Her Warrior King

by Michelle Willingham

  ‘Open the gates,’ he ordered.

  Two men raised the heavy entrance gate. Beyond them stood two mounted captains and the Norman soldiers, wearing chain mail armour. Patrick mounted his steed and urged the animal forward.

  Though he tried to maintain a façade of calm, it was difficult to still the energy rising inside him. What if they broke the agreement and attacked? He prayed he had made the right choice.

  From a distance, the Norman army held their weapons and shields in readiness. Swords raised, and with arrows nocked to bowstrings, they awaited the command to kill. Eyes cold, they would fight to the death.

  Yet, when he drew nearer, he saw the faces of men. Weary, hungry, like himself. They had obeyed their leader, taking the lives of his people.

  Was he expected to welcome them? Though he had restrained Ruarc’s sword arm, his own desire for vengeance was harder to quell. For these men had killed his eldest brother.

  Regret pierced him at the memory of Liam’s death. Though he could not know which soldier had struck his brother down, he’d not forget what had happened.

  Darkness and anger filled him at the memory. He blamed himself. He should have reached Liam in time, blocking the enemy’s sword. And though he longed to release the battle rage within, he could not let his people’s lives be the penalty for it. His personal vengeance would have to wait.

  Patrick beckoned to one of the captains, and the Norman approached, his hand upon his sword. Patrick palmed his own hilt, watchful of the enemy. ‘I am Patrick MacEgan, king of Laochre.’

  ‘I am Sir Anselm Fitzwater,’ the Norman replied. ‘Lord Thornwyck gave me command of these men.’

  Sir Anselm did not remove his helm, nor did he release his grip upon the sword. The Norman’s cheeks were clean shaven, his lips marred by a long battle scar that ran to his jaw. His face was impassive, as though he were accustomed to his enemies surrendering.

  ‘The terms of the agreement with the Baron of Thornwyck have been met,’ Patrick said, handing him the orders with Thornwyck’s seal. ‘Your men may enter our rath.’

  He granted permission, though it was like baring the throats of his people to the enemy sword. He still didn’t know whether the Normans would hold the peace.

  ‘Where is the Lady Isabel?’ Sir Anselm inquired.

  ‘She dwells upon Ennisleigh. You may accompany me there on the morrow to see for yourself.’ He glanced over at the island, and a sense of guilt passed over him. Though he hadn’t wanted to bring Isabel amid this battle, he didn’t like leaving her alone either. She would be tired and hungry. It was his responsibility to take care of her.

  Sir Anselm shook his head. ‘I will see her this night to ensure her safety. Have her brought here.’

  Patrick would not defer to the man’s commanding tone. ‘To do so would endanger her. She is safer upon Ennisleigh, away from this strife.’ He didn’t want her anywhere near the Norman army.

  ‘You dishonour her, if you do not place her as your queen and lady.’

  Patrick’s hand moved to his sword. His horse shifted uneasily, sensing his anger. ‘She is under my protection, and there are those among my people who would sooner see her dead. I see no honour in that.’ The raw wound of defeat still bled in his people’s hearts.

  ‘It is her rightful place.’

  ‘Until we have brought peace between our people, she stays where I command.’ Patrick gestured for Sir Anselm to follow him. ‘Your men will join with mine this night in an evening meal. Then you may resume your camp outside the walls.’

  ‘Our orders are to dwell within the fortress,’ Anselm said.

  ‘Your men killed ours.’ Patrick tightened his grip upon the reins. ‘None welcome you here.’

  ‘If your Irishmen raise a weapon against us, they will regret it.’

  ‘As will your men,’ Patrick replied, anger threading through his voice. Though the captain might expect them to cower before his men, Patrick did not fear their forces. It was a larger threat that concerned him. Although this army had strength, it was only with the combined forces of Robert Fitzstephen, the Earl of Pembroke’s man, that they had defeated his tribe. He had no doubt the Normans would return, along with the Earl.

  Patrick gestured towards the large wooden fortress he’d constructed. ‘Your men may enter our Great Chamber.’ He dismounted, handing his horse over to a young lad. Bevan and Trahern remained mounted.

  ‘Give your horses over to Huon there,’ Patrick instructed, gesturing towards the boy. ‘He’ll see to them.’

  He led the Normans inside, standing at the entrance to the fortress as if to guard them. With bitter expressions, most of his kinsmen turned their backs and entered their own huts. They blamed him for this. A few stared, whispering amongst themselves.

  Sir Anselm accompanied him inside the main dwelling. From the way his gaze fixed upon the wooden fortress, Patrick wondered if the Norman commander was assessing its worth.

  The Great Chamber held no decorations, nothing save weapons mounted upon the walls. Ever since his mother’s death years ago, no woman had made her mark upon the gathering space. The sparse furnishings were functional with two high-backed wooden chairs upon a small dais and five smaller chairs for his brothers and him. The small backless X-shaped chairs were carved from walnut, the seats formed of padded wool.

  Now, his duty was to take his rightful place at the head of the table, upon the seat filled first by his grandfather, then his father, and then Liam. He had avoided it, but now he had no choice.

  Patrick crossed the room and stood before the table. He rested his hands upon the scarred wood, as if seeking guidance from the men who had stood here before. Then he sat down upon the high-backed chair. The chair beside him remained empty, intended for his wife. It seemed strange to think of himself as married. He’d known that one day he would take a wife, but he’d always imagined it to be a maiden from another tribe. He resented having the choice taken from him.

  His kinsmen remained standing while the Normans sat at a low table, helping themselves to the food brought by servants. As the soldiers ate brown bread and mutton, resentment deepened upon his people’s faces. These were their carefully hoarded supplies, and now they had to surrender them to the enemy. Bowls of cooked pottage, dried sweetened apples and a few freshly caught fish were also offered with the meal.

  Patrick ate, hardly speaking to his brothers who sat at the further ends of the table. He forced himself to eat the baked fish and bread while speculating what sort of plotting was going on at the tables. He and his brothers spoke the Norman tongue, but his tribesmen didn’t. He didn’t trust either side to keep the peace.

  Rising from his seat, he walked towards the doorway, greeting his men as he passed. Near a group of bystanders, he overheard his cousin Ruarc’s remark. ‘If I were king, we would never have allowed the Gaillabh entrance. They would lie dead upon the fields, as they deserve.’

  Patrick stopped and directed his gaze towards his cousin. ‘But you are not the king.’

  ‘Not yet.’

  He could not let that remark pass. He’d had enough of criticism and contempt, when he’d done what he could to save their ungrateful lives. His men might doubt his choices, but he could not let them doubt his leadership.

  Seizing his cousin by the tunic, he dragged him against the wall. ‘Do you wish to challenge me for that right?’

  Ruarc’s face turned purple as he struggled to free himself. His legs grew limp as Patrick cut off the air to his lungs. When at last he released his kinsman, Ruarc slumped to the ground, coughing. Black rage twisted his features. ‘One day, cousin.’

  ‘Get out.’

  Ruarc stumbled towards the door, while the Norman soldiers watched with interest. Patrick took a breath, fighting back the urge to pursue. He’d forgotten himself again and his rank. Kings were not supposed to fight amongst their men. The others appeared uncomfortable at his actions.

  ‘That was a mistake.’ His brother Bevan came up behind him. Eye
ing Ruarc, he added, ‘You made him lose face in front of our kinsmen.’

  ‘He should not have challenged me.’

  ‘No. But he’ll be wanting revenge upon you now. I’d watch your back, brother. For that one will be ready with a knife. He still blames you for what happened to Sosanna.’

  ‘I know it. And that is why I have not banished him.’ Ruarc’s sister Sosanna MacEgan, like many of the women, had suffered during the invasion. Afterwards, Ruarc’s fury towards the Normans had increased tenfold.

  Patrick gestured towards his men. ‘Our men should not stand while the Normans sit and eat. We’ll build more tables for the Great Chamber.’

  ‘Few have any appetite for food.’

  ‘Except Ewan there.’ Patrick leaned against the entrance wall and pointed to their youngest brother. Nearly three and ten, Ewan had no qualms about dining with the enemy. He sat at the last table, barely visible amid the heavily armed soldiers.

  ‘A good spy, is Ewan.’ Bevan shook his head in admiration. ‘We will see what he has learned on the morrow. They don’t know he can speak their language.’

  ‘The Normans must be taught Irish,’ Patrick said. ‘Else a misunderstanding could happen.’

  Bevan grunted. ‘I’d rather we send them back to England instead.’

  ‘It is too late for that.’ He turned to his brother. ‘You are needed here, Bevan. Will you stay?’

  Bevan’s visage tensed. ‘I will stay a fortnight. For your sake. But promise me you’ll drive them out.’

  ‘I’ll do what I can.’ A headache gnawed at him, and he thought again of Isabel. She had no supplies, for he had forgotten to send them. His mind had been so consumed with the Normans, he had not thought of it. What kind of a provider did that make him? And yet he could not leave his men alone. He felt as if he were holding two ends of a rope while both sides pulled against each other.

  He should send someone to her. Darkness had descended, bringing a moonlit sky. Patrick gave orders for a sack filled with food and several jugs of mead.

  ‘What is that for?’ his brother Bevan interrupted.

  ‘My winsome bride,’ Patrick commented drily. ‘She’ll want to eat and drink over the next few days, I presume.’

  ‘You’re not thinking of going to Ennisleigh.’ Bevan gestured towards the food.

  ‘Later, perhaps.’ He didn’t like the thought of Isabel alone, especially with the islanders who did not understand the reason for her presence.

  ‘Tonight is not the time to leave, brother,’ Bevan argued. ‘Not with such a fragile situation. The men need your calm.’

  He knew his brother was right. This night he needed to prevent both sides from killing each other. ‘Would that it were possible. Sir Anselm wishes to see to Lady Isabel’s welfare. He will accompany me to the island later this eventide.’

  He glanced over at the knight. Sir Anselm ate slowly, his eyes scrutinising every face as if trying to memorise the men. At this pace, the Norman looked nowhere near to finishing his meal.

  ‘I’ll return afterwards,’ he assured Bevan.

  ‘Ewan!’ he called out to his youngest brother. Ewan was caught in the awkward age between child and adolescent. Despite his gangly thin frame, the boy ate as much as a fully grown man.

  His brother eyed the roasted mutton before him, as if wondering whether anything could be more important. ‘What is it?’

  ‘I need you to go to Ennisleigh. My bride Isabel has no food or supplies for this night. Will you take them to her?’

  Ewan’s ears turned red. ‘If you wish.’ He stuffed a small loaf of bread into a fold of his tunic, then tore off another bite of the meat. ‘Is she fair of face?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I heard Sir Anselm say that many noblemen wanted to wed her. Like a princess from one of Trahern’s tales.’

  ‘She is a woman, like any other.’ Even as he denied her beauty, the vision of her face taunted his memory. The stubborn set to her mouth had caught his attention more than once. And her deep brown eyes held intelligence.

  Patrick walked outside with Ewan, staring at Laochre. The wooden fortress wore its battle scars like the rest of the ringfort. Once, he’d dreamed of building one of the largest raths in Eíreann, a dwelling worthy of his tribe. Now he worried about whether they would survive next winter. Though the corn and barley flourished in the fields, he now had to feed even more people with the addition of the Normans.

  He led Ewan outside to where his horse was waiting with supplies. ‘Go now. If it rains again, she’ll need a better shelter. I fear she’ll want to dwell inside the fortress.’

  Ewan’s eyes widened. ‘Why?’

  ‘To spite us.’

  ‘Oh.’ He shrugged. ‘She’ll just get wet, then. But I’ll go and tell her you sent the food.’

  ‘Do not eat any of it,’ he warned.

  ‘I wouldn’t.’ The lad’s voice cracked upon the last word.

  Patrick hid his smile. ‘Of course you would. I mean it, Ewan. Not a bite.’

  He added another loaf of bread to the sack, tying it off. His brother rolled his eyes and set off to the island. Patrick cast a look towards Ennisleigh. He would come to Isabel later. Though she would protest, he had to make her understand that she had no other choice but to make the island her new home.

  ‘Forgive me for intruding, but might I please light a torch from your fire?’

  Isabel spoke to one of the doors, a hide-wrapped entrance with a bundle of wool hanging above it. No one had answered her knock, but she knew they had heard her.

  She tried again, knocking upon the wooden frame. Silence. She bit her lip, wondering what they would do to her if she dared open the door. In her hand she held a dead branch she’d picked up from the apple orchard. She had wrapped it in dried grass, but what she really needed was oil or pitch to keep it burning long enough to start a fire.

  This was the third door she’d knocked upon. Her quest for fire was not going well, and it was getting dark.

  The cosy beehive-shaped stone huts had wisps of peat smoke rising from them. An outdoor hearth stood nearby, but no one had made use of it this night. Blackened bricks of peat remained behind.

  Very well. If they weren’t going to help her, she’d simply wait upon Patrick. She strode back to the fortress, pushing open the charred oak door. Her barbarian husband would return eventually. Surely he would not let her freeze to death. He’d gone to enough trouble to bring her to Erin that her death would be an inconvenience.

  A low growl rumbled from her stomach. She hadn’t eaten since that small meat pie earlier, and there was nothing inside the broken-down donjon to salvage. At this rate, she’d be reduced to gnawing upon seaweed.

  Isabel sat down upon a flat tree stump left behind as a stool and surveyed her dwelling. She had inspected every inch of the fortress, fully aware that the islanders were watching her from inside their huts.

  Good. Let them stare. Let them see she was not the enemy they seemed to believe.

  Weaponless and alone, her skin prickled with uneasiness. Sometimes the echo of voices carried upon the wind. They spoke in Irish, a language unlike any other she’d heard. She’d tried to learn a few words, but to little avail. The foreign sound had a musical quality to it, and in no way did it resemble the Norman tongue.

  She had to learn it. If the king expected her to weep and gnash her teeth at being exiled, he was wrong. She would find a way to survive here.

  Night cast its shadowed cloak upon the land, and she shivered in the evening chill. Perhaps she should have stormed one of the stone huts, demanding a torch. Of course, given their cool reception, she supposed they’d sooner set her on fire than give her aid.

  A harsh wind cut through her woollen shawl, and Isabel moved towards a more sheltered part of the fortress. She should have accepted her husband’s offer for a hut of her own.

  The sound of footsteps made her heart quicken. Isabel reached down and grabbed a small stone.

  Of course,
if the man had a sword or arrows, the rock would do naught more than give him a headache. Still, it made her feel better. Was it her husband? Or someone coming to harm her? Isabel clutched the rock tighter.

  A man’s shadow fell across the darkened ruins of the castle. No, not a man’s. A boy’s.

  A young lad with scraggly fair hair stepped across the threshold. He looked as though he’d never made use of a comb. In his hand he held out a sack.

  ‘What is it?’ she asked, but he made no reply. Instead, he moved forward and handed her the bundle.

  Bread. The warm yeasty smell made her mouth water. She hesitated, wondering if Patrick had sent him. ‘Is this for me?’

  He gestured towards the supplies, his eyes watching the food. Isabel took the hint and tore off a piece of bread, handing it to him.

  ‘I suppose you do not speak my language.’

  The boy devoured the bread, behaving as though he hadn’t heard her. She found a jug of mead inside the sack and took a long steady drink. The food and drink improved her temperament, and she began making conversation with the boy.

  ‘I am sorry I do not have a fire to share. On a night like this, it would make my donjon more comfortable.’

  She finished the bread and handed the boy the mead to take a sip. He drank deeply and gave it back. ‘Of course, your islanders would not help me. I would build one myself, if I had flint and steel.’

  Though he said nothing, his sharp eyes studied her. Despite his rumpled appearance, his face reminded her of Patrick’s.

  ‘You’re his brother, aren’t you?’ She stood and circled him. The boy appeared uneasy. ‘Well, if he sent you to spy upon me, you can tell him that he isn’t much of a king. His hospitality is greatly lacking.’ With a glance above her, she pointed towards the burned stairs. ‘I should like to retire to my chamber, but it seems I must use a rock for my pallet and dirt to keep warm.’

  He rubbed his hands and pointed to the empty hearth. Isabel brightened when he gathered up a small stack of peat and tinder. He reached inside a fold of his cloak and withdrew flint and a steel knife. In moments, he sparked a flame to life.