Now she stood at the entrance and saw Ewan and the islanders struggling with the barrels of wine. There was no sign of the Norman soldiers, nor her husband. Her spirits fell, for she’d hoped they would join in the celebration.
She wanted Patrick to come, to see him once again. Though he had stayed apart from her, each sennight he’d sent more supplies, and always a gift. Once, he’d sent a mirror of polished silver. Another time, he’d sent silk fabric in the same colour as her ruined wedding kirtle.
They were almost gifts a man might send to court a woman. But the gift that moved her the most was when he’d sent the grey-and-white cat. She’d named the feline Duchess, and on many days the cat would curl up on her lap, purring softly.
‘Drink some wine,’ Annle urged, after the men had set up the barrels. ‘There is no need to be anxious.’
Isabel accepted the cup and took a deep sip of wine. The spicy aroma of fermented grapes mingled with the flavour of the barrel, and she forced herself to calm down.
Annle’s husband and the others had joined together to bring several low tables into the hall. The scent of roasting venison mingled amid the peat smoke, and as each guest arrived, more platters of food were set upon the tables. Boiled turnips, carrots, platters of salmon, loaves of bread, and even a dish of boiled goose eggs were part of the feast.
Isabel breathed a little easier when she realised there would be more than enough food. As the folk drank wine and enjoyed the meal, she sat down near the entrance where the night air blew inside. The wetness of rain mingled with the warm interior, and Isabel moved away from the downpour.
Conversations rose in a din of merrymaking, and though Isabel could now understand most of their talk, she leaned back against the wall. She didn’t feel comfortable joining them, not even after spending almost a season upon the island. Shyness prevented her from speaking to them.
‘Why are you hiding in the shadows?’ a voice asked. Isabel turned and saw Patrick. Her heart gave a leap, and she mentally berated herself for feeling like a lovesick maid. But it had been so long since she’d seen him last.
‘I’m not hiding.’ She did not move from her place, not knowing what he expected from her.
His black hair was pulled back, emphasising his handsome face. He wore a tunic of deep red with dark trews, and his sapphire cloak was fastened with an emerald brooch. Upon his head, he wore a circlet of gold that was slightly tilted. Gold gleamed about his muscled arms.
‘You look like a king this night,’ she offered.
‘It’s expected of me.’
Isabel set her wine goblet aside and studied him a moment. She reached out and straightened the circlet on his temple. ‘This looks better.’
‘I know of no one else who would dare to do such a thing.’
‘A king should not wear a crooked crown.’
‘It is called a minn óir.’ He took her hands from his temples and held them at his side. The touch of his rough palms took her by surprise.
She closed her eyes, afraid to look at him. Something cold and heavy fastened around her throat, and she opened her eyes. ‘What is this?’
‘A gift.’
She reached out and touched a silver torque set with amethyst. ‘This is too fine. Why would you give me this?’
His look grew distant. ‘I hadn’t intended to give it to you at all. But it is your right, as my bride.’
She shook her head. ‘I’ve no need for jewels.’
He shrugged. ‘Your dowry arrived this morn at Laochre. It will greatly help our people. This is my token of thanks.’
‘You could sell it and gain more supplies.’
‘It belonged to my mother,’ was all he said, and she understood why he would not part with it.
The weight of the silver was uncomfortable, for she did not feel worthy to wear it. ‘I am not their queen, Patrick.’
‘No,’ he admitted, ‘But this is my repayment to you. On the morrow, I will send the remainder of your dowry and household possessions for you to use here.’
She would rather have brought them to Laochre, her husband’s home. It seemed strange using the goods in a home that wasn’t truly her own. After spending all spring here in Erin, she still felt like an outsider.
Patrick gestured towards the islanders. ‘Annle tells me this celebration was your idea.’
‘Ewan said Trahern was coming to tell stories.’ She touched the torque, fingering the beautiful amethysts. ‘I did not want the people to feel unwelcome.’
‘You’ve done a great deal with the rath. It looks almost as it did long ago.’
Isabel tried to smile, but she couldn’t seem to muster it. When he reached out to touch her hair, she flinched. ‘What are you doing?’
‘This belongs to you also, as part of your bride price.’ He removed her veil and placed a silver circlet around her head, winding her hair around it to hold it in place. ‘Take my hand, and we’ll go.’
Isabel didn’t move. She felt exposed without the veil. Almost like a little girl playing with her sister’s jewels, pretending to be grown up. It seemed a mockery, for the circlet was far too similar to a crown. Only a queen could wear it. ‘I can’t wear this.’
He shrugged as if dismissing the matter. ‘The islanders will expect it of you.’
He didn’t understand. To him, it was a piece of silver. To her, it was a reminder of what she could never be—the lady of this tribe. She reached up and pulled it free of her hair, handing it to him. ‘Take it. I won’t pretend to be something I’m not.’
Consternation spread over his face, but he accepted the silver circlet. ‘If that is your wish. But it still belongs to you.’ He set it aside, placing it within a fold of his cloak. Then he stretched out his hand to her. ‘We must greet our guests.’
Isabel forced herself to take Patrick’s hand. His fingers closed over her palm and he added, ‘You invited Sir Anselm and a few of his men here tonight.’ There was an edge of warning beneath his voice. ‘Ewan told me of your request.’
Of course the boy would. Asking Ewan to keep a secret would be like asking the sun not to shine.
‘Yes, I asked them to join us.’ The Normans needed a night where they could see the Irish as friends instead of enemies. ‘I thought they would enjoy a night of feasting and celebration.’ She narrowed her gaze. ‘Will you deny them that chance?’
He held back his answer, studying the islanders who were devouring the feast. His fingers imbued warmth into her hands, and Isabel tried to mask her reaction to his touch. Her feelings hadn’t diminished at all since the last time he’d touched her. If anything, she was even more drawn to him.
‘I’ll allow it,’ he said at last. ‘But only because there are so few of them.’
Trahern entered the dwelling at that moment, greeting each of the islanders with a warm smile. He winked at Isabel, and Patrick led her up to the small dais. The eyes of the people watched her, and a few whispered at the sight of the silver torque around her throat. Though all of them knew she was Patrick’s wife, it was the first time he had publicly acknowledged her as such.
‘My brother Trahern has come this night to bring stories,’ Patrick began. ‘He talks too often, as we all know. But perhaps with good wine and food, we can listen to his tales.’
The crowd smiled their approval, and Isabel stepped back a little. Patrick took her wrist, forbidding her to shrink away. ‘I understand the Lady Isabel arranged for this celebration. Will you not honour her for her hospitality?’
Silence met his question. Behind the islanders, Annle raised her wooden cup in salute. Yet the others did not follow her gesture. Isabel’s skin coloured with embarrassment. She wished he hadn’t drawn attention to her.
Patrick’s gaze transformed into anger. ‘When you dishonour Isabel MacEgan, you show dishonour to your king.’ At that, a few tribesmen muttered words of thanks for the hospitality. Isabel wanted to sink into the floor and hide beneath the rushes. Her face burned with mortification.
Patrick gestured for Trahern to begin the stories. One of the men took up a round drum with a goatskin stretched across the frame, using it to accentuate the tale.
Isabel nodded politely, then moved behind the crowd of her guests. With any luck, she could flee and escape anyone’s notice.
But Patrick caught her first. ‘You cannot leave,’ he said softly in her ear. ‘It is your duty to stay.’
‘I have done my duty,’ she whispered. ‘Did it please you to see them spurn me?’
‘No,’ he answered honestly. He saw the stricken expression on her face. Irish or Norman, she was a woman who had tried her best to offer them a night of feasting. She deserved thanks for her attempt. ‘But your efforts did not go unnoticed. And it pleases me to hear you speaking Irish. I cannot believe you learned it so quickly.’
‘I had no choice. I’d be talking to grass, otherwise.’
She drained her cup, and he refilled it. ‘I am sorry.’
As she drank, he studied her features. Her golden hair shone in the flicker of the torch, the silver gleaming around her throat. Deep, copper eyes seemed to have lost their hope. He didn’t like the way they had treated her, though he had predicted it.
And as for himself, he’d tried to keep her out of his thoughts. But each day he found himself watching the island, wondering about her. He had expected her to live upon Ennisleigh, spinning and weaving. Instead, she’d learned to speak their language and rebuilt his grandfather’s home.
His hand moved to the dip in her spine, and her breath caught. She met his gaze, her lips parting. She was looking at him with a woman’s desire, as though she felt the same for him. He moved his hand across her lower back, needing to touch her. And though it was wrong, he’d missed her.
‘Would you like some wine?’ she offered.
He took her cup and sipped from it. Isabel’s mouth twisted. ‘I didn’t mean from my own cup.’
‘I like yours.’
She sent him a warning look, but her wariness sounded like a challenge. They listened to Trahern’s tale, and Patrick saw her face soften with humour. He reached to take a sip from her cup again, and she held fast to it.
‘Do you wish to fight me for it?’ she threatened, in a teasing tone.
‘I might.’ Right now he wanted to drag her outside in the rain and kiss her until no barrier lay between them. Instead, he released the cup and went to find his own. Apart from her, he studied his wife. She held herself back from the folk, feigning a smile. Though she pretended to enjoy herself, he noticed that she had a closer fellowship with the wall than with the people.
It bothered him more than it should, for it made her seem more distant. The green overdress and blue leíne accentuated her womanly curves, the fabric skimming her figure.
Patrick took a long sip of wine, forcing his attention away. The stories continued, and when Trahern stopped to enjoy food and wine, several islanders took up musical instruments. The mingled sound of harp and bodhrán drum joined in with the conversations of the folk.
Finally, the Normans arrived. Only six men had come, and thankfully they wore no armour. At first, the Irish didn’t notice them, for the Normans slipped into the background. Isabel held out her hands in greeting to Sir Anselm.
Patrick tensed, unsure of what his people would say. He doubted that the Irish were drunk enough to welcome the Normans. He hadn’t wanted them to come and would have outright refused his wife’s request, but for two reasons. Sir Anselm had begun training his Irishmen, transforming them from farmers into soldiers. He’d seen the results. They would be ready to face a Norman army soon enough.
And then, too, the presence of the Normans had kept the Earl of Pembroke’s men away. Dozens of chieftains had lost their lives after a Norman lord, Raymond Le Gros, had ordered their legs broken and their bodies tossed over the cliffs.
He’d been one of the few kings to escape, and he knew it was because of the enemy housed within their gates. The shadow of death had passed over them, and his people knew it not.
And so, he’d agreed to offer the men a brief moment of celebration. The reward of good wine and a night of entertainment seemed appropriate, particularly when it was only a few men.
For many of the soldiers, it was their first visit to the island. They looked uneasy, and Patrick wondered if Sir Anselm had forced them to come. Isabel excused herself to bring the men goblets of wine, and it was then that the folk finally noticed the Normans.
‘What are they doing here?’ one man demanded in Irish. His gaze switched to Isabel, filling with accusation. ‘Ennisleigh belongs to us. They’ve no right to be here.’
Isabel looked to Patrick for a response. Before he could speak, she raised her voice, speaking to the islanders in their own tongue. ‘They are my guests. This is my home, and all are welcome within it.’
‘She says that because she’s one of them,’ another remarked.
Isabel turned pale, her hands clenched. ‘Yes, I am one of them. But I’ve lived upon this island for the past season. And it is my right to invite whomever I please into my home.’
Patrick saw the impact of her proclamation. Though a few of the men and women did not seem to care, others began to leave. As each one passed beyond the threshold, they did not raise their knee to him, nor offer the expected salutations. He was their king, but he’d slipped further in their eyes.
It stung, watching his childhood friends turn their backs on him. And he saw Isabel valiantly trying to hold back tears. It was useless thinking that the men could ever be brought together. They could never be allies, only enemies.
A few of the islanders stayed, though not more than a handful. Annle stood by Isabel’s side, while Sosanna remained in the shadows.
When the rest had gone, Patrick addressed the group of less than a dozen men and women. ‘I thank you for not paying insult to my wife.’ To Trahern he asked, ‘Can you offer them another story?’
Isabel stepped through the crowd until she reached his side. With hopeful eyes, she asked, ‘Will you translate for my father’s men? My Irish is not yet strong enough.’
Patrick wanted to say no. He wanted to return to Laochre and abandon this disaster of a night. Why did she keep on trying? Allowing the Normans entrance to Ennisleigh had cost them the support of many islanders. Could she not see the rift?
But then she placed her hand in his. ‘Please.’ She did not beg or cajole, but the simple request made him feel foolish. In her eyes she looked upon him with hope.
He cursed himself for his weakness, knowing that he was going to give in.
‘If that is your wish, a chara.’
The warm smile on her face was genuine. She touched her palm to his cheek, and though he did not speak a word, he kissed her palm.
Isabel’s face flooded. ‘Go and sit with your brother.’ She gestured towards Trahern, as if he were not fully aware of his own brother’s location. ‘I’ll—I’ll get the men some wine.’
It took half a barrel of wine for the Normans to begin enjoying themselves. Patrick translated six stories, Isabel keeping his goblet full. He didn’t know how much wine he’d drunk, but the room swayed.
He wasn’t alone, for more than one islander lay against the wall, snoring from the effects of the drink. After a time, one of the soldiers asked to see the bodhrán drum. Annle’s husband picked up the smooth drumstick, the length of a man’s hand. The soldier grinned and tried to beat out a simple rhythm. It was terrible, but one of the islanders showed him how to hold it and eventually both were laughing.
When the wine barrels were empty and the food gone, more of the men and women went to sleep, curling up against one another in the Great Chamber. Isabel yawned, leaning against one of the low tables.
Patrick watched her, wanting to draw her into his arms and take her back to her chamber. Sleepy-eyed, she turned to the Norman soldier beside her and smiled in response to something the man said.
A darkness tightened in his gut. Though the man had done nothing more than spea
k to his wife, it reminded him of his oath to let Isabel choose another husband. His mind imagined another man touching her, giving her children. He didn’t like the thought, not at all.
He was about to snarl at the Norman to get away from his wife when Sosanna stepped towards the harp. Along with the others, the man moved over to watch while she seated herself with the instrument between her knees. The round hardness of her belly touched the golden brown wood while her hands plucked a mournful tune.
He hadn’t heard her play in over a year. Sosanna had often joined the other musicians during gatherings at Laochre, offering lively tunes that inspired men and women to dance. He’d almost forgotten the joy she’d brought to their celebrations. Ever since the harm that had befallen her, she’d lost her music, as well as her voice.
This song was a lament, enchanting those who were still awake. Others listened, but it was Sir Anselm who caught his attention. The knight watched with the look of a man noticing a woman.
Nothing good would come of it. But still, he said nothing. Anselm had saved Sosanna’s life, and perhaps that was all there would be between them.
When the song ended, Isabel rose and drew nearer. ‘Will the king grant me an audience?’ she asked, offering Patrick a stumbling curtsy. Her face was flushed, though from the drink or from embarrassment, he could not be sure.
‘What is your wish?’
‘Come.’ She took his hand and led him behind a wooden partition, dividing her bedchamber from the rest of the gathering space. He entered and drew the hide covering over the opening, granting them privacy.
Before he could ask another question, her arms wrapped around his neck. ‘I want you to kiss me.’
‘That isn’t a good idea, a stór.’ Even though he wanted to touch her, to thread his hands through her silken hair and to take what she had offered. The open invitation inflamed his senses, making him want to cast everything aside but her.
Isabel leaned in, touching her nose to his. Her woollen brat fell to the ground, as if forgotten. By God, she was beautiful. An enemy with the face of an angel.
‘Every man upon the island and the mainland believes that we are man and wife. In flesh as well as in name.’
Her Warrior King Page 16
