The MacEgan Brothers Series Volume 1

by Michelle Willingham

  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. Eyeing 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.

&nb
sp; * * *

  ‘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.

  ‘I could kiss you, you know,’ Isabel remarked. ‘Clever lad.’

  His ears turned crimson, and he didn’t look at her. Isabel’s expression tightened. ‘You understood what I said, didn’t you?’

  He made no reply, but his colour brightened.

  ‘I might have known.’ She tossed another brick of peat into the fire. ‘Well, then, what’s your name?’

  ‘Ewan MacEgan,’ he admitted. He took a long sip of mead, still not daring to look at her.

  ‘Ewan. And why did King Patrick send you in his stead? Did he have other things to do this eventide besides consummating his marriage?’

  Mead spewed from his mouth, and the boy choked. ‘He—he was trying to stop a war. Busy, he was. He sent me to give you food and to see what you needed.’

  ‘A war?’ She shook her head. ‘Do not be foolish. The only war is the one that will happen when your brother comes back here.’

  Ewan glanced towards the sack of food. ‘Is all the bread gone?’

  ‘No.’ She handed him another loaf, which he ate with enthusiasm. Isabel neared the fire and put her hands out to warm herself. ‘You’re young to be here alone,’ she remarked. ‘Who looks after you?’

  ‘My brothers.’ Ewan’s face turned distant. ‘Last summer my foster parents were killed in the battle. Patrick allowed me to stay here, but he hasn’t made arrangements to send me elsewhere. He’s been busy with the Normans.’

  ‘Shall I speak to him for you?’

  ‘No!’ Ewan tore off another piece of bread. Colouring, he added, ‘I like staying here.’

  Isabel supposed the men let the boy do as he pleased. Of course he would be happy. But then, she knew what it was like being separated from her family. If it did the boy no harm, he might as well finish his fostering here.

  ‘Why don’t you take me back to your brother’s fortress?’ she asked, changing the subject. ‘I assume there is more food there.’

  ‘Can’t.’ Ewan took a step backward. ‘If that’s all you’re needing, I’ll come back tomorrow morn.’

  ‘Why won’t your brother let me live upon the mainland?’ she asked. ‘What harm could I possibly do?’ Unless it meant seeing things she was not supposed to know about.

  ‘It isn’t you. It’s the others.’

  ‘Others?’

  ‘Your father’s soldiers. Patrick has to keep them apart from our men. Otherwise, they’ll kill each other.’ He stood and walked to the entrance, eyeing the grey sea. Isabel followed him and squinted at the opposite shore. In the distance, she saw several torches lining an embankment.

  ‘I should be going now,’ he said.

  She was not about to let the boy leave without answers. Patrick had admitted that the marriage was arranged to save the lives of his people. But why were her father’s soldiers still in Erin?

  ‘Tell me why the men are here.’ She did not trust Edwin de Godred to bring soldiers without a purpose.

  ‘Thornwyck’s orders.’ Ewan rubbed his arms, stepping closer to the fire. ‘But they may be fighting even now, if Patrick cannot stop them. It’s the first night he brought them together.’

  Isabel took another bite of
bread, struggling to think. ‘Does he want to unite the people?’

  Ewan shook his head. ‘Patrick doesn’t, no. It can’t be done. The Normans killed our folk in battle.’

  ‘But my father wants them to live together.’ Isabel understood the deeper implications of her marriage. Edwin intended to conquer the fortress and put her in command. He was counting on her to bring the men together, to become Lady of both sides.

  Lady of two sworn enemies. Dear God, she didn’t know if she could manage it. Or if she even wanted to venture into this battle.

  It was tempting to hide from all of it, here upon Ennisleigh. Her husband wanted her to stay away. She took a breath, steeling herself. Though it frightened her to even think of visiting a fortress under such conditions, she had to know the full truth of what had happened. Only then could she decide whether or not to stay. Was Patrick telling the truth? Or was he simply holding her prisoner?

  ‘Let me help you,’ she coaxed the boy. ‘I may know some of the men. I can ask them not to attack.’

  Ewan shook his head. ‘You must stay here.’

  While the boy rattled off reasons why his brother had forbidden her to leave, Isabel ignored him. She could not remain here any longer.

  She followed Ewan down the rocky incline to the sandy beach where he’d hauled the boat. His skinny arms struggled to push the vessel into the water, and she stepped inside before he could get any further.

  ‘You must go back,’ Ewan argued, his hands poised upon the wood.

  ‘I am going with you, and you will take me to your brother’s fortress. I’m not staying here.’

  Ewan’s hands lowered to his sides. He was staring at something out in the water. Isabel turned to follow his gaze and saw the flare of several torches. The flames cast reflections upon the black sea water.

  Amid the harsh glow of the torches, she saw a man with black hair. He wore a dark blue cloak, pinned with an iron brooch. His clothing fairly blended into the night and his boat moved forward with a swift grace. The familiar visage made Isabel grip the sides of Ewan’s boat even tighter.