Her Warrior King

by Michelle Willingham

  Patrick let them voice their opinions and speak freely about what to do. When the hour drew late and no decision was made, he called an end to the discussion. ‘We will speak more at dawn. Go back to your dwellings.’ He turned to the islanders. ‘If any of you are willing to open your homes to the Normans who need shelter, it would be appreciated. Our donjon has little space.’

  The men hesitated, but when Annle touched her husband’s arm, Brendan relented. ‘Anselm and a few of his men may come into our home.’

  Once he had agreed, a few others reluctantly voiced an invitation. They left in small groups until only a half-dozen families remained in the donjon.

  Patrick turned and saw Isabel standing near the door to their chamber. She extended a hand in invitation. ‘It has been a long night for you.’

  He wished he could close the distance and join her. But if he did, he’d spend the night making love to her instead of giving his attention to the problem of his people.

  ‘It has.’ He didn’t move but instead rested his hands upon his knees. ‘Go on to your chamber and sleep.’

  ‘What about you? Are you not going to join me?’

  He shook his head. ‘I’m going to walk outside for a while.’ After all that had happened, he needed to clear his mind, to decide what to do.

  ‘Shall I come with you?’

  ‘No. I would rather be alone.’ He stood and walked outside the dwelling. The night air chilled his skin, so he drew his cloak around him. The familiar sounds of people talking, mixed with babies crying and couples making love, surrounded the air. Though none had spoken to him of the loss of his kingship, he suspected they had talked extensively amongst themselves.

  He had never truly felt like a king while the rank had been his. But now, instead of feeling like a burden was lifted, the strain had increased.

  He blamed himself for letting this happen. He should have banished Ruarc long ago, for his cousin could not conceive of the greater threat.

  Patrick walked down to the water’s edge, the black sea gleaming against a silvery moon. A flickering light cast a golden glow upon the water, and he saw a solitary vessel moving towards the island.

  He narrowed his gaze, not understanding how anyone could have found a boat in such darkness. But as the solitary figure drew closer to shore, his face broke into a smile. It was his younger brother Connor MacEgan, back from his travels.

  Connor had spent most of his childhood at Banslieve, several days’ journey from here. They had expected him to return at any moment.

  He raised a hand, signalling his brother. When at last Connor arrived, Patrick helped him pull the boat upon the strand before embracing him.

  ‘It has been a long time,’ Patrick said in greeting. Connor had gained the height and stature of a warrior, though his face still held traces of adolescence. With dark gold hair and grey eyes, Connor had captured more than one maiden’s heart upon his rare visits to Laochre during his fostering.

  ‘I came from Laochre just now,’ Connor admitted. ‘What happened there?’

  Patrick explained the events while his brother listened. When he had finished, Connor added, ‘Already the Ó Phelans have claimed Laochre as their own. They’ve taken Ruarc prisoner and mean to execute him at dawn.’

  ‘How did you learn this?’

  Connor shrugged. ‘I know how to stay in the shadows.’

  Patrick knew it was so. Even as a child, Connor had sneaked up upon them on more than one occasion. Like a silent wraith, he could be invisible to anyone.

  The grim news sobered him. Though he disliked his cousin, Ruarc did not deserve to die. ‘We’ll have to get him out, then.’

  Connor’s attention flickered to his side, and Patrick saw Isabel standing nearby. A look of interest sparked in his brother’s eye.

  ‘She is Isabel MacEgan. My wife,’ Patrick said, with warning in his voice. Connor could charm the wings off a butterfly, and he didn’t trust his brother’s tendency to flirt.

  ‘This is my brother Connor,’ Patrick introduced.

  Isabel approached, holding out her hands in greeting. A warm smile creased her face. ‘Hello, Connor.’

  A wicked smile spread over Connor’s face. He lifted Isabel’s hand to his lips. ‘A pleasure it is to meet you, and a shame that my brother has already stolen you away.’

  Isabel’s face coloured. Patrick took her hand back, silently warning Connor to keep his hands to himself.

  ‘I…ah…think I’ll see if there’s anything to eat.’ Connor grinned, stepping back towards the ringfort.

  ‘Find Trahern and Ewan. We’ll speak about Ruarc in a few moments.’

  ‘I believe Trahern has…company this night.’ Connor winked at Isabel.

  ‘Then rouse him. We’ve more important concerns.’

  Connor disappeared towards the circle of huts. When they were alone, Isabel said, ‘You’ve brushed me aside all night. I want to know why.’

  What could he say? His life had been ripped apart, his people’s lives were in danger, and all because he’d considered keeping her as his wife. Even to his own brother, he’d acknowledged her as a MacEgan. More than anything, he wanted it to be true. He wanted her to stay, to bear his children, and to awaken at his side.

  But it was as though God had cursed him. He had no right to be with her, not after all that had happened.

  ‘I don’t have an answer to give you, Isabel.’

  ‘Do you have any feelings for me at all?’

  Words could not describe the way she made him feel. Jealousy when Connor had smiled at her. Passion when she kissed him. But more than all else came regret.

  He couldn’t see any way to bring her into his tribe. And with each day that passed, he hurt her more. No woman deserved this. The best thing he could do was let her go.

  ‘I shouldn’t,’ he said, hardly above a whisper. It was all he could give her. ‘Just as you should not feel anything for me.’ He glanced out at the black horizon, with only the soft shush of the tide against the sand to break the stillness.

  She reached out and with the touch of her hand upon his shoulder, he moved away. ‘Isabel, you were right about us.’

  Her hand drew back, her eyes filling with tears. ‘There is no us, Patrick. There is you and your tribe. And there is me.’

  He nodded, an aching pain seizing up inside of him. In the darkness, her face remained in shadows. But he could feel her pain, as though it were a tangible thing.

  ‘What are you going to do?’ she whispered.

  ‘My brothers and I are going to go after Ruarc in a few hours.’

  He heard her sharp intake of breath. ‘You’re not planning to rescue him.’

  ‘He is one of us and of my blood. We won’t let him die at their hands.’

  ‘He is a traitor to you.’

  There was ice in her voice, mingled with anger. Patrick couldn’t understand why she would spurn a rescue mission. ‘Ruarc is family.’

  ‘He wants you to die, Patrick,’ she warned. ‘I do not trust him.’

  ‘He wanted the kingship, not my death.’ He took a step closer to her, and the soft scent of honeysuckle drifted to him. It was as though he needed to be near her, even if it was wrong to touch her.

  ‘If you are caught—’ She didn’t finish the rest of her sentence. Her face paled, her hands tightening. And it was then that the truth struck him. She cared. He hadn’t expected it, didn’t know how to respond. Even now, he could see the way she was looking at him, like he’d wounded her.

  Instinct warned him not to embrace her. Instead, he held back. ‘If I cannot break inside my own home and bring back a single man, then I am not much of a warrior king, am I?’

  ‘Don’t go.’ Her plea rived through him. He sensed it was not a lack of faith in his abilities, but fear of what might happen to him.

  ‘I have to. It’s his life at stake.’ He needed to leave now, to join his brothers and make their plans. Instead, he found it nearly impossible to tear himself away from her.<
br />
  ‘I don’t have a good feeling about this.’ She wrapped her arms around herself, as if to guard against evil spirits.

  ‘Then pray for us.’ He left without saying goodbye, though it bothered him. He needed to set her free. For her own happiness, Isabel needed to leave Eíreann and take no regrets.

  With only a single torch to guide their way across the small channel, Patrick rowed alongside his brothers. Connor, Bevan, Trahern and Ewan sailed with him. Though he hesitated about bringing his youngest brother, Ewan was the smallest of them and could slip past nearly anyone.

  They had made their plans, intending to use the darkness to their advantage. As they traversed the mainland towards Laochre, they relied on instinct and familiarity to guide them. In the distance, he found himself looking back at Ennisleigh, his thoughts upon Isabel. She deserved so much more than he could give. And that man could never be himself.

  Against the midnight darkness, pinpricks of light lay ahead, along with the fortress they would enter. They took no horses, but kept stealth as they approached.

  ‘We could enter the souterrain passage,’ Ewan suggested. The stone passageway led beneath the ringfort to their storage cairns and a ladder brought them inside one of the cottages.

  ‘It will be heavily guarded,’ Bevan warned. ‘They would expect us to enter through it.’

  ‘Then what should we do?’ Ewan asked. ‘We cannot go through the front gates.’

  ‘Most of the men are sleeping,’ Patrick said. ‘There’s a broken section of the palisade wall we didn’t finish repairing. Connor can go inside first and find out what they’ve done to Ruarc.’

  He turned to Ewan. ‘Stay outside the gates where no one can see you. If we do not return within a few hours, bring Sir Anselm.’

  Ewan grimaced. ‘I want to go with you.’ A hint of sulking tinged his demeanour. Nothing bothered the boy more than being left behind.

  Patrick touched his younger brother’s shoulder. ‘There is a greater need for you here, lad. Be our eyes and our ears. If aught goes wrong, you’re our only hope.’

  The sense of responsibility silenced Ewan’s protests. He lowered his shoulders. ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Good.’ Patrick clapped him on the back. At his signal, Connor moved into his position near the broken section of the palisade. Patrick motioned for his brothers to keep silent. The Ó Phelans had posted only a few guards near the gates. His own people were strangely absent. The skin on the back of his neck rose up with warning. Though they had come here to rescue Ruarc, he sensed that there were greater dangers to his own folk.

  He should have brought the Norman army, storming the defences and ridding them of the enemy tribe. But he didn’t want to risk killing his own men in the fray. It was too dangerous.

  Connor disappeared inside the ringfort. Though Patrick trusted his brother implicitly, he disliked sending him into harm’s way. Bevan moved in beside him. ‘I’ve an idea, Patrick,’ he whispered. ‘If Trahern and I go through the souterrain passage, we can distract the others while you and Connor take Ruarc out. They won’t miss him.’

  ‘You’d be taken captive,’ Patrick argued. ‘I won’t allow it.’

  His brother shot him a wary look. ‘Do you believe Trahern and I to be that incompetent? We can hold off the Ó Phelans long enough for you to get out.’

  Although it was a sound plan, he hesitated. ‘When I get him out, we will join in and help you.’

  ‘Let us find out what Connor knows. Then we’ll decide.’

  They waited in the darkness for long moments until a shadowy figure emerged from the wall. Connor found them, keeping his voice at a faint whisper. ‘He’s being held inside the donjon. He’s bound and they’ve stripped him of his clothes. Donal Ó Phelan and some of the others are taunting him.’

  ‘Is he hurt?’

  Connor shrugged. ‘I could not tell what they’ve done to him.’

  ‘How difficult will it be to get him out?’ Bevan asked.

  ‘Very. But it can be done, if we have a distraction.’

  Patrick explained Bevan’s idea, and Connor agreed. ‘We haven’t much time. Dawn will break soon.’

  With silent understanding, the men dispersed into their positions. And Patrick prayed that they would escape this without harm.

  Chapter Twenty

  I sabel didn’t know why men refused help from women, but she wasn’t about to wait around for Patrick to come back.

  He’d gone alone with his brothers. Only four men and a young boy against an entire enemy tribe. The Irish folk at Laochre numbered hardly more than two score. Even so, there were not enough people to win this battle.

  Was he trying to die? Even now, with the kingship lost and his people under attack, he did not confide his plans. She didn’t know what he meant to do, and it bothered her that he’d shut her out so completely.

  The glittering blackness of the sea stretched before her, with only a small patch of moonlight to illuminate it. Isabel picked up a rock and hurled it towards the water. Though it struck the beach instead, it made her feel better to do something rather than stare out at the mainland.

  ‘Queen Isabel.’ A woman’s voice broke through her reverie. She looked towards the source and saw Annle and Sosanna standing behind her.

  Her heart ached, though her eyes remained dry. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Did the men go after Ruarc?’ Annle asked.

  Isabel nodded. ‘They’re going to save his life and bring him back.’

  Sosanna’s shoulders relaxed, and, in the faint light, Isabel saw the wetness of tears on the woman’s face. She was not carrying her babe, and Isabel guessed the child was sleeping.

  ‘Sir Anselm spoke with us about the Ó Phelan tribe,’ Annle admitted. ‘He told us that the Ó Phelans took control of Laochre.’

  Isabel didn’t know how, since Anselm’s grasp of the Irish language was little better than a young child’s. ‘They did, yes. Connor MacEgan was there and saw it. He’s gone with Patrick to free Ruarc.’ She hid her frustration from Sosanna, for she didn’t believe any of the men should have gone. Ruarc had brought this upon himself.

  Annle’s expression turned grim. ‘Anselm believes that the Normans should go and support them.’

  ‘Why would he? He and the other soldiers did nothing the day the Ó Phelans first attacked.’ Though she wished it could be so, she doubted if the men would intervene.

  Sosanna blushed, and Annle explained, ‘Because Sosanna asked him to.’

  ‘She spoke?’ Isabel drew closer, hope rising within her.

  This time it was Annle’s turn to blush. ‘Anselm is courting her. And there are other ways for a woman to ask.’

  Though Isabel had hoped that one day the Normans might join with the Irish, she didn’t believe the remainder of the Normans would help. They still held grudges against the Irish for the rebukes and teasing they’d suffered.

  ‘The soldiers won’t do it,’ she argued. ‘They are stubborn.’

  Annle shrugged. ‘Their wives side with us. They don’t like living in this tiny ringfort, and they have promised to coerce their husbands. By any means possible,’ she added, with a gleam in her eye.

  ‘Do you think it will work?’ Isabel asked. Her husband would never support the Normans going into battle against the Ó Phelans. But four men could never defeat another tribe, no matter how strong they were.

  ‘We can only try.’

  Patrick moved through instinct, his mind detached from the forthcoming fight. He was hardly aware of the danger, or the cold of night.

  Though he knew it was the right action, to save his cousin’s life, he hadn’t forgotten the fear upon Isabel’s face. She’d wanted him to stay behind, not to risk the danger. He’d seen the look in her eyes, the hurt.

  And though it was wrong, he had wished for a moment that he could comfort her. Even though his people had turned their backs on him, found him wanting as a king, he couldn’t abandon them. Not even for Isabel.

  They moved past sl
eeping men, treading softly. A few of his tribesmen saw them, but they held their silence. Patrick only breathed easier when he reached the interior of the Great Chamber. He and Connor kept their backs pressed to the wall, while they moved into position.

  Ruarc knelt upon the dirt floor, stripped bare. His hands were tied behind him, as were his ankles. With a lowered head, his cousin appeared the image of a broken man. At the far end of the Great Chamber, Donal Ó Phelan slept. He sat in the king’s seat, a silver cup dangling from his palm.

  Patrick let out a breath while Connor moved along the side wall, past the men. Once, an Ó Phelan yawned and raised his head, seemingly staring right at them. Then he let out a loud belch and settled back to sleep.

  Patrick and Connor waited in the shadows, until the night darkness transformed into the grey light of pre-dawn. They remained near the stairs, out of view from the others. Outside, he heard a high-pitched scream. The hairs on the back of his neck stood on end. She wouldn’t dare.

  But then, this was the woman who had swum across the channel to join them. She would dare anything.

  The sounds of steel clashing and battle cries emerged from the courtyard. The drunken men roused their heads and stumbled towards the door. Donal Ó Phelan continued to snore, his head leaning against the high-backed wooden throne.

  Patrick signalled to Connor to get Ruarc. His brother hissed to catch the man’s attention. Their cousin jerked in surprise when Connor emerged from the shadows, a knife gleaming in his hands. Ruarc tensed, as if unsure of whether Connor meant to murder him or to free him. Connor sliced the blade against the ropes and beckoned for him to follow.

  Patrick removed his cloak and tossed it. With a grateful expression, Ruarc covered himself. When they reached the back staircase of the Great Chamber, Patrick opened up a hidden doorway. It could only be unlocked from the interior, so enemies could not use it to breach their defences.

  Connor stepped through first, then Ruarc, and last himself. Patrick prayed he was hearing things. He needed Isabel to stay behind, safe upon Ennisleigh.

  They did not make it past the inner bailey before the Ó Phelans saw them. A small group of men charged with their swords drawn.