Her Warrior King

by Michelle Willingham

  When the afternoon light began to fade, Patrick reached the outskirts of the Ó Phelan lands. He halted Bel, tethering the stallion to a nearby tree. A low hissing sound caught his attention and he saw his brother Connor waiting. He was relieved to see him unharmed.

  ‘Is she inside?’

  Connor nodded. ‘Too many of them are guarding her. I think you should bargain for her life, since Ó Phelan expects you. Bevan and I will help you get out.’

  ‘Bevan?’

  Connor pointed in the distance to where a lone rider approached. ‘He followed you here.’

  Patrick cursed. ‘Is no one guarding Laochre, then?’ He was relying upon his brothers to keep their tribe safe. Leaving the fortress in the hands of the Normans and Trahern seemed the greatest of risks.

  Connor shrugged. ‘I was busy guarding your queen. I had to stay a fair distance back so they would not see me.’

  It was too late to send both of them away. Inwardly he cursed his brothers for endangering themselves.

  ‘We’ll use our arrows first,’ Patrick said. ‘I’ll go in and you guard my back. Shoot anyone who moves towards myself or Isabel.’ He handed the quiver of arrows and bow to Connor.

  Moments later, Bevan arrived and Patrick explained his plan. He didn’t know what Ó Phelan wanted by holding Isabel hostage. There seemed little point in it, save revenge. But at least he had hostages of his own.

  ‘Does he think to exchange Isabel for Laochre?’ Bevan asked, dismounting.

  ‘There is no chance of that. Not with the Normans.’ With the armies sweeping across the coast, they could only pray that Thornwyck’s men would keep Strongbow away from Laochre.

  Patrick mounted his horse, and paused a moment as if to memorise his brothers’ faces.

  ‘Is she worth it?’ Bevan asked softly. The scar upon his cheek tensed. Patrick recalled the death of Bevan’s wife last summer. His brother had not cast eyes upon another woman since, vowing to remain faithful to her.

  Was Isabel worth dying for? A strange ache took hold inside, tensing at the thought of anything happening to her. Was it guilt? Or something more?

  He stared back at his brother. ‘She is worth it.’ When the words fell from his mouth, he sensed the truth of them.

  He rode towards the ringfort without looking back. The early evening sun blazed hot upon his face, and he shaded his eyes to see who guarded the rath.

  ‘Donal Ó Phelan!’ he called out. ‘I’ve come for my wife.’

  He waited outside for several minutes, not knowing what to expect. When no one came forward, he drew nearer.

  An arrow struck the ground at his feet, and seconds later, the archer dropped to the ground, an arrow protruding from his heart. Patrick’s hands tightened upon his sword hilt. Thank the gods his brothers were guarding his back.

  ‘Unless you want another tribesman to die, I’d suggest you call off your men and face me yourself,’ Patrick commanded.

  The chieftain revealed himself then, standing several paces inside the gate. Out of an archer’s range, but close enough to be seen.

  ‘My men stay at their positions,’ Donal answered. ‘It is your small escort against my entire tribe.’

  ‘Then you should be prepared to lose several of your men. Are they ready to die, I wonder?’

  Donal laughed, his hand resting upon a spear shaft. ‘Are you ready to die, Patrick MacEgan?’

  ‘What do you want?’ Patrick asked. ‘Isabel is of no use to you.’

  Donal shrugged. ‘Perhaps when you are dead, I’ll wed her myself. If your alliance was good enough for the Baron of Thornwyck, so should mine be.’

  Patrick did not reveal the rage boiling inside him. ‘I want to see her. Is she alive and unharmed?’

  ‘She is alive. As for unharmed…’ He shrugged, a smirk crossing his face.

  It took control Patrick didn’t know he possessed to hold his position. The idea of men beating Isabel, or worse, forcing themselves upon her, made him grip the hilt so hard, his knuckles whitened.

  ‘I challenge you for the right to her.’

  Donal’s smile never faded. ‘I have no need to meet you in a challenge. As soon as you cross the gates, my men will kill you.’

  Patrick nudged Bel forward in answer. ‘Then it will be war between our people. We’ll kill every last one of you, and the blood of your tribe will stain your hands.’

  Donal pointed behind Patrick. ‘I have my doubts of that.’ A rumbling noise sounded, and Patrick turned to see a small group of men surrounding the forest entrance where his brothers waited.

  He froze, not knowing if they were in danger or not.

  ‘Order your men back to Laochre, MacEgan,’ Donal commanded, ‘and I’ll let them live.’

  Patrick drew his horse closer. ‘I’ve another bargain in mind. It concerns your sons.’

  Isabel tried to break free of the leather bindings, but could not. The men’s attention was focused outside the ringfort, upon her husband.

  She couldn’t see Patrick from her vantage point. Why had he come? With the invasion, he could not leave their people. They needed his leadership.

  Dust coated her cheeks, and her eyes stung. He shouldn’t be here. They would kill him as soon as he entered the ringfort. She had overheard their plans of claiming Laochre for themselves.

  ‘Get up,’ one of the men commanded. He reached down and grabbed her arm, jerking her to her feet. Isabel stumbled, her arm burning with pain. The Irishman forced her inside one of the huts, down a narrow ladder leading to an underground storage chamber. He lifted the ladder away, imprisoning her in the small space. A moment later, she heard him draw the door closed, sealing off any light.

  The stale air terrified her, along with the suffocating darkness. She could not see her fingers outstretched in front of her face, and her heart raced with trepidation.

  Not knowing what they had done to Patrick was the most terrifying of all. Her cheeks grew wet, and oh, Blessed Saints, she blamed herself. He should never have left his tribe, not for her.

  But he had. He had risked everything to bring her home, though it would be futile. Selfishly, she wanted to see him one last time. She wanted to rest in his embrace and feel his arms around her.

  Her heart feared the worst, that they had already killed him.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  O ver the next few hours, Isabel explored the tiny space, feeling her way around the walls once she had worked her hands free. There was no other way out, save the ladder. And the distance to the top was well out of her reach.

  She sank down against the wall, discouraged. Then a noise caught her attention. Men were shouting, and she heard the sounds of fighting. She pressed her hands to the cool earthen walls, wishing she knew what was happening. Seconds later, light shone down the chamber, momentarily blinding her. A figure dropped down into the pit, before all light was extinguished again. Isabel heard a groan, and she held herself against the wall, hardly daring to breathe.

  ‘Bastards,’ the man cursed, and she recognised his voice.

  ‘Patrick?’ she whispered, moving towards him. ‘Is that you?’

  ‘Isabel?’

  She exhaled with relief when he crushed her to him. ‘Are you hurt?’ She touched his face and shoulders, thankful he was alive.

  ‘Only a few nicks. Ó Phelan tried to do worse, but he failed.’ His hand moved up her nape, stroking the hair. ‘What about yourself?’

  ‘I’m a little bruised, but it’s nothing serious.’ She closed her eyes, drinking in the luxury of his touch. Even in the darkness, she craved his nearness.

  ‘Why did you come for me?’ she asked. ‘I saw the Earl of Pembroke’s men.’ Part of her wondered if her father had forced Patrick here.

  ‘Why do you think I came, a chroí?’ His deep voice washed over her like the answer to a prayer. Then his mouth descended, kissing her as though he would never stop. He took from her, stealing her very breath until her knees trembled. Isabel gripped him, moving her hands over hi
s back, down to his hips. The rigid length of him pressed against her body.

  She willed herself to ignore her own desires. This was not the time, nor the place, for a stolen moment. ‘You shouldn’t have risked it,’ she managed, her voice catching. ‘They’re not going to let us go.’

  His long silence unnerved her before at last he spoke. ‘I swore I’d keep you safe.’

  ‘Your tribe needs you as king,’ she argued.

  ‘I’ve done everything I can for them,’ he said. ‘If God wills it, they shall succeed against Strongbow’s forces. When I left them, the men were standing together to defend the ringfort.’

  A strange sense of hope encircled her heart. ‘Together?’

  ‘Both our tribe and the Norman soldiers,’ he admitted.

  There was no trace of resentment, only acceptance. She could hardly believe it. ‘Can they withstand the enemy?’

  ‘I hope so.’

  She reluctantly moved out of his grasp. ‘You have to go back.’

  ‘I came to set you free. If your father learns you were taken, he’ll destroy us.’

  Was that the main reason he had come? She had wanted so badly to believe it was because he cared about her. Careful, Isabel, she warned herself.

  ‘What bargain did you make with Donal Ó Phelan?’ she asked.

  ‘I offered him an exchange of prisoners. We hold his sons hostage. My brothers have gone to bring them from Laochre, and they will bring you back.’

  ‘What about you?’ she asked. When he gave no reply, her heart sank. He knew, as surely as she did, that Donal Ó Phelan wanted him dead. Only then could he claim Patrick’s kingdom.

  She didn’t like the implications, that he was offering up his life for hers. ‘I won’t let you do this.’

  His hands moved around her shoulders, pulling her to him. ‘It’s all right, a chroí.’

  Tears burned her eyes as she gripped him around the waist. ‘I won’t leave you, do you understand? If I do, he’ll kill you.’

  ‘He may kill me anyway, Isabel. But it doesn’t matter. Our tribe is safe, and so will you be.’ He brushed away her tears, and Isabel was torn between wanting to strike out at him and wanting to sink into his embrace.

  ‘When he comes for you, swear you’ll go to Laochre. I’ve chosen my fate.’

  ‘You’ve chosen death. I can’t let that happen.’ She let her tears fall freely, resting her head beneath his chin. His strong arms encircled her while he murmured soothing words in Irish.

  ‘Our people may come for us,’ he offered.

  She didn’t answer. With the Norman invasion happening all around them, never could their tribe leave Laochre. Even if they did, it might be too late. She didn’t want to face being alone without him.

  He tightened his embrace, pressing a kiss upon her forehead. ‘We have tonight, a stór.’ He sank down with his back to the wall, holding her close and Isabel prayed for both of them.

  The hours slipped by, each one more precious than the last. She never knew if she slept, but she would not let go of Patrick, the man she loved.

  At last, the noise of men broke through the stillness. Patrick raised her to a standing position. ‘If something happens, if Donal does not keep his word, try to find the hut closest to the back of the ringfort. There is a storage chamber like this one with a passageway that leads to the outside.’

  There was hardly time to argue when the piercing sunlight cut through the darkness. A ladder lowered into the chamber. Isabel didn’t move.

  ‘It’s time for you to leave,’ Patrick said softly.

  ‘I don’t want you to die because of me.’ She touched his face in the darkness, as if to memorise every plane, every line of strength.

  ‘I don’t plan to die, if I can avoid it.’ He gripped her tightly and, as her eyes adjusted, she saw the regret upon his face. ‘Now go.’

  She hesitated upon the ladder, her hand curling around the rung. The idea of leaving him behind struck her as selfish and unforgivable.

  ‘Isabel, do this for me,’ he urged. ‘If you save yourself, there is hope for both of us.’

  And though she hated herself for climbing each rung, she forced herself to leave him. He was right; they would not let him go, but she could bring back help. Somehow, she would find a way.

  He’d lied to Isabel. He knew there was no hope for himself. Although Donal had agreed to let Isabel go free, in exchange for his sons, there would be no such bargain for himself. He suspected as soon as he was alone in the ringfort, they would take his life. Strangely, he did not fear death.

  The ladder lowered again. ‘Climb up,’ came the order.

  Patrick did, wary of the men. His eyes blinked to adjust to the light, and he saw one of the men holding a length of rope. The man tried to grab his arm, but Patrick anticipated the move. Crouching down, he swung his leg out and tripped his attacker. With a swift shove, he pushed the man down the storage chamber.

  The second man was not as quick to strike. Patrick blocked a punch, ducking out of the way. Then the next blow caught him in the throat. He gasped, fighting to move away from his enemy, but more of them came, striking at every part of him with fists and wooden staffs. The last blow struck behind his knees, and he hit the ground.

  Near the edge of the ringfort, he saw his wife. Isabel stood with two men gripping her arms, fury evident upon her face. At the sight of her, Patrick fought even harder to escape. He’d suspected Ó Phelan would not keep his word. But he’d be damned before he’d let anything happen to Isabel. If it meant keeping her safe, he’d willingly sacrifice himself.

  He tasted the dirt, hardly caring about the blows that struck him. All he was aware of was her. The way she carried herself, the way she held her emotions in, though he could see the pain in her eyes.

  No matter the cost, he wanted her to live.

  ‘Isabel!’ he called out. ‘Do you remember what I told you?’ He used her Norman language, so that none of the Ó Phelans would understand.

  ‘Be silent.’ Donal Ó Phelan moved forward. ‘Or I’ll slit your throat.’

  Patrick stared at Isabel, then looked towards the hut where he knew the souterrain passage led. It would bring her outside the ringfort and to safety.

  ‘You promised to let her go,’ he said grimly. What he wouldn’t give for a weapon right now. Donal had stripped him of his sword and dagger. He’d like to skewer the chieftain for what he’d done. ‘If she is not brought safely to Laochre, you will not see your sons again.’

  Donal shrugged. ‘She makes a good hostage. And once you are dead, she is free to marry again.’

  ‘The Baron would sooner kill you where you stand.’

  ‘Then she will also die.’ Donal shrugged. ‘Our men are strong enough to withstand the Normans.’

  Patrick couldn’t believe the man’s arrogance. Donal had never witnessed the Norman forces, never seen their disciplined style of fighting.

  The chieftain unsheathed a knife and moved towards him. Patrick glanced over at Isabel. She had precious seconds to run, and gods above, he prayed she would obey him. Time seemed to slow as he watched the blade lower.

  At the opportunity he threw himself towards Donal. His motion caught the chieftain off balance, and he wrestled for control. He palmed the weapon, holding the edge to Donal’s throat. ‘Release my wife.’

  The guards paused, but finally obeyed.

  ‘Now go!’ he ordered Isabel.

  Instead of fleeing towards the hut, she moved to a completely different hut on the opposite side.

  ‘Isabel!’ he cried out, but three men were already going after her. Donal rolled over, and the blade nicked his own skin. He fought against the chieftain, who had unsheathed his knife. The blade slashed before him, but even as he avoided the weapon, he knew he couldn’t reach Isabel in time to save her.

  She’d gone inside the wrong hut. He felt sick, knowing she was trapped.

  He wrenched himself free of Donal, slicing the knife at anything he could reach. When the c
hieftain retreated, Patrick started towards the hut where she’d gone. Moments later, one of the men stepped backwards, his hands raised in surrender. Isabel emerged from the hut, armed with a bow and quiver of arrows.

  Patrick couldn’t have been more stunned. She’d known where to find their store of weapons. And now she looked ready to kill the chieftain. Her arm held steady upon the bow as she stared at Donal.

  ‘Open the gates. My husband and I are leaving.’

  ‘The moment you turn your backs, our men will kill both of you,’ Donal admitted. ‘You’ve one choice, Lady Isabel. Stay as my hostage, or die with your husband.’

  He had no doubt Donal would kill them. If Isabel refused to stay, her life had no use for the chieftain. She kept her arrow trained upon Donal. ‘I’ve made my choice already. And I want the gates opened.’

  Patrick joined her side, stepping inside the hut to retrieve his own sword and shield. The bodies of the first two men lay dead upon the ground.

  With the weapon drawn, he stood beside Isabel. Any man who tried to harm her would have to go through him first. He raised the shield to protect both of them.

  One of the Ó Phelans tried to rush forward, but Isabel loosed an arrow into his heart. ‘Let us go.’

  Slowly, they left the ringfort, Isabel’s arms shaking with the effort of keeping the bow drawn. ‘Give me the weapon, a stór,’ Patrick murmured as he sheathed his sword. ‘Take the shield.’ His hand reached for the bow, and he kept the weapon drawn.

  ‘I’m sorry, Patrick,’ she whispered as she took the heavy shield from him. He kept the bow trained upon the tribe.

  Isabel blamed herself for everything. If she hadn’t been captured, none of this would have happened.

  And now both of them would die. She knew it as surely as she knew that they were abandoned by everyone.

  ‘It’s not your fault.’ They backed away slowly, Isabel casting quick glances over her shoulder. The meadow was silent, with no one to help them.