Her doubts hardened his resolve to wash his hands of her. Let her remain here. Let her family come for her. She was no longer his responsibility, and his debt to her was paid.
‘I intend to renew the attack upon Rionallís,’ he said. ‘Keeping the woman here may prove to our advantage.’
‘You may be accused of kidnapping her,’ Patrick pointed out. ‘Their King Henry will demand compensation.’
‘Henry will not risk warring against us. He’s better off having us as allies.’
‘The Norman armies have already invaded Meath and Breifne. Henry will set his sights on Laochre next, should you draw his wrath upon us.’ Patrick met his gaze, and then he revealed what Bevan had already suspected. ‘Your men did not return from Rionallís. If they are not already dead, Sir Hugh Marstowe holds them captive. He may try to use them against us.’
‘If you grant me more fighters, I can free them.’ Bevan would not rest until he had atoned for his defeat. He hated the thought of his men in Marstowe’s custody.
‘You are needed here,’ Patrick said. ‘I will send Connor to free them. The Norman King is visiting Tara, holding court there with the High King. It may be that we can work out an agreement to avoid war between our people.’
‘What kind of agreement?’
Patrick changed his tack, not answering Bevan’s question. ‘Or we could exchange the lives of our men for Genevieve. You could return her to Rionallís and not trouble yourself with her further.’
‘She was beaten, Patrick. If I’d left her there, Marstowe would have killed her eventually.’
Patrick sobered, and accepted a goblet of wine from a servant. He handed another to Bevan. ‘And that is why you took her with you?’
‘Tá. The bastard hurt her, far worse than you can imagine. If any man had laid a hand on Isabel, you’d have done the same.’
The words came out before he’d intended them. He had never thought to compare his feelings towards Genevieve to the feelings Patrick had for his wife. He wanted to protect her; that was all. And he didn’t like seeing any woman in pain.
‘Have a care, brother,’ Patrick said. ‘I’ve no wish for you to lose your life over a woman.’
‘You needn’t worry that I would ever let a woman interfere with my life.’ Especially not one who stubbornly clung to the belief that Rionallís belonged to her family. It irritated him to think that Genevieve would continue to fight him for the land he had owned for years.
Bevan added, ‘I will free the men, regardless of how long it takes. Rionallís will be ours again.’
‘That may be,’ Patrick acceded. ‘Or the Norman King may agree to my offer of an exchange without bloodshed. I believe the prospect will please him. A bond between our family and Genevieve’s.’
Bevan suddenly understood his brother’s reasoning: an arranged marriage. ‘No.’
‘You are a fool if you believe Rionallís is yours for the taking. The Norman King will only send more of his men to recapture the land,’ Patrick said. ‘And our men are likely already dead. If you hope to keep the fortress, your only recourse is to wed Genevieve.’ His expression turned grim. ‘A match between you may assuage their king’s anger, for it will allow him to have a strong alliance with us.’
‘You’ve no right to ask such a thing of me.’ Bevan could not imagine the idea of taking another woman as his wife. He had sworn never to wed again, and he intended to keep that vow.
‘As your king and overlord, I can command it,’ Patrick said. The threat was thinly veiled.
Bevan refused to believe his brother would act upon it. ‘She will return to her parents’ home in England. In the meantime our men will go to Rionallís.’
‘If you will not wed her, perhaps Connor will.’
At the thought of another man laying hands on her, Bevan wanted to snarl. Genevieve had suffered enough. The best place for her was an abbey, where no man could touch her.
‘You care for her, don’t you?’ Patrick said quietly.
‘She risked her life for mine and Ewan’s. That is all there is between us.’
‘I have my doubts upon that, brother. Else you would not be so angry.’
Bevan took a long drink of wine, glaring at Patrick. ‘I brought her to safety, nothing more.’
His mood blackened as he thought of Marstowe’s abuse. It occurred to him that her family had arranged the betrothal. Even if Bevan sent her home, she might still be forced to wed Marstowe.
Though he did not want to wed Genevieve himself, he did not want to see her suffer again. He envisaged Fiona’s beautiful face, hearing her screams as the Normans took her from him. The reddish haze of battle, the cry tearing from his throat as they struck him down. He hadn’t been able to save her.
If he released Genevieve, her marriage with Sir Hugh would take place. Bevan was certain of it. She would endure suffering, and it would be his own fault.
Guilt and fury assailed him, for Patrick was right. The only way to protect Genevieve from Marstowe was to wed her himself.
As a few flakes of snow scattered across the wind, he lifted his face to the cold. The seeds of Genevieve’s doubt had taken root within him.
How could he call himself a warrior when he could not defend the people he loved? Once he had fought with the confidence of experience, knowing his sword was stronger than his enemy’s.
But the attack on Rionallís had failed. He could not blame Ewan for it. They had underestimated the Normans. And he had brought about the imprisonment of his men, if not their deaths.
The ripple of movement caught his attention, and he saw Genevieve standing, silhouetted against the battlements. Her face was lined with worry as she stared out onto the horizon.
Unbidden came the thought of her warming his feet, her fingers soothing heat within them. She had tended his wounds, stayed up at night to keep watch over him.
Bevan climbed the stairs to the battlements, drawing nearer until he could see her expression. Shadows lined her face, and a dark bruise covered one cheek. She had taken that blow while trying to rescue Ewan and himself.
They didn’t speak, and he didn’t have to ask what she was thinking. The timorous expression on her face revealed all to him.
Unable to stop himself, he reached out and touched the bruise. Her hand cupped his, and the feeling of her warm palm against his sent a jolt through him.
She closed her eyes, and a dark strand of her hair blew free of the veil, against his hand. Though the icy breath of winter reddened her cheeks, her skin felt soft. His thumb moved to caress the bruise, as if to soothe it away.
She leaned into his palm, her lips brushing against his skin. It was not a kiss, only the barest hint of a touch. His loins tightened, and suddenly he found himself wanting to feel her lips upon his. He wanted the softness of a woman, to quench the thirst of two years of being alone.
He lifted her face up to his and stared into her cerulean eyes—eyes that held a fear he could not silence.
He understood suddenly why a marriage could never happen between them. To wed Genevieve would be to face the demons of his past. If he took her as his bride, he could not ignore her and continue on the way he had lived his life.
Abruptly, he turned away. He could not accept Patrick’s suggestion. Nor could he let Genevieve go back to Marstowe.
He vowed to journey to Tara, to seek the help of the High King. If need be, he would appeal to the Norman King as well. For the sake of his pride, he would somehow see to it that Genevieve and his men were safe.
* * *
Genevieve rose at dawn, having shared a room with two other women. She donned her kirtle before the others awakened, wincing at its torn condition. With her fingers, she tried to comb her hair, wishing she had a veil to hide it.
She left the chamber, going below stairs. A few servants cast curious looks her way, but Genevieve ignored them. She found her way to the Great Chamber, where people had gathered to break their fast.
A tall woman regarded her with
an interested expression. From the way others deferred to her, Genevieve guessed she was the lady of the castle.
The woman wore a deep blue overdress and a white léine, an Irish gown that fell to her ankles in soft drapes. Her golden hair was braided across her forehead while the rest hung down to her waist.
‘You are Genevieve?’ The woman spoke the Norman language so fluently it surprised Genevieve to hear it.
‘I am.’ She extended her hands in greeting, and the woman took them.
‘My name is Isabel MacEgan. My husband is Patrick MacEgan, King of Laochre.’
‘A king?’ Genevieve questioned.
‘Not High King.’ Isabel smiled in response. ‘There are many petty kings in Ireland, just as we once had in England.’ She added, ‘But you needn’t be intimidated by my husband or by me. I merely wanted to meet the woman who saved the lives of Ewan and Bevan. It isn’t often that a lady can rescue one of Ireland’s finest warriors.’
Genevieve reddened. ‘Bevan helped me to escape the man I am betrothed to. Saving their lives was a way to save myself.’
‘You have our gratitude,’ Isabel replied. ‘And I can see why Bevan was so taken with you.’
Genevieve did not respond to the compliment, not knowing what to say. ‘You exaggerate, I fear, Queen Isabel.’
‘You may call me Isabel. And, no, I do not stretch the truth. Bevan has not interacted with a woman since the death of his wife.’
‘Our paths crossed, nothing more,’ Genevieve argued. She sensed that Isabel wanted to play the matchmaker, and she would have no part of it. She had trusted her heart to a man every bit as handsome as Bevan. And Hugh had nearly destroyed her.
‘We are having a celebration feast this eventide, to welcome Bevan home,’ Isabel said, changing the subject. ‘He told me you would be travelling back to England soon, but I thought you could share in our festivities before you go.’
‘I would love that.’ Genevieve stood up. ‘May I help with the arrangements?’
‘So eager are you?’ Isabel appeared amused.
‘I would like to be more useful,’ Genevieve admitted. ‘’Tis difficult to wait, and I do not wish to be idle.’
Isabel gestured towards the Chamber. ‘You may have your choice of activities here. What do you enjoy most?’
Genevieve thought a moment. More than anything she loved music. She had played the psaltery at her father’s house, entertaining the visitors with her voice. Hugh had destroyed the instrument when she’d driven him to another rage. He had called it a useless activity, and she had not sung again for fear of antagonising him.
She feared that the others would also regard music as foolishness, and so she replied, ‘I am good with a needle.’ With a glance down at her torn kirtle, she admitted, ‘I’ve been trying to repair this, but I haven’t the proper tools.’
‘I will see to it that you have everything you need. And…’ Isabel pondered a moment. ‘If it doesn’t offend you, you might wish to try the Irish style of dress later. ’Tis quite comfortable.’
Genevieve agreed, wanting to rid herself of the frayed gown as soon as possible.
‘You speak my husband’s language very well,’ Isabel remarked. ‘How did you learn it? No one speaks the Irish tongue in Normandy.’
‘I am from England, not Normandy,’ Genevieve corrected. ‘But my father’s lands are near the Welsh border. I was fostered in Wales, along with an Irish woman. We taught each other our languages as we grew up.’
Isabel brightened. ‘My family was also from England.’ She described the location of her father’s lands, but they were far from Genevieve’s parents’.
‘How long has your family lived there?’ Isabel asked.
‘For three generations. My great-grandfather came over from Normandy. He married, and his bride brought him a great deal of property. She refused to wed him unless he allowed her to stay in England.’
‘And you wish to go back?’ Isabel asked.
Genevieve hesitated, but nodded. ‘Until the matter of my betrothal is resolved, it is for the best. One day I hope to return here.’
Isabel smiled and led her outside. They walked past several outbuildings towards the inner bailey. The familiar sounds of activity were no different from those she had heard at home. Nearby, steam rose from a cauldron as a woman used a paddle to stir laundry. There was a sense of security here, of people who were at ease in their work despite the outside threats.
Next they entered a hut that contained weaving looms, and Isabel spoke to one of the women. She arranged to have lengths of wool and linen brought to her chamber later.
When they went back inside the donjon, Genevieve’s respect for Isabel grew. She was obviously accustomed to hard work. A servant spreading fresh rushes was instructed to bring more, and Isabel herself joined in the activity of scattering the rushes.
Genevieve hung behind, not knowing what to do. She had never seen the lady of a castle engaged in the same menial tasks as the servants. She didn’t know what to think of it, but she soon joined in the work. The women laughed and chattered as they performed their tasks.
As Isabel stood atop a bench, to correct a hanging tapestry, a man came up behind her. He resembled Bevan, with black hair and grey eyes, but he moved with a stealthy grace. The man embraced Isabel, catching her around the waist and letting her slide against him until her feet touched the ground. He kissed her, and Genevieve guessed that the man was Isabel’s husband, Patrick.
The pair were completely absorbed in one another, and Genevieve looked away guiltily. Footsteps approached from behind her, and she turned to see Bevan.
His face had healed, but she could see a bandage beneath his tunic, covering his shoulder wound.
‘Bevan,’ Genevieve greeted him quietly. She held out her hands to him, meaning only a polite welcome.
He did not take them, and so she lowered them, her face flushed with embarrassment. He looked as though he wanted to say something to her, but the uncomfortable silence stretched on.
Masking her disappointment, Genevieve raised her glance to the ceiling and turned around. ‘Laochre is the largest fortress I’ve ever seen. And yet Patrick is not your High King?’
‘He was asked to compete for the honour,’ Bevan said, ‘but he turned down the invitation.’
‘Why would he do such a thing?’
‘He preferred to look after his own tribe,’ Bevan replied.
Genevieve was surprised that any man would turn down such an opportunity for power, but she supposed it held great sacrifices with the position.
Bevan stood beside her, and they watched as Isabel and the servants arranged greenery around the chamber for the feast. Several times she tried to ask Bevan questions, but he only mumbled a reply or spoke in single-word responses.
‘Have you sent anyone to bring my father here?’ she asked.
‘No.’He did not look at her, his attention fixed upon a swag of greenery.
Genevieve tried again. ‘What are your plans?’
‘Patrick has agreed to handle the matter.’
More than anything, Genevieve wanted this awkwardness between them to end. She decided to be direct.
‘You are avoiding me, I think.’ Crossing her arms, she nodded, as if speaking to herself. ‘You do not wish to speak to me because I am a dreadful Norman who devours newborn babes and breathes fire.’
His mouth twitched, but he did not respond.
‘Or perhaps you are sulking like a child because I did not want you to escort me to Dun Laoghaire? Is that it?’
‘That was your choice. I have other tasks to attend—ones that do not involve you.’
Bevan stepped in front of her, and she saw he was trying to intimidate her with his height. Looking up at his strong arms, his wide chest, she knew she should fear him. And yet part of her believed he would never harm her, despite his rough words.
‘And I am not a child, Genevieve.’
She kept her chin up. ‘Then stop behaving like one.
My family will come for me, and you need not trouble yourself over me again.’ Leaving him standing there, she went over to help Isabel with the preparations.
Bevan couldn’t believe her accusation. At that moment he was itching for a sword fight—anything to relieve the tension growing within him. To Patrick, he called out, ‘I am going to the training field. Send Ewan to me for another lesson, if he wants it.’
‘Genevieve, come above stairs with me,’ he heard Isabel say. ‘I have a léine that I believe would fit you.’
Bevan barely heard Genevieve’s reply as he returned outside. The air had grown colder, the clouds swelling with forthcoming snow. He needed to feel the clash of steel on steel, to bury the anger within him.
After everything he had done for her, she thought he was behaving like a child?
Furious at her criticism, he signalled one of the men to spar against him. He’d not allow himself to be trapped into marriage with her, regardless of what Patrick said. If it meant war, so be it.
Bevan blocked his opponent’s blow with his shield, allowing his anger to erupt full force. He struck with his sword again and again, driving the soldier towards the wall as he pictured Sir Hugh’s face.
Genevieve might have saved his life and Ewan’s, but he had more than repaid the debt. His sword slipped, and he missed blocking a slash from his opponent.
The soldier’s sword nicked his wounded shoulder. ‘I am sorry, Bevan. I didn’t mean—’
The intense pain made him gasp, and Bevan signalled for the fight to end. ‘Tá, you fought well. Make no excuses. I dropped my defence and deserved the cut.’
Pressing his hand to the injury, he felt blood seeping. It sobered him, and he thought again of how Genevieve had tended his wounds. He remembered the dark bruise across her cheek, and the dried blood on her scalp from the man who had once been her betrothed. He remembered her fear.
Marstowe had always treated her as a possession, never as an equal. Bevan admitted that his own wife had never been an equal—she had been far above his reach. Beautiful, nearly perfect in every way. He had felt unworthy to be her husband. He would have given Fiona anything she desired, had he been able.
The MacEgan Brothers Series Volume 1 Page 60