But he was stopped by Ruarc. His cousin waited until all eyes were upon them. Then he knelt before Patrick, bowing his head. ‘Forgive me, my king.’
Though Patrick wanted to continue searching, he understood what it had taken Ruarc to humble himself in this way. He touched his cousin’s shoulder and raised him up to stand before him. ‘I accept your apology.’
Relief flooded his cousin’s face. His shoulders hung low, and he added, ‘I would understand if you want me to leave Laochre.’
‘No. You are part of this tribe.’ The words were an absolution.
‘No one here doubts who is the true king. Or the queen.’
In silence, every last man kneeled before him, including the Normans. To see the unity among the men humbled him.
‘Rise,’ Patrick commanded. ‘I accept your allegiance.’
He moved towards the edge of the ringfort to Sir Anselm and Sosanna. ‘Have you seen Isabel? She is missing.’
The Norman soldier shook his head. ‘I have not.’
‘I have.’ Sosanna’s voice was rough from lack of use. She swiped at her tears, and Patrick wondered what had driven her to speak at last. ‘They took her. Connor followed them.’
His skin grew cold, his thoughts half-numb. The Ó Phelan chieftain would not show Isabel mercy, not after she’d shot him with her bow. ‘We need to gather men together to bring her back.’
The commander nodded. ‘I’ll speak with the men.’
Patrick stopped a moment to address his cousin. ‘I am glad you are speaking again.’
Sosanna stared back to the fallen body of the Ó Phelan man killed by Sir Anselm. ‘He is dead, thanks be.’
‘No man will harm you,’ Anselm promised. Sosanna returned to his embrace, and Patrick understood suddenly that it was not a Norman who had dishonoured his cousin, but one of the enemy tribesmen.
Even Ruarc did not protest the match. He inclined his head, accepting his sister’s choice. To Anselm, he said, ‘Keep her safe. Or I’ll cut you apart.’
Anselm only smiled.
Patrick strode towards the stables, intending to go after Isabel when a bell resounded from the round tower. With low deep tones, the warning signal was only used in times of great need.
Patrick rushed to the gatehouse and climbed up to survey the landscape. He grimaced at the sight before him. Hundreds of archers poured onto the sands, followed by even more soldiers. It looked like a thousand Norman invaders.
He crossed himself, offering a silent prayer for his people and for their safety. Strongbow, the Earl of Pembroke, had arrived on their shores. And Heaven only knew how much blood would be shed.
Patrick stared at the landscape, feeling as though imaginary chains held him in place. His wife Isabel was in the hands of his enemy while it was only a matter of time before his fortress was destroyed.
He had no right to go after Isabel. His place was here, among his people, to live or die. Even so, his fists clenched with frustration. It was as if the enemy had taken his spirit and torn it in half.
The heaviness of guilt bled through his mind, as he imagined what Donal Ó Phelan would do to Isabel. And he knew Isabel would not remain mild and obedient. She would fight back, and the chieftain would kill her.
Dimly, he saw his brothers calling out orders to stand at the ready for the impending attack. Patrick gripped the wooden limbs supporting the gatehouse. Even as he took his own position, he could not help but stare at the horizon and think of her.
He’d already lost Liam, but the loss of his brother could not compare to this. Visions tangled in his mind, of Isabel swimming across the channel, soaked to the skin. Of her wielding her bow, joining him in a fight against the enemy.
And the way she looked at him when he made love to her.
The thought of letting her go, quite simply, ripped him asunder. He was grimly aware that it might be too late, even now.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
When she saw her father’s colours, Isabel wanted to cry out, but Donal Ó Phelan kept his hand tightly over her mouth.
‘Scream and I’ll break your jaw,’ he warned.
Isabel had no doubt he would. She struggled to calm herself while hordes of invaders moved towards Laochre. Her heart pounded in her chest. If her father learned of her disappearance, he would kill Patrick and all the Irish.
After the army had passed them by, Donal gripped her waist and forced her on horseback. He held her captive while riding away from Laochre, further inland. Despite the warm summer air, Isabel felt cold inside.
It almost didn’t matter where Donal was taking her. Patrick would not come after her. Nor would anyone else. With the Norman invasion upon their threshold, they could not abandon the fight for her sake.
She struggled to think of a way to escape, but for now her mind dwelled upon her husband. She had barely caught sight of him during the battle. Like an ancient god, he’d charged at the Ó Phelans, slashing his sword out of vengeance.
Once, he’d stared at her. The look in his eyes was of an enraged man. He had not welcomed her interference, though it had helped their tribe.
Their tribe. She closed her eyes in frustration. The people did not consider her one of them, never would. And as for Patrick, even if he did care for her, he wouldn’t seek her out.
The solitude seemed to close in around her, suffocating in its thickness. Her lungs tightened, and she blinked hard to keep herself from succumbing to self-pity.
She lifted her chin and regarded Donal. ‘What do you want from me? I’m of no use to you.’
‘Your life can be ransomed.’
‘Not to Patrick.’
‘To the Normans. I’m certain some of their men would be interested in a lady.’
‘My father is among those men. And he won’t allow you to hold me prisoner. You’ll bring the wrath of his army upon you.’
Donal smiled. ‘No. I’ve brought the wrath of his army upon your husband. King Patrick failed to protect you, didn’t he?’
Isabel’s hands itched for a bow. As it was, she studied the landscape, trying to gain her bearings. The thunderous noise of the armies behind them had ceased after an hour of riding. She closed her eyes at the thought of what must be happening at the ringfort. Were her father’s men attacking, even now? Would they put Sosanna and her infant son to the sword? Or Annle?
Her throat closed up, and she tightened her fists. Donal had slowed the horse’s pace, leading her to a rath almost the size of Ennisleigh.
The Ó Phelan tribe possessed wealth of their own, and they were far enough inland to have avoided the path of Strongbow’s men. Fields appeared to sway in the wind, their stalks of corn rustling. A circle of ten stone cottages with thatched roofs stood within a wooden palisade. As they drew closer, Isabel heard the sounds of people speaking. Dozens of people crowded inside the tiny ringfort. Their voices swarmed together in her mind, and she could hardly think of how to escape the tribe. There were so many of them.
When they reached the entrance, Donal lifted her down. Isabel tried to run, but he would not relinquish his grip on her arm. Jerking her backwards, he ordered his men to bind her.
She fought them, tearing at their skin with her nails, kicking at their shins. She wasn’t afraid of them. Instead, she focused the rage burning inside her upon the enemy.
Though the Ó Phelans overpowered her, lashing her wrists and ankles, she didn’t feel the physical pain. Her cheek pressed against the dirt, while a man’s boot stepped against the back of her neck.
She wished she had never met Patrick MacEgan. Closing her eyes, she shut out the vision of his face. The steel eyes that seemed to strip away her defences. His hands that tempted her to surrender.
Memories filled her, of Patrick guarding her on their journey to the coastline. The way he’d kissed her, as though he couldn’t get enough of her. And the way he’d held her at night, as though shielding her body with his own. In those stolen moments, she’d felt loved, though she knew nothing would ever come
of it.
Isabel fisted her hands, trying to work free of the leather bindings. They wouldn’t budge. Donal Ó Phelan had gone with his men to speak quietly, presumably to decide her fate. The boot moved from her neck, and she took a deep breath, still feigning helplessness. She stared at the nearest hut, and men emerged carrying swords and battle axes. From the open doorway she could see more weapons lining the interior, but it was too far away to reach.
Her ankles were not as tightly bound as her hands. Isabel gritted her teeth and moved her feet again, trying to loosen the ropes. The air grew cooler, the afternoon sky swelling with rain clouds. The heavy scent of earth assailed her, and she turned her gaze towards the gatehouse. She didn’t know whether to linger until nightfall or try to escape sooner.
No one will come for you, an inner voice taunted.
* * *
The sea of Normans swarmed over his lands, their chain mail armour glowing like a pool of silver. Patrick’s mind moved beyond the threat of invasion, to the man who had stolen his wife.
If Donal Ó Phelan had harmed Isabel, he would flay the man’s skin from his body. Patrick surveyed the troops, noting the officers and the noblemen remaining further back from the others. Thornwyck would be among them.
Would they attack once more? Or would the Normans leave them in peace? He felt as though the fate of his tribe rested in another man’s hands. He resented the helplessness, needing to take command of the situation.
‘We need to know Strongbow’s intentions,’ Patrick said quietly to Trahern. The Normans gathered in the distance, nearing the ringfort.
His brother cast him a sidelong glance. ‘You know why they are here. To finish what they began a year ago.’
‘Possibly.’ He suspected as much. And yet, Thornwyck had sworn that the Normans would not touch Laochre, not as long as he remained wedded to Isabel. He stared out at the landscape, worried about her. The invisible ties of tribal loyalty strangled him, for he wanted nothing more than to go after his wife.
He had sworn to protect her from harm. And the longer he stayed here, the more his chances of rescuing her diminished. If Thornwyck discovered his daughter’s disappearance, likely he would invoke his wrath upon the MacEgan tribe.
Scores of men guarded the fortress of Laochre, Normans and Irish alike. An eerie silence pervaded the afternoon, like the calm before a tempest.
A year ago, he had fought like a demon against these Normans, his blade slashing through the enemy’s flesh. And then he’d seen Liam, fighting with every ounce of strength against four men. Though he’d gone to aid his brother, he’d come too late.
Was it already too late for Isabel? His worry increased tenfold. He paced along the perimeter, each stride punctuating his need to leave, to find her.
If he went after her, it would likely mean death. Ó Phelan wanted Laochre at any price. Patrick stopped a moment, watching his people. Side by side, they faced the enemy. Even the Norman wives and children exchanged worried looks with his own tribeswomen.
They had come together as one group, against a common enemy. Isabel had been right. And now, seeing it with his own eyes, he could scarcely believe it. Even if Strongbow’s forces attempted an attack, his people were ready. They would endure, even if something happened to him.
He caught a stable boy and gave the order for his horse. Then he neared Trahern and Ruarc who awaited the army. His cousin gripped a spear, his face set with determination.
Without waiting for him to speak, Ruarc glanced outside the gates. ‘Go after her,’ he said. ‘We will defend Laochre to the death.’
Though Trahern looked doubtful, Ruarc continued. ‘It was my fault she was taken. I would bring her back, but I suspect you would rather do so.’ Regret lined his voice. ‘I will help your brothers keep the enemy out.’
‘I don’t want Thornwyck to know she’s been taken,’ Patrick warned. ‘He’ll blame us for it.’ A part of him feared that Isabel had been gone too long. Though he knew his wife had unshakeable courage, already he had failed to protect her.
‘Then you must go now,’ Trahern said solemnly, ‘before they breach our defences. You’re her only chance.’
Patrick clasped his brother in an embrace, then gripped Ruarc’s hand. He said farewell to Ewan and to Connor before mounting his horse.
‘If I don’t return within a sennight, name a successor.’ He cast one more look upon his people, fully aware it might be the last time he saw them. With a heavy heart, he rode through the gates and around the back of the fortress. The open fields stretched before him as he turned north.
When he was clear of the fortress, he let Bel free, thundering across the plains. He questioned the wisdom of leaving his tribe behind, to fend for themselves against the Normans. Another part of him recognised that the battle was out of his hands. He had prepared the men as best he could—it was now up to them to fight together and win.
As time blurred and his thoughts drifted, he recalled the way Isabel felt in his arms. The way she would lie against him after lovemaking, her fingers tracing patterns upon his shoulders. A hard lump gathered in his throat, and he increased the horse’s gait.
He’d lost his temper when Isabel had come charging through the ringfort, leading the Normans. He had been too stubborn to seek help from them, but she’d been right. His true enemy was the Ó Phelan tribe, the men who had stolen Isabel from him. And if he didn’t bring her back, Edwin de Godred would invoke his vengeance upon the MacEgan tribe.
* * *
When the afternoon light began to fade, Patrick reached the outskirts of the Ó Phelan lands. He halted Bel, tethering the stallion to a nearby tree. A low hissing sound caught his attention and he saw his brother Connor waiting. He was relieved to see him unharmed.
‘Is she inside?’
Connor nodded. ‘Too many of them are guarding her. I think you should bargain for her life, since Ó Phelan expects you. Bevan and I will help you get out.’
‘Bevan?’
Connor pointed in the distance to where a lone rider approached. ‘He followed you here.’
Patrick cursed. ‘Is no one guarding Laochre, then?’ He was relying upon his brothers to keep their tribe safe. Leaving the fortress in the hands of the Normans and Trahern seemed the greatest of risks.
Connor shrugged. ‘I was busy guarding your queen. I had to stay a fair distance back so they would not see me.’
It was too late to send both of them away. Inwardly he cursed his brothers for endangering themselves.
‘We’ll use our arrows first,’ Patrick said. ‘I’ll go in and you guard my back. Shoot anyone who moves towards myself or Isabel.’ He handed the quiver of arrows and bow to Connor.
Moments later, Bevan arrived and Patrick explained his plan. He didn’t know what Ó Phelan wanted by holding Isabel hostage. There seemed little point in it, save revenge. But at least he had hostages of his own.
‘Does he think to exchange Isabel for Laochre?’ Bevan asked, dismounting.
‘There is no chance of that. Not with the Normans.’ With the armies sweeping across the coast, they could only pray that Thornwyck’s men would keep Strongbow away from Laochre.
Patrick mounted his horse, and paused a moment as if to memorise his brothers’ faces.
‘Is she worth it?’ Bevan asked softly. The scar upon his cheek tensed. Patrick recalled the death of Bevan’s wife last summer. His brother had not cast eyes upon another woman since, vowing to remain faithful to her.
Was Isabel worth dying for? A strange ache took hold inside, tensing at the thought of anything happening to her. Was it guilt? Or something more?
He stared back at his brother. ‘She is worth it.’ When the words fell from his mouth, he sensed the truth of them.
He rode towards the ringfort without looking back. The early evening sun blazed hot upon his face, and he shaded his eyes to see who guarded the rath.
‘Donal Ó Phelan!’ he called out. ‘I’ve come for my wife.’
He waited
outside for several minutes, not knowing what to expect. When no one came forward, he drew nearer.
An arrow struck the ground at his feet, and seconds later, the archer dropped to the ground, an arrow protruding from his heart. Patrick’s hands tightened upon his sword hilt. Thank the gods his brothers were guarding his back.
‘Unless you want another tribesman to die, I’d suggest you call off your men and face me yourself,’ Patrick commanded.
The chieftain revealed himself then, standing several paces inside the gate. Out of an archer’s range, but close enough to be seen.
‘My men stay at their positions,’ Donal answered. ‘It is your small escort against my entire tribe.’
‘Then you should be prepared to lose several of your men. Are they ready to die, I wonder?’
Donal laughed, his hand resting upon a spear shaft. ‘Are you ready to die, Patrick MacEgan?’
‘What do you want?’ Patrick asked. ‘Isabel is of no use to you.’
Donal shrugged. ‘Perhaps when you are dead, I’ll wed her myself. If your alliance was good enough for the Baron of Thornwyck, so should mine be.’
Patrick did not reveal the rage boiling inside him. ‘I want to see her. Is she alive and unharmed?’
‘She is alive. As for unharmed…’ He shrugged, a smirk crossing his face.
It took control Patrick didn’t know he possessed to hold his position. The idea of men beating Isabel, or worse, forcing themselves upon her, made him grip the hilt so hard, his knuckles whitened.
‘I challenge you for the right to her.’
Donal’s smile never faded. ‘I have no need to meet you in a challenge. As soon as you cross the gates, my men will kill you.’
Patrick nudged Bel forward in answer. ‘Then it will be war between our people. We’ll kill every last one of you, and the blood of your tribe will stain your hands.’
Donal pointed behind Patrick. ‘I have my doubts of that.’ A rumbling noise sounded, and Patrick turned to see a small group of men surrounding the forest entrance where his brothers waited.
The MacEgan Brothers Series Volume 1 Page 51