‘Going somewhere, my wife?’
CHAPTER FIVE
Her husband was not alone. A soldier sat behind him in the small water vessel, wearing chain mail armour and a Norman conical helm. One of her father’s men, she realised. Why was he here? Had Edwin de Godred come for her? No, if her father had arrived in Erin, he would be here himself.
‘I thought you were occupied with preventing a war,’ Isabel said, stiffening under Patrick’s gaze. She didn’t move from her position, behaving as if there was nothing wrong with sitting in a boat trapped upon the beach. ‘Shouldn’t you be protecting your people from the terrible Normans?’
In one motion, Patrick lifted her from Ewan’s boat and carried her further up the shore. She gritted her teeth, annoyed that he still treated her like a sack of grain.
The Norman soldier blinked at the action, but said nothing. Ewan retreated back to his own boat, rowing towards the opposite shore. He looked eager to be away, and Isabel cursed herself for not seizing the opportunity earlier. There was still the second boat, however.
Patrick continued walking uphill, carrying her in his arms. The outside temperature had dropped, the moonlight sliding out from behind a cloud. For a moment, she contemplated struggling and fighting against him. She really ought to, but his warmth cut through her chilled skin, easing her discomfort. The taut muscles and warm male skin against her own should have terrified her. Instead, deep within, something stirred. He made her feel protected, somehow.
‘Why did you come here?’ she asked.
‘To ensure your safety.’ Effortlessly, he carried her to the top of the hill, ducking beneath the entrance to the rath. Behind them, the Norman soldier followed. The man appeared distinctly uncomfortable.
‘Put me down, please.’
Patrick lowered her to stand beside him, but did not relinquish his grip upon her hand. The Norman drew near, his expression frowning.
‘Who is he?’
‘Sir Anselm. He won’t be staying long.’
Isabel’s suspicions deepened. The knight was one of her father’s men, but why would Patrick bring him here this late? ‘Why did he come?’
‘Your father sent him to ensure that I have not harmed you.’
She didn’t believe him. There was another reason for the knight’s presence. With horror, her imagination conjured up another idea. ‘He’s not planning to…witness anything, is he?’ Her face flamed at the thought of another man watching. ‘You said you weren’t going to…’ Her voice dropped away.
‘No.’
Thank the saints. Isabel hid her relief. Though she didn’t understand why Patrick refused to share her bed, she wasn’t going to question it.
When Sir Anselm reached them, he bowed before her. Isabel suddenly grew aware that she looked more ragged than the worst sort of wretch. Her hair hung down, matted beneath a rumpled veil. She wore the dung-coloured Irish gown Patrick had given her. But she held herself steady and inclined her head. ‘You are Sir Anselm?’
‘Aye, my lady.’
She thought she might have seen him before, among her father’s men. But since Edwin had never allowed her to speak with the soldiers, she could not be certain. His shield bore her father’s standard, and his chain mail armour was the same as the men who had guarded their castle. Though he was not an old man, his eyes appeared weary of battle. And in them, she saw his concern for her.
‘I am Isabel de Godred, daughter of Edwin, Baron of Thornwyck.’
Patrick’s hand tightened upon hers. ‘Your name is Isabel MacEgan. Wife to me.’
His possessive voice curled around her, invading her thoughts. A rapid pulse trembled beneath her skin. She was not accustomed to the new name, and it made her feel as though she’d lost a part of herself.
Turning to Sir Anselm, Patrick said, ‘You’ve seen what you wished to see. Now go.’
The knight did not move. ‘Have you been well treated, my lady?’ At Patrick’s glare, he amended, ‘Your father wished me to ensure your contentment.’
Isabel wanted to laugh. She’d been given barely any food, no roof above her head, and the most awful gown she had worn in her entire life. What was she to say?
‘She is quite content,’ Patrick interrupted, his hand firm upon her wrist. Isabel wanted to jerk away. There was no need to treat her like a child. But when she glared up at him, she saw an unexpected warning to be silent. The dark cast to his face made her hesitate.
Isabel suspected it would be best not to draw her husband’s anger upon her. ‘I have only arrived this day,’ she said. ‘I am certain when my husband brings me to the mainland fortress, my accommodations will improve.’
There. Surely MacEgan would have to bring her to his home now. But instead his steel eyes met hers with unyielding force. He would not be swayed by words. ‘In time.’
‘On the morrow,’ she argued.
‘When I have deemed it safe,’ he growled. Isabel bit back her frustration. He wasn’t going to relent, especially not in front of her father’s man. Well, then, she wasn’t going to give up either. She wasn’t about to let him exile her alone upon Ennisleigh.
To Sir Anselm, Patrick commanded, ‘Take the boat back to the mainland. At dawn we will discuss enlarging the rath to accommodate your men.’
Her heart sank. She’d thought he would go back with Sir Anselm. The idea of spending this night with him rattled her nerves even more. She had expected a night of discomfort in the broken-down fortress. But at least it would have given her a chance to plan her next move.
Sir Anselm studied Isabel, and she held his gaze. He was silently asking about her welfare. She hesitated, then braved, ‘Will I see you again soon, Sir Anselm?’
He inclined his head. ‘If my lady wishes it so—’
‘You will have other duties to concern you.’ Patrick cut him off, sending her a warning look.
The Norman knight retreated to the boat, and Isabel expelled a sigh of regret when he was beyond their shores. ‘I suppose there isn’t any hope of you leaving also?’
‘Not yet.’
‘A war could break out,’ she offered, panic rising inside her. ‘You might be needed.’
She wanted him far away from her. Though he claimed he had no intentions of taking her virginity, something about this man unravelled her sanity. There was a wildness to him, a man who would let no woman tame him.
Patrick took her hand in his, gripping her palm as if to prevent an escape. Though his grasp was meant to guide her towards the fortress, goose bumps rose up on her arms.
What did he want from her? Was he trying to keep up appearances, behaving like a husband? She didn’t understand him. Then, too, a small part of her wondered if he did not find her appealing. Some of her suitors had accused her of being haughty. And she didn’t know what she’d done wrong.
Isabel cast one last look at Sir Anselm’s disappearing boat and the torches flickering upon the opposite shore. A chill crept across her at the finality of her fate. ‘I am cold.’
Patrick paused a moment and took the ends of her woolen brat. He lifted the shawl to her shoulders and wrapped it around her. Though his hands only brushed against her skin, his light touch felt intimate. ‘I’ll take you some place where you can get warmer.’
Her cheeks flushed, and she closed her eyes, wishing she’d never spoken. ‘It isn’t necessary for you to stay with me. You could always go back to the mainland.’
‘I will, yes. But later.’
Later? What were his intentions in the meantime? She quelled her apprehensions and blurted out, ‘Bring me back with you. I promise I won’t be in your way.’ At least then, he would be more occupied with the people than with her.
He regarded her, his resolve steady. ‘I would not bring a woman in the midst of a war. And that is what it is, a chara.’
Isabel huddled inside the brat, wondering what more she could do. She didn’t like remaining behind, but convincing her husband would take time.
They stopped before on
e of the huts, and he rapped sharply upon the door frame. He spoke words in Irish, and his commanding tone brought immediate results.
A young family, a husband and a wife, answered the door. Behind them, Isabel saw small children sleeping upon pallets. After another command from Patrick, they roused the children and took them outside. Without argument, they opened the door to another hut and ushered the little ones inside. Isabel caught a glimpse of another family inside and worried about such a crowded space.
‘You forced them out of their home at this hour?’ she said, aghast. ‘What of their children?’
‘They obeyed their king’s command.’
She could not believe what he’d just done. ‘It is their home.’
‘And they will be well compensated for the use of it. It is only temporary, and they know this.’
‘There is a perfectly good donjon over there.’ She was lying, of course, for the remains of the dwelling did not have a serviceable roof.
He opened the door and held it for her. ‘They knew of my request before you came, Isabel. I gave them several sheep for it.’
She didn’t like it, but it relieved her somewhat to know of the payment. After she entered the dwelling, the deep warmth of the interior surrounded them. To her surprise, there was no fire. The heat radiated from large stones set in the centre of the hut. Likely they had been warmed inside the outdoor peat fire earlier. A faint light came from oil lamps set about the small space.
Patrick removed his cloak and set it upon one of the pallets. Isabel turned away, holding her hands out in front of the stones to warm them.
‘Did Ewan bring you food, as I asked him to?’
‘He did. Thank you for sending him.’ Her gaze moved over to the low straw-filled pallet. The thought of lying down tempted her, but Patrick’s presence made her nervous. In the dim light, his dark hair shadowed his face. She felt like a captive, awaiting her fate.
He moved to the low table where a skin of mead awaited. He poured the liquid into two wooden goblets. Raising the glass, he handed one to her. ‘Slaínte.’
She drank, the fermented beverage warming her stomach. For long moments he said nothing. He seemed distracted and reluctant to be here with her. When the silence became unbearable, she asked, ‘Did you always want to be a king?’
‘No.’ He sat down beside the table, his hand resting upon his knee. ‘It was the last thing I wanted.’ The resignation in his voice startled her.
‘Most men dream of such an honour,’ she ventured.
‘I only became king after my brother died. He deserved to rule our tribe.’ For a moment, his shield of anger dropped and Isabel caught a glimpse of the man behind the warrior. He grieved for his brother, like anyone would.
‘How did he die?’ She refilled Patrick’s goblet from the skin and he drank.
‘He was struck down in the battle against your father’s men last summer.’
‘I am sorry for it.’ She was close to her own sisters, and it hurt to think of anything happening to them.
‘So am I.’ He set the goblet down, and she handed him a piece of bread from the sack Ewan had brought. Patrick accepted it, grimacing at the hard texture. A problem with the leavening, she guessed. Perhaps bad water or rot. Mentally she reminded herself to look into the matter.
A thought occurred to her. Patrick had said that his brother had died, but was there still a queen?
‘What happened to your brother’s wife?’ she asked.
‘Liam was planning to marry NeasaÓConnor, the daughter of another chieftain. He never had the chance to wed her.’
‘Did he love her?’
Patrick shrugged. ‘I doubt it. But the alliance was a way to bring the two tribes together.’
‘Rather like our marriage,’ Isabel mused, but Patrick made no reply. She sat down across from him, pulling her knees to her chest. The hideous brown skirts draped to the floor.
She studied him, trying to see past the steel exterior he cast around himself. Lines of exhaustion rimmed his grey eyes. ‘You look tired,’ she said. ‘Why don’t you rest?’
He took a sip from his goblet, pushing it aside. ‘I cannot. Your father’s men entered Laochre this evening. Tempers are short, and I suspect a fight is brewing.’
From his guarded expression, she could tell that he did not relish the idea of more Normans among them. Isabel kept her stance steady, though he made her nervous. In the dim light of the lamp, his bare arms gleamed. Like a pagan god, she thought. A warrior who would not surrender anything that belonged to him.
‘You should leave me your bow, this time,’ she said. ‘If the islanders try to murder me while I sleep, I’ll need a way to defend myself since you won’t be here to stop them.’ She didn’t like remaining behind, helpless.
‘They won’t harm you.’
Though she wanted the weapon, likely he was right. The folk had not bothered to open their doors when she’d needed fire. It hurt to think that they, like her husband, did not want to know her.
‘It is late.’ He extinguished two of the lamps and stood, donning his cloak. ‘I must return.’
She wanted to sigh with relief. And yet, she felt guilty for sending the other family away. It wasn’t right for her to use this hut alone, when others had the need. But she didn’t voice her feelings. At dawn she would find a way to reach the mainland.
Isabel extended her hand in friendship. ‘I bid you goodnight.’
Patrick didn’t move towards her, nor did he take her hand. She could almost feel the heat of his body, though he stood across the room. He took a long moment, his gaze memorising hers. She found herself drawn to his mouth, to the rigid jaw and the way he held himself back.
Though her hand fell away, she sensed another fight within him. A rush of unexpected feeling pressed through her skin.
‘Goodnight.’ The door closed behind him, and Isabel released a tremulous breath.
Patrick MacEgan was far more dangerous than she’d expected.
For the first time in her life, she could not plan the future. The idea of remaining prisoner upon Ennisleigh frustrated her. She needed to know what was happening, and she hated being idle.
A heaviness gathered in her chest, and she closed her eyes, trying not to despair. The first step was to get off the island.
* * *
Ruarc MacEgan itched for a fight. He wanted to unsheathe his dagger and bathe it in the blood of the Normans. Belenus, what had his cousin Patrick been thinking, opening the gates to them? Did the king not realize the enemy intended to weaken them and take over the rath? Even a simpleton could see that.
He watched them, waiting for one of the soldiers to make a move. They had finished eating and their faces were flushed from drink. Good. Let the mead dull their senses, make their reflexes slower.
He moved alongside the benches, searching for a target. When he reached the last Norman, he bumped against the man, sending him sprawling to the floor.
As he’d hoped, the soldier jerked to his feet and drew his knife. Ruarc dodged the slash of the blade, while around him he heard the cheers of his kinsmen. He let the Norman move in closer, biding his time. The ivory hilt warmed within his palm while his blood coursed with anticipation.
A fist moved towards him, and he bent backward to dodge it. With no armour to weigh him down, he moved swiftly. His opponent wore chain mail, and Ruarc swung a kick at the man’s legs, hoping to trip him.
Instead, the Norman blocked the kick. A vicious pain sliced through his arm when he missed a step. Ruarc waited for an opening to bury his blade in the Norman’s chest. He circled the enemy…waiting…
‘What in the name of Lug do you think you’re doing?’ Trahern bellowed. Ruarc fought to stay on his feet, but the giant shoved him backward, slamming a fist into his jaw.
‘Fighting,’ he remarked drily.
‘Not any more.’
The Norman soldier offered a cocky grin, swiping blood from his lip.
Bastard. He’d have won th
e fight if Trahern hadn’t interfered. But Ruarc kept his temper and stared hard at the enemy. He would have his chance for vengeance and soon, if he had his way about it.
Ruarc wiped the stinging cut on his arm and strode outside. Muffled sounds of conversation, and the faint cry of a child came from the circle of huts.
He shoved the door open to his own dwelling. There were no sounds of welcome within, only a gasp of fear. He raised the oil lamp and saw the face of his sister Sosanna. Pale and frightened, she breathed an audible sigh of relief when she saw it was only him. Her matted fair hair hung uncombed about her shoulders. She had not changed her gown either, he noted.
A hard ball gathered in his stomach. She hadn’t been like this before.
With a tentative smile, Sosanna rolled over and returned to sleep. She didn’t speak, just as she hadn’t spoken a word in all these months. No one knew what had happened to her during the attack, but Ruarc blamed the Normans. Their father had died in battle, along with his youngest sister Ethna. Ethna had tried to flee from the battle grounds, only to be trampled to death beneath the horses.
He’d found her broken body and wept for her. And for Sosanna, he held fast to his bitterness. One day, he would learn what they’d done to her. And if the gods had mercy upon her, they would heal the invisible wounds.
The others had suffered losses. But instead of fighting back, instead of seeking vengeance, Patrick had taken a Norman bride. A traitor, he was. One who deserved to lose his power.
He could not bring himself to call the MacEgan his king. Though Patrick had won the people’s support, already Ruarc could envision his cousin’s throne crumbling.
He intended to see to it personally.
CHAPTER SIX
‘Sir Anselm wishes to speak with you,’ Bevan informed him. Patrick stepped outside the chapel, the air clinging with incense. He’d prayed for guidance at the dawn Mass. But the Latin rites had brought no comfort.
The MacEgan Brothers Series Volume 1 Page 34
