Your tribe won’t speak to me or any of the others. They refuse to leave their huts.’
He shrugged. ‘It doesn’t surprise me. They aren’t likely to welcome your people here.’
‘I don’t know what else to do.’ She sat down upon the bed. ‘I thought we could bring them together as one. But they won’t even try.’
He sat beside her, his expression serious. ‘I’m not sure it could ever be done, Isabel. They will always be enemies.’
And with those words, he severed any hope she might have held. Her idea of unifying them was naught but a foolish dream. If Patrick did not believe it could happen among his own people, then it would never happen. Though he sat only a small distance away from her, she sensed the gap widening between them. Not once had he touched her or made any move towards her.
‘I should go,’ he said, pulling the training tunic over his head.
She veiled her emotions, steadying herself. ‘Will you join us for the meal?’
He shook his head. ‘Enjoy yourselves. I must speak with my men about our defences for the invasion.’
When he’d left, Isabel touched the ceremonial tunic he’d worn, feeling the heat of his body. And though she longed to release the tears, she held herself back.
Though he had offered her a place at Laochre for the first time, even granting her the status as a queen, it felt impossibly lonely.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Two nights passed and Patrick stayed away from his wife. Though he shared their chamber, he had slept upon a pallet on the floor. He told himself it was because he needed to dedicate himself to the ringfort’s defences. Sleeping with Isabel would only tear his mind apart, leaving him a slave to his body’s needs.
But each night, he would watch her sleep for a time, memorising her face. He remembered what it was like to join with her and fall asleep with her body entwined with his.
Though he liked having her with him, he saw the effect upon his people. Isabel worked tirelessly from dawn until dusk, trying to care for everyone, but her efforts only seemed to drive a larger wedge between his tribe and the Normans. The Normans championed her, standing by their lady, while his people stayed far away.
But this morning, a small group of Ó Phelans arrived, joined by their chieftain Donal. Though he didn’t like granting them entrance to Laochre, they were joined by two brehon judges. He winced, realising that they had yet to settle the fine for the chieftain’s injury.
At his command, the men were permitted entrance. Strangely, their arrival seemed to provoke a signal. His cousin Ruarc came forward, along with the other members of his tribe. One by one, they joined together inside the inner bailey. A sense of warning pricked inside him, for the folk had not spoken to him in the past three days.
The chieftain of the Ó Phelan tribe came forward. ‘King Patrick of Laochre. I offered you marriage to my daughter in an effort to unite our tribes. You refused the agreement.’
Patrick stepped forth and crossed his arms. ‘Why are you here, Donal? If it is the matter of corp-dire, let us settle the fine for your injury now. We are not here to discuss a marriage.’ He ventured a glance at the Normans, grateful that they could not understand the Irish tongue, nor what was happening.
Donal glanced at the tribesmen. ‘I made an offer, one that would let you rid yourselves of the Normans once and for all. Do you not think your people would desire it? Instead, you brought more of the enemy among them.’
‘You still haven’t answered my question.’ Patrick crossed his arms, infuriated at the chieftain’s arrogance. If the man didn’t come to the point soon enough, he’d dismiss them.
The tribesmen stepped aside, and it was then that he saw what they had brought forth—the large stone chair. The chair meant for crowning a new king.
And he suddenly understood why Donal had come. With a grim expression, he said, ‘I refuse to bring war among my people. And what you ask me to do is for your benefit, not the benefit of Laochre. My answer is still no.’
‘I thought you might say that.’ Ruarc spoke, moving towards the brehons. ‘And since you have broken your oath to protect our tribe, I am calling for your displacement.’
Rage and betrayal streamed through him. Ruarc’s ambitions had brought this, not any desire to keep the tribe safe. If he persisted in this action, their people would die at the hands of the Normans.
Ruarc addressed their t
ribesmen. ‘I have agreed to wed Meara Ó Phelan and join their tribe with ours. If you will have me as your new king.’
Patrick faced his cousin, the dark anger tightening inside him. He held his temper by the thinnest control. ‘You don’t know what you are doing, cousin.’
‘I will fight you for the kingship,’ Ruarc said, raising his fists. ‘If needed, I’ll prove myself before the people.’
‘There is no need for fighting,’ Donal said. ‘The brehons will allow the people to elect the king they prefer. Unless another man wishes to compete for the right?’
No one stepped forward. Patrick searched the crowd for a sign of his brothers, but none were present. He hadn’t seen Trahern or Bevan since last evening, and his suspicions tightened.
Even his youngest brother Ewan was missing. Tension knotted up inside him, and he saw Isabel at the far end of the fortress. Her hands were pressed to her pale cheeks, and she shook her head at him as if trying to prevent what was about to happen.
He knew he could provoke a fight with Ruarc. But the frigid hatred upon the faces of his tribesmen stilled his sword. Even if he defeated his cousin, he could see the truth of what was happening.
As each man and woman approached the judges, giving their answer, he remained standing. And he knew, before the brehons spoke, what the answer would be.
* * *
‘It is done.’ One of the brehons stood and addressed the gathering. ‘You have chosen to depose King Patrick and set Ruarc MacEgan in his stead.’
Patrick said nothing. It was like seeing his surroundings through a blurred haze. When the decision was announced, there were no cries of celebration. Patrick took a small measure of comfort in that. But his instincts warned him that the Ó Phelan chieftain was using Ruarc. He didn’t for a moment believe that the two tribes would unite.
And Críost, the bloodshed. Soon enough, the invading forces would arrive. He feared what would happen when Edwin de Godred learned of this. It would mean war and death to his people.
The MacEgan Brothers Series Volume 1 Page 48