Her Warrior King

by Michelle Willingham

  ‘Come.’ He strode towards the grove of trees and led his horse out. ‘Do you want to ride?’ He tried to make his meaning clear with gestures, but Sosanna shook her head.

  ‘As you like.’ Anselm waited until she started walking. He led the horse by the reins, whistling slightly. Slowly and reluctantly, she followed him, keeping a large distance between them.

  He only breathed easier when she was far from the cliff. There was something fragile about the woman, and though he suspected what had been done to her, he did not want to believe his men were responsible. They were too well trained, too disciplined.

  He glanced behind him to see where she was. Sosanna had stopped walking. In her eyes he saw terror. He followed her gaze and saw a small group of his men training.

  One of the cavalry soldiers spurred his horse forward. Though the man only wanted to speak with him, Anselm raised his hands to stop him.

  It was too late. Sosanna whirled around and began running. Anselm cursed and took off after her. He mounted and urged his gelding faster. Almost there.

  Seconds later, she stood at the cliff’s edge. Her eyes wild with fear, she leaped off.

  Christ’s blood. Anselm charged his horse forward, halting at the edge. Her blue gown billowed out in the water. He didn’t stop to think but threw off his helm and dove into the icy sea. The water hit him with the force of a stone. Thank God he hadn’t worn chain mail armour. The weight would have dragged him under.

  Anselm swam towards Sosanna, reaching for her prone body. He didn’t even know if she was alive. She did not respond when he touched her. Was she breathing? He fought to swim to shore, while keeping her above water.

  When they reached land, he staggered across the sand, laying her body upon it.

  ‘Breathe,’ he pleaded, rubbing her cheeks. He didn’t know how to save her. And, sweet Christ, she was so pale. Beneath his breath he murmured a prayer.

  God answered him, for a moment later, she coughed up the water, her frail body shaking with the effort.

  He held her hair back, stroking it while she inhaled gulps of air. And when she stopped, he held her close. It felt as though he had been the one to nearly drown.

  She closed her eyes, and he picked her up. If he took her back to Laochre, Ruarc would find out. The young hothead’s temper would undo any peace between the two sides. He had to help Sosanna, but not at such a cost.

  Anselm scanned the area and saw a small boat beached out of the tide’s reach. And he knew exactly where to take her.

  Chapter Nine

  I sabel’s arm muscles ached, but she set another stone on the wall. For half a day she’d worked at replacing the exterior of the ruined palisade. Though the walls were made of wood, there was enough limestone upon the island to build three donjons. And she was tired of living in someone else’s cottage when she had her own shelter, dilapidated though it was.

  Sadly, her stone wall was only two hands high.

  The work helped take her mind off Patrick. She longed to pound his skull with one of the rocks, for he still refused to see her as a wife and not a Norman. What more did she have to do?

  Around her, she saw the faces of the islanders watching her. No one spoke, but they watched her labour, taking turns to stare at her while performing their own chores. She felt like a travelling minstrel, offering entertainment.

  She backhanded her brow, wiping the perspiration away. A slight motion caught her attention. A young girl of possibly ten years stepped forward, her blonde hair twisted in a braid. She wore a grey léine, and her feet were bare.

  The girl spoke a lilting mix of Irish, words Isabel could not understand. But she did understand the clay mug the girl held out.

  ‘Thank you,’ she said, accepting the drink. The ale was not cool, but it was the first time anyone had offered her hospitality. She gave the mug back after she’d finished, offering a slight smile. Gesturing towards the pile of stone, she asked, ‘Would you like to help?’

  The girl glanced back at her mother, who shook her head. Isabel hid her disappointment. Instead she continued her work, setting stone upon stone.

  She stopped for a few bites to eat when the sun reached its summit. It was at that moment she heard excited voices. Many of the children scampered through the entrance to the ringfort, chattering about something.

  Isabel rose and saw Sir Anselm carrying a young woman. Both of them were soaked to the skin. She didn’t stop to wonder why he’d come to Ennisleigh, but raced forward. At the sight of the woman’s pale face, she recognised her. It was Sosanna, the silent woman from Laochre.

  ‘What happened?’ Isabel asked.

  ‘She jumped from the cliff,’ Anselm replied grimly. ‘Her brother is one of the Irish rebels. If he finds out what happened to her, he’ll blame my men.’

  Isabel understood. ‘Bring her inside the hut. Help me build a fire, and we’ll look after her.’

  The islanders followed Sir Anselm, hovering around the entrance to the hut. Isabel sent him in first and then stopped the people at the door.

  ‘Don’t worry,’ she said. One of the women stepped forward, gesturing that she wanted to come inside. It was the mother of the girl who had brought the ale.

  Isabel realised they would not believe her intent to help Sosanna unless they saw it for themselves. She beckoned to the young girl’s mother and her daughter. ‘Come and help me.’

  If they worked together, perhaps the woman might begin to trust her. Pushing open the hide-covered door, Isabel waited.

  The woman went inside without hesitation, and Isabel left the door open. Anselm had laid Sosanna upon a pallet.

  Isabel introduced herself and the Norman knight. She learned the child’s name was Orla, and her mother Annle.

  Annle knelt beside Sosanna. Her hands moved with the expertise of a healer, checking Sosanna for broken bones or other injuries. Isabel sat beside her, silently offering prayers for the girl’s life and that of her unborn child. ‘When did this happen?’ she asked Sir Anselm.

  ‘This morning, just an hour ago. I saw her leave and followed.’

  ‘Does anyone else know?’

  Sir Anselm shook his head. ‘I don’t think so. They’ll know she’s missing and that I took one of the boats.’

  ‘Will you go and tell Patrick? Tell him we are taking care of her on Ennisleigh.’

  ‘Do you think that is wise? The king may blame me for the accident. I was the only person who saw her jump.’

  ‘You had no reason to harm her. And all of us saw you bring her here.’ She waved her hand. ‘Go. We’ll look after her now.’

  He hung back, his eyes focused upon Sosanna. He cares, Isabel realised. For some reason the Norman soldier wanted to be assured that Sosanna would be all right.

  ‘You may come and see her later,’ Isabel said gently, escorting him out.

  After he had gone, Annle helped her undress Sosanna. The unconscious woman did not respond, and her skin was frigid. Annle touched the young woman’s stomach, and Isabel laid her hand upon it as well. They waited, and, in time, a small fluttering movement rippled beneath Isabel’s hand.

  She withdrew her hand, stunned that she could feel the unborn child moving. Never had she touched a pregnant woman before. Her mood grew sombre. Looking at Sosanna only taunted her with what Patrick would not give her. She refused to lower her pride again. When her father arrived and found her a virgin, Patrick could face the consequences then.

  Isabel studied Sosanna, who lay frighteningly still. Annle drew a coverlet over the woman, warming her frail body. She motioned for Isabel to wait and stepped outside the hut. Isabel stoked the fire to keep it warm inside.

  When Annle returned, she held a basket. She withdrew a mortar and pestle, along with a bundle of herbs, instructing Isabel with motions to grind the herbs. The mixture of comfrey and wintergreen were good for bruises, Isabel knew. She mashed the herbs and gave the mortar back to Annle.

  Annle spread some of the mixture upon a swollen spot on Sosanna�
��s arm. When all the minor cuts and bruises were treated, there was little more they could do except keep her warm.

  The healer lifted a pot of water to the hearth and then reached back into her basket for vegetables. She handed a bundle to Isabel, making the signs for food preparations.

  Isabel unwrapped a cloth package of peas and realised Annle’s intention to prepare a pot of soup. She wished she could ask questions about what other vegetables were ready this season. Perhaps they had onions to add for flavour.

  Her frustration intensified. In the days since she’d arrived in Erin, no one had offered to teach her the language. Well, perhaps it was time to start learning.

  ‘What is the word for bowl?’ she asked Annle, picking up a carved wooden bowl. The woman’s brows furrowed, not knowing what Isabel was asking.

  ‘Bowl,’ Isabel repeated.

  ‘Babhla?’ Annle asked.

  Isabel held up the bowl. ‘Babhla?’ When the woman nodded her head, Isabel brightened. Thank the saints. It was a beginning, at least.

  She walked around the room, pointing towards each item and asking Annle to name them. Then she repeated them back. Though Annle seemed hesitant, she answered Isabel’s queries.

  Hours passed, and several of the islanders came to visit. Isabel strained to distinguish the different words, but the stream of conversation was lost to her, much as she tried.

  Finally, Patrick arrived. His strong form seemed to fill the door frame, his dark hair falling upon his shoulders. A few cuts marked his face, and one hand was bound with a linen cloth, as though he’d been fighting. At the sight of Sosanna, he sobered.

  Isabel could not understand all of his questions, but Patrick seemed satisfied with Annle’s responses. Then, he dismissed everyone. Isabel got up to leave, but he stopped her. ‘I want you to stay.’

  ‘I thought it would be better if I left.’ It was hard to look at him, for she kept remembering last night and her embarrassment.

  Patrick removed his dark red cloak and moved to sit near Sosanna. ‘What did Anselm tell you? Was he responsible for her fall?’

  ‘She didn’t fall. She jumped, and he went in to save her.’

  At the doubtful look on his face, Isabel stood. ‘You don’t believe me.’

  ‘I don’t, no.’

  Her jaw clenched. How could he not see the woman’s pain? Couldn’t he guess that she’d likely been raped? The child growing inside her was an everyday reminder of her suffering.

  ‘Anselm brought her here,’ she reminded him. ‘He rescued her.’

  ‘He should have prevented the fall.’

  ‘And what was he supposed to do? Dive off the cliff and catch her?’

  ‘She shouldn’t have been out there alone.’

  There was worry beneath the shell of anger, and Isabel ladled a bowl of soup, handing it to him. ‘She’s hurting, and it’s more than just the child or her physical injuries. How long has it been since she’s spoken?’

  ‘Since last summer.’ He blamed himself for not investigating the true reason behind Sosanna’s refusal to speak. Ever since he’d brought the Normans inside the rath, she’d withdrawn even more.

  Had he known about the child, he’d have brought her to Ennisleigh sooner. The man who had dishonoured her might be here among them even now. He ate the bowl of soup Isabel offered, hardly tasting it.

  ‘Does the babe live?’ he asked.

  Isabel nodded. ‘I felt it move not long ago.’

  He was relieved to hear it. The shapeless léines Sosanna wore made it difficult to tell when the child would be born. But if Isabel had felt movement, it could not be very long now.

  ‘Has she awakened since Anselm brought her here?’

  ‘No.’ Isabel remained near the hearth. ‘But she did take some of the broth we fed her.’

  ‘Good. Stay with her tonight, and I’ll return on the morrow. Ruarc will want to see her.’

  ‘Have you told him what happened to Sosanna?’ she asked.

  ‘I haven’t, no.’ So far as he knew, Ruarc was still confined. He’d continued the punishment this day, wanting to break more of his cousin’s defiance. He didn’t want Ruarc starting a war.

  Then again, Sosanna was Ruarc’s sister. He deserved to see her, and though Patrick was wary of the man’s reaction, he had an obligation to arrange it.

  ‘Sosanna shouldn’t be around the others now,’ he told Isabel. ‘Except for Annle and you, I don’t want anyone else near her.’

  It would give the young woman time to heal, without having to face questions.

  ‘You want me to take care of her,’ she said, ‘when you believe the Normans hurt her?’ Disbelief shadowed her face. ‘She’ll scream at the sight of me.’

  ‘Then don’t speak,’ he advised. ‘Don’t let her know who you are.’

  ‘She has seen me already and knows I am Norman. I won’t lie to her.’ Isabel moved apart from him, feigning interest in a pot of simmering water. ‘I’ve been here for almost a sennight now. And in that time you’ve kept me away from everyone.’ Hurt glimmered in her eyes. ‘I don’t want to continue like this. I don’t know your language, I don’t know your customs.’ She lifted a dipper of water and watched it pour back into the pot.

  He wanted to say something to her, to explain it all. But how would she react, knowing that he intended to set the marriage aside, after her father had gone?

  ‘Do you want me to take you back to England?’ he asked.

  ‘Don’t be foolish. You and I both know that will never happen.’

  He stood and approached her, taking the dipper away. ‘And if I allowed it? Is that what you would want?’

  She turned to face him. ‘I want what every woman wants. A family. A home of her own.’ Sadness and regret crossed her face. ‘A true marriage.’

  Patrick didn’t apologise. Though he was sorry she’d become a victim of this bargain, he could never grant what she wanted.

  ‘You ask what I cannot give.’

  ‘No.’ Her voice held a note of sadness. ‘I ask what you will not give. And I don’t understand why.’

  ‘Walk with me.’ He didn’t wait for an answer, but held the door open. It was best to be honest with her, though she might not like the truth.

  Outside the afternoon had already waned into evening, a light breeze ruffling the tall grasses outside the ringfort. He led her to an outcropping of rock where the sea stretched before them. It was a favourite spot of his. It felt like looking out at the rest of the world. The rhythmic waves pulsed against the rocks.

  ‘I know you hate my people,’ she began. ‘But I am not to blame for the past. And you’re blaming me for my father’s deeds.’ She sat upon the grasses, leaning against a slab of limestone, and wondered why he’d brought her outside the ringfort. His mouth was set in a firm line, as though he were reluctant to speak.

  Weariness edged his eyes, and though he held the powerful strength of a warrior, his face was angular and thin. At his brows, the long strands of hair held a slight curve, as though they had once been war braids.

  ‘I told you that my brother Liam ruled over the tribe until last summer.’

  Isabel inclined her head, remembering that his elder brother had died in battle.

  ‘The people chose me to succeed him, though Ruarc also competed for the right to be king.’

  ‘What of your brothers?’

  ‘Bevan had no wish for it, after the deaths of his wife and daughter. And Trahern said it was my duty to take Liam’s place.’

  His arms rested against his knees, the leather bracers crossed. ‘You and I are more similar than you might think. Neither one of us can control our destiny.’

  Isabel didn’t like the direction of his conversation. ‘I don’t choose to live that way. Every man has the power to lead his own life. Even you.’

  ‘I am a king. My power belongs to the people.’

  ‘You are more a servant than a king.’

  ‘That may be. But I give what I must to help them.’ H
e reached down and picked up a smooth stone, fingering it in his palm.

  ‘What can I do?’ she asked.

  He tossed the stone away and shrugged. ‘Look after Sosanna for a time.’

  ‘And after that?’ She sensed a reluctance in his voice, as though he were hiding something from her.

  He stood, facing away from her. ‘Isabel, this is no place for you. I cannot undo our marriage, for it gave my people their lives. But remain at my side until after your father leaves, and I’ll help you gain your wish. I’ll grant you a husband who will treat you with the respect you deserve and give you children.’

  It was the last thing she’d expected him to say. Was he talking of an annulment? That, at least, explained why he hadn’t bedded her. Once, she would have felt overjoyed. But now, her feelings bled. She straightened her shoulders, wishing she could push away the anger and sense of being spurned.

  She rubbed her arms against the chill of the wind. ‘Is that what you want?’ she whispered. ‘To be free of me?’

  His grey eyes bore into hers. ‘It would be best, yes.’ Moving closer to her, he added, ‘It’s what you want as well, isn’t it?’

  ‘Of course.’ Her voice did not ring with much confidence. Now she felt even more foolish for her attempt to consummate their alliance. He didn’t intend to share her bed because he didn’t intend to remain her husband.

  ‘But the Church would never allow it,’ she argued. Though she tried to keep her face calm, inwardly her thoughts tangled in despair.

  ‘It isn’t impossible.’

  ‘Nearly impossible. My father—’

  ‘He’ll be gone by then, along with his soldiers.’ Patrick’s gaze shifted back to the sea, and a light clouded mist drew closer from the coast. The moisture dampened her lips, and she smelled the harsh scent of salt.

  After everything he’d put her through, knowing that this was a temporary marriage wasn’t as satisfying as she’d thought it would be. Instead, fear of the unknown future rose up to taunt her. Would she return to England? Stay here in Erin? ‘How long am I to remain your wife?’