He froze, not knowing if they were in danger or not.
‘Order your men back to Laochre, MacEgan,’ Donal commanded, ‘and I’ll let them live.’
Patrick drew his horse closer. ‘I’ve another bargain in mind. It concerns your sons.’
* * *
Isabel tried to break free of the leather bindings, but could not. The men’s attention was focused outside the ringfort, upon her husband.
She couldn’t see Patrick from her vantage point. Why had he come? With the invasion, he could not leave their people. They needed his leadership.
Dust coated her cheeks, and her eyes stung. He shouldn’t be here. They would kill him as soon as he entered the ringfort. She had overheard their plans of claiming Laochre for themselves.
‘Get up,’ one of the men commanded. He reached down and grabbed her arm, jerking her to her feet. Isabel stumbled, her arm burning with pain. The Irishman forced her inside one of the huts, down a narrow ladder leading to an underground storage chamber. He lifted the ladder away, imprisoning her in the small space. A moment later, she heard him draw the door closed, sealing off any light.
The stale air terrified her, along with the suffocating darkness. She could not see her fingers outstretched in front of her face, and her heart raced with trepidation.
Not knowing what they had done to Patrick was the most terrifying of all. Her cheeks grew wet, and oh, Blessed Saints, she blamed herself. He should never have left his tribe, not for her.
But he had. He had risked everything to bring her home, though it would be futile. Selfishly, she wanted to see him one last time. She wanted to rest in his embrace and feel his arms around her.
Her heart feared the worst, that they had already killed him.
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Over the next few hours, Isabel explored the tiny space, feeling her way around the walls once she had worked her hands free. There was no other way out, save the ladder. And the distance to the top was well out of her reach.
She sank down against the wall, discouraged. Then a noise caught her attention. Men were shouting, and she heard the sounds of fighting. She pressed her hands to the cool earthen walls, wishing she knew what was happening. Seconds later, light shone down the chamber, momentarily blinding her. A figure dropped down into the pit, before all light was extinguished again. Isabel heard a groan, and she held herself against the wall, hardly daring to breathe.
‘Bastards,’ the man cursed, and she recognised his voice.
‘Patrick?’ she whispered, moving towards him. ‘Is that you?’
‘Isabel?’
She exhaled with relief when he crushed her to him. ‘Are you hurt?’ She touched his face and shoulders, thankful he was alive.
‘Only a few nicks. Ó Phelan tried to do worse, but he failed.’ His hand moved up her nape, stroking the hair. ‘What about yourself?’
‘I’m a little bruised, but it’s nothing serious.’ She closed her eyes, drinking in the luxury of his touch. Even in the darkness, she craved his nearness.
‘Why did you come for me?’ she asked. ‘I saw the Earl of Pembroke’s men.’ Part of her wondered if her father had forced Patrick here.
‘Why do you think I came, a chroí?’ His deep voice washed over her like the answer to a prayer. Then his mouth descended, kissing her as though he would never stop. He took from her, stealing her very breath until her knees trembled. Isabel gripped him, moving her hands over his back, down to his hips. The rigid length of him pressed against her body.
She willed herself to ignore her own desires. This was not the time, nor the place, for a stolen moment. ‘You shouldn’t have risked it,’ she managed, her voice catching. ‘They’re not going to let us go.’
His long silence unnerved her before at last he spoke. ‘I swore I’d keep you safe.’
‘Your tribe needs you as king,’ she argued.
‘I’ve done everything I can for them,’ he said. ‘If God wills it, they shall succeed against Strongbow’s forces. When I left them, the men were standing together to defend the ringfort.’
A strange sense of hope encircled her heart. ‘Together?’
‘Both our tribe and the Norman soldiers,’ he admitted.
There was no trace of resentment, only acceptance. She could hardly believe it. ‘Can they withstand the enemy?’
‘I hope so.’
She reluctantly moved out of his grasp. ‘You have to go back.’
‘I came to set you free. If your father learns you were taken, he’ll destroy us.’
Was that the main reason he had come? She had wanted so badly to believe it was because he cared about her. Careful, Isabel, she warned herself.
‘What bargain did you make with Donal Ó Phelan?’ she asked.
‘I offered him an exchange of prisoners. We hold his sons hostage. My brothers have gone to bring them from Laochre, and they will bring you back.’
‘What about you?’ she asked. When he gave no reply, her heart sank. He knew, as surely as she did, that Donal Ó Phelan wanted him dead. Only then could he claim Patrick’s kingdom.
She didn’t like the implications, that he was offering up his life for hers. ‘I won’t let you do this.’
His hands moved around her shoulders, pulling her to him. ‘It’s all right, a chroí.’
Tears burned her eyes as she gripped him around the waist. ‘I won’t leave you, do you understand? If I do, he’ll kill you.’
‘He may kill me anyway, Isabel. But it doesn’t matter. Our tribe is safe, and so will you be.’ He brushed away her tears, and Isabel was torn between wanting to strike out at him and wanting to sink into his embrace.
‘When he comes for you, swear you’ll go to Laochre. I’ve chosen my fate.’
‘You’ve chosen death. I can’t let that happen.’ She let her tears fall freely, resting her head beneath his chin. His strong arms encircled her while he murmured soothing words in Irish.
‘Our people may come for us,’ he offered.
She didn’t answer. With the Norman invasion happening all around them, never could their tribe leave Laochre. Even if they did, it might be too late. She didn’t want to face being alone without him.
He tightened his embrace, pressing a kiss upon her forehead. ‘We have tonight, a stór.’ He sank down with his back to the wall, holding her close and Isabel prayed for both of them.
* * *
The hours slipped by, each one more precious than the last. She never knew if she slept, but she would not let go of Patrick, the man she loved.
At last, the noise of men broke through the stillness. Patrick raised her to a standing position. ‘If something happens, if Donal does not keep his word, try to find the hut closest to the back of the ringfort. There is a storage chamber like this one with a passageway that leads to the outside.’
There was hardly time to argue when the piercing sunlight cut through the darkness. A ladder lowered into the chamber. Isabel didn’t move.
‘It’s time for you to leave,’ Patrick said softly.
‘I don’t want you to die because of me.’ She touched his face in the darkness, as if to memorise every plane, every line of strength.
‘I don’t plan to die, if I can avoid it.’ He gripped her tightly and, as her eyes adjusted, she saw the regret upon his face. ‘Now go.’
She hesitated upon the ladder, her hand curling around the rung. The idea of leaving him behind struck her as selfish and unforgivable.
‘Isabel, do this for me,’ he urged. ‘If you save yourself, there is hope for both of us.’
And though she hated herself for climbing each rung, she forced herself to leave him. He was right; they would not let him go, but she could bring back help. Somehow, she would find a way.
* * *
He’d lied to Isabel. He knew there was no hope for himself. Although Donal had agreed to let Isabel go free, in exchange for his sons, there would be no such bargain for himself. He suspected as soon as he was alone in the
ringfort, they would take his life. Strangely, he did not fear death.
The ladder lowered again. ‘Climb up,’ came the order.
Patrick did, wary of the men. His eyes blinked to adjust to the light, and he saw one of the men holding a length of rope. The man tried to grab his arm, but Patrick anticipated the move. Crouching down, he swung his leg out and tripped his attacker. With a swift shove, he pushed the man down the storage chamber.
The second man was not as quick to strike. Patrick blocked a punch, ducking out of the way. Then the next blow caught him in the throat. He gasped, fighting to move away from his enemy, but more of them came, striking at every part of him with fists and wooden staffs. The last blow struck behind his knees, and he hit the ground.
Near the edge of the ringfort, he saw his wife. Isabel stood with two men gripping her arms, fury evident upon her face. At the sight of her, Patrick fought even harder to escape. He’d suspected Ó Phelan would not keep his word. But he’d be damned before he’d let anything happen to Isabel. If it meant keeping her safe, he’d willingly sacrifice himself.
He tasted the dirt, hardly caring about the blows that struck him. All he was aware of was her. The way she carried herself, the way she held her emotions in, though he could see the pain in her eyes.
No matter the cost, he wanted her to live.
‘Isabel!’ he called out. ‘Do you remember what I told you?’ He used her Norman language, so that none of the Ó Phelans would understand.
‘Be silent.’ Donal Ó Phelan moved forward. ‘Or I’ll slit your throat.’
Patrick stared at Isabel, then looked towards the hut where he knew the souterrain passage led. It would bring her outside the ringfort and to safety.
‘You promised to let her go,’ he said grimly. What he wouldn’t give for a weapon right now. Donal had stripped him of his sword and dagger. He’d like to skewer the chieftain for what he’d done. ‘If she is not brought safely to Laochre, you will not see your sons again.’
Donal shrugged. ‘She makes a good hostage. And once you are dead, she is free to marry again.’
‘The Baron would sooner kill you where you stand.’
‘Then she will also die.’ Donal shrugged. ‘Our men are strong enough to withstand the Normans.’
Patrick couldn’t believe the man’s arrogance. Donal had never witnessed the Norman forces, never seen their disciplined style of fighting.
The chieftain unsheathed a knife and moved towards him. Patrick glanced over at Isabel. She had precious seconds to run, and gods above, he prayed she would obey him. Time seemed to slow as he watched the blade lower.
At the opportunity he threw himself towards Donal. His motion caught the chieftain off balance, and he wrestled for control. He palmed the weapon, holding the edge to Donal’s throat. ‘Release my wife.’
The guards paused, but finally obeyed.
‘Now go!’ he ordered Isabel.
Instead of fleeing towards the hut, she moved to a completely different hut on the opposite side.
‘Isabel!’ he cried out, but three men were already going after her. Donal rolled over, and the blade nicked his own skin. He fought against the chieftain, who had unsheathed his knife. The blade slashed before him, but even as he avoided the weapon, he knew he couldn’t reach Isabel in time to save her.
She’d gone inside the wrong hut. He felt sick, knowing she was trapped.
He wrenched himself free of Donal, slicing the knife at anything he could reach. When the chieftain retreated, Patrick started towards the hut where she’d gone. Moments later, one of the men stepped backwards, his hands raised in surrender. Isabel emerged from the hut, armed with a bow and quiver of arrows.
Patrick couldn’t have been more stunned. She’d known where to find their store of weapons. And now she looked ready to kill the chieftain. Her arm held steady upon the bow as she stared at Donal.
‘Open the gates. My husband and I are leaving.’
‘The moment you turn your backs, our men will kill both of you,’ Donal admitted. ‘You’ve one choice, Lady Isabel. Stay as my hostage, or die with your husband.’
He had no doubt Donal would kill them. If Isabel refused to stay, her life had no use for the chieftain. She kept her arrow trained upon Donal. ‘I’ve made my choice already. And I want the gates opened.’
Patrick joined her side, stepping inside the hut to retrieve his own sword and shield. The bodies of the first two men lay dead upon the ground.
With the weapon drawn, he stood beside Isabel. Any man who tried to harm her would have to go through him first. He raised the shield to protect both of them.
One of the Ó Phelans tried to rush forward, but Isabel loosed an arrow into his heart. ‘Let us go.’
Slowly, they left the ringfort, Isabel’s arms shaking with the effort of keeping the bow drawn. ‘Give me the weapon, a stór,’ Patrick murmured as he sheathed his sword. ‘Take the shield.’ His hand reached for the bow, and he kept the weapon drawn.
‘I’m sorry, Patrick,’ she whispered as she took the heavy shield from him. He kept the bow trained upon the tribe.
Isabel blamed herself for everything. If she hadn’t been captured, none of this would have happened.
And now both of them would die. She knew it as surely as she knew that they were abandoned by everyone.
‘It’s not your fault.’ They backed away slowly, Isabel casting quick glances over her shoulder. The meadow was silent, with no one to help them.
‘We have to get out of their range,’ she said.
‘They aren’t going to let us go. Our only chance of surviving this is if my brothers help us.’
‘Will they arrive in time?’
He shook his head. ‘I don’t know. They were supposed to bring the hostages.’
Her heart ached. With her free hand, she touched his shoulder. ‘I don’t regret a moment of this. Being your wife, I mean.’ Her voice broke as she continued, ‘I only wish we had more time.’
He risked a look at her, and in his eyes, she saw a fierce determination. ‘I’m not giving up on us yet, a ghrá.’
My love. The words slipped inside her heart, warming her. Though she wanted so badly to believe that everything would be all right, she clung to these last moments with him.
‘When I give the signal, I want you to run to the forest. Don’t stop, no matter what else happens.’
‘What about you?’
‘I’m going to hold them off and then follow you.’
She shivered, afraid of what would happen. She didn’t want him to die, or worse, to know that she had caused it.
‘My brothers would never abandon us,’ he said. ‘Have faith.’
‘I love you,’ she whispered, touching his shoulder. ‘And I don’t want you to die.’
His eyes darkened, and his voice turned gruff. ‘There’s no other woman I would willingly give up my life for. It’s time for you to go.’
Her eyes filled with tears, as she prepared to run. Though she didn’t want to leave, she understood there wasn’t a choice. The wooden shield was heavy, but she held it to her back as she raced towards the forest. Behind her, she heard the swish of arrows as Patrick released them upon their enemy.
Then in front of her came a deafening battle roar, and she stumbled to her knees. From the hills, the silver of chain mail armour glinted in the sun. Isabel stared at the soldiers, her lungs gasping for air. The Norman army had come upon them.
She froze, glancing back at Patrick. He hadn’t moved, but kept his bow aimed at the Ó Phelan ringfort. The Norman army advanced further, nearly a thousand soldiers surrounding them. Her pulse thrummed faster, and she got up, easing her way back to Patrick.
‘Patrick?’ she asked, afraid to run.
‘Stand with me,’ he ordered. He lowered his bow and Isabel returned to his side.
‘What do they want?’
He shook his head. ‘I suspect we’ll soon find out.’ He clasped her hand in his, and both of them waited while
the men drew closer.
‘Whatever happens, I’ll protect you,’ he said. ‘And if I could give up my kingdom to let you live, I would do it.’ His mouth brushed a kiss upon the top of her head. ‘I love you.’
Isabel leaned against him, her heart filled with love for him. ‘Give me the bow,’ she said, and he exchanged the weapon for the heavy wooden shield. ‘It’s all right.’ She nocked an arrow to her bowstring in readiness. ‘I’d rather die at your side than alone.’
Unsheathing his sword, they stood back to back, awaiting the inevitable. There would be no escape for either of them.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The multitude of soldiers parted and behind them, wearing the MacEgan colours and carrying the tribe’s banner, rode the rest of the tribe. Islanders and the men of Laochre all stood together, fully armed.
‘Why are they here?’ Isabel asked. Hope swelled inside her, and she relaxed the bowstring.
‘My brothers brought reinforcements, it seems.’
She started to move towards them, but Patrick stopped her. ‘Wait.’ Seconds later, three arrows embedded in the wooden shield. ‘The Ó Phelans haven’t given up yet.’
Infuriated, Isabel released her own arrows, taking satisfaction when they struck their mark.
‘Enough. Go towards our tribe.’ He gave her a push forward, following her with the shield raised. Although arrows rained down upon them, miraculously none of them struck. When they were out of range, Isabel stopped in front of the MacEgan tribesmen.
Bevan and Connor were mounted, and they held the reins of Bel, Patrick’s horse.
‘Who is caring for Laochre?’ she asked, afraid of the answer.
‘Sir Anselm guards it, along with the Normans.’ He shrugged. ‘And all of the women, of course.’ His scarred face held traces of anger, but he said nothing further.
‘Thank you for coming to our aid,’ she said quietly.
Bevan grunted. ‘You are a MacEgan now. And we would never let anyone harm family.’
Isabel reached out and squeezed his hand. ‘My thanks, brother.’
As she passed, she was startled to see the Irish raising their knee to her, bowing their heads in deference.
The MacEgan Brothers Series Volume 1 Page 52