Across the water, he saw lights gleaming upon Ennisleigh. Though he had not lingered for long this morn, he had noticed a difference in the Norman soldiers. There was an air of contentment instead of anger. One or two had greeted him with a smile this morn, before he’d left for the mainland. Their sudden change in demeanour surprised him.
Was Isabel right to bring the wives and children? If the Norman soldiers had their women to fight for, would they join together and battle against the Earl of Pembroke with his tribesmen?
There was no question that if the breach could be mended, they would be the most powerful fortress in all of Eíreann. No longer would they fear any invaders. Isabel believed it was possible, that the Normans could become part of their tribe. He was beginning to wonder.
His hand moved over the hilt of his sword. Liam’s sword. Now the painful memory of his death seemed to be receding. For so long he had walked in his brother’s shadow, wanting to be as fine a king as Liam.
He would never be his brother. He could only make his own decisions and hope that they were the right ones.
The wind shifted, blowing a cool breeze across his face. He wanted to go to his wife, to share the night with her once more. But likely she’d turn him away after he’d refused her the right to join in the Lughnasa celebration.
He journeyed down the hill, greeting several tribesmen. When he came upon Ruarc, he walked alongside his cousin. ‘How is your sister?’
Ruarc shrugged. ‘Annle says the babe will come at any moment.’
‘Have you learned anything about which man harmed her?’
Ruarc raised infuriated eyes to his. ‘Would it matter to you? You seem to be more interested in bringing Normans among us instead of protecting those who remain.’ He increased his stride, walking away.
Patrick would not let Ruarc away so easily. He caught up to him and gripped his shoulder. ‘Do you think I like having them here, any more than you? A greater force is coming, and I mean to be prepared for it. If we war with the Normans now, they will kill every last one of us.’
‘I’d rather be dead than live my life a prisoner to their whims.’ His cousin’s rigid glare could not be convinced otherwise. It was futile asking him to bide his time.
Patrick sat down upon one of the rocks, the wild heather blooming around the hillside. His torch cast off sparks, the light growing dimmer.
Perhaps his cousin was right, and he’d blinded himself to what his people truly needed. If he meant to continue his kingship, he would have to choose between Isabel and the tribe.
And though he knew what the answer had to be, it didn’t hurt any less.
* * *
Isabel sat beside Sosanna, whose face was white with pain. Sir Anselm had come to fetch her, after he’d learned of the young woman’s labour pains.
‘Can I do something?’ he asked, standing near the door frame while Sosanna closed her eyes at another contraction. Annle hummed lightly while preparing the pallet with clean linen.
Isabel shook her head, hiding a smile. The Norman was behaving like an expectant father, though he had nothing to do with the babe’s conception. ‘It will be many hours yet.’
The knight muttered something beneath his breath about how women shouldn’t have to endure such pain. Though he departed, she saw him hovering, as if finding an excuse to be nearby.
The afternoon merged into evening, and later that night, Sosanna was fighting the pain, crying out with each contraction.
‘The babe will be here soon,’ Isabel soothed, speaking in Irish to the young woman. Though she had sent word to Ruarc, Sosanna’s brother had not yet arrived.
Sosanna gripped her hand, squeezing so hard that Isabel feared she might break her fingers. She bit back her own pain, for it was nothing compared to the woman’s.
When the pains only intensified, Isabel’s nerves grew more ragged. She had heard of women dying in childbirth, and she prayed to God she would not see it this night. For a moment she felt faint, while the sounds in the hut seemed to come from a faraway place.
Was this what she would endure if she bore Patrick’s child? She touched a hand to her midsection, remembering the way he had touched her, making love to her outside.
‘Isabel, go outside,’ Annle ordered. ‘Take some fresh air.’
She obeyed, stumbling out into the night air. Sir Anselm waited outside the hut. In his hands, he held a few springs of heather.
‘How is she?’
Isabel shook her head. ‘She’s in so much pain.’
Anselm pressed the sprigs of heather into her palm. ‘I doubt if she would want these, but you might give them to her.’
Isabel’s face turned with surprise. ‘You care for her.’
The knight nodded, his cheeks brightening. ‘She’s still afraid of me, I know. I won’t bother her.’
‘Have you learned any Irish in all this time?’ Isabel asked, holding the soft purple flowers.
‘A little.’ The knight stared down at the ground.
‘You could go and speak to her after the babe is born.’ Isabel did not mention her worst fear, that Sosanna would not survive the birth.
He gave a sad smile. ‘No, I do not think so.’
Isabel fingered the flowers. ‘I will give these to her and tell her they were from you.’
He shrugged and nodded, walking towards the edge of the ringfort. Unlike the others, he had no family who had come. He was a lonely soldier, and her heart went out to him.
With reluctance, she turned back to the hut where Sosanna laboured. Her face red, her hair dampened with sweat, the young woman had begun to push.
Isabel came to the opposite side to support her. She took Sosanna’s hand and gave her the heather sprigs. ‘These are from Sir Anselm,’ she said. ‘He sends his prayers.’
Sosanna crushed the flowers in her palm as she pushed again. The heather crumbled to the earthen floor, seemingly forgotten. Over the next hour, she fought back until at last a newborn cry emerged. All three women wept, and Annle laid the young child upon Sosanna’s stomach.
‘You have a son.’
Sosanna caressed her child’s head, her tears openly spilling over her cheeks.
Both women fell silent as Sosanna held her babe. Her hands ran over the babe’s head, touching the tiny fingers.
‘He is beautiful, Sosanna.’
But still the woman did not speak. While Annle helped her deliver the afterbirth, Isabel walked down to the water’s edge of the island, dipping her hands into the cool water.
Though they had triumphed in the face of death, Isabel stared up at the dark sky. No stars glimmered, nor was there a moon. Only when she put her hands to her cheeks did she notice her own tears.
The loneliness and longing for her husband gathered around her. She wished he were here, but more than anything else she wished he were not a king. She wanted an ordinary man, someone to take care of. Someone to love her.
After allowing herself a few more moments of self-pity, she rose and walked back to the donjon. Her shoulders ached from the long night, and her limbs were stiff.
To her surprise, when she entered the dwelling, a bright fire crackled on the hearth. Upon a low table, a cup of wine was poured, and a meal of salted fish, bread and crisp spring peas awaited her. Another platter held cakes drenched in honey, sprinkled with chopped hazelnuts.
A furry motion caught her attention, and she saw her cat Duchess striding across the threshold. The feline appeared confident, as though she owned the dwelling.
When the cat reached Isabel, she stopped and sat. Meowing loudly, she licked her lips.
Isabel couldn’t help but smile. ‘Would you like some fish?’ More meowing.
She ruffled the cat’s ears and broke off several pieces of the fish, holding it out. The cat nibbled the fish, purring and rubbing herself against Isabel’s legs.
Footsteps caught her attention, and Isabel turned to the door. Her husband walked inside, dropping a sack upon the floor. When he drew nearer,
her pulse gave a leap. He moved with silent authority, his body prowling like a wolf towards her.
Isabel remained standing, but her hand curled around the goblet of wine. She took a deep drink as if to gather her courage. Patrick stood before her, not touching her but near enough to make her feel the heat of his body. A muscle in his cheek tightened.
‘They told me Sosanna bore a son.’
‘She did. It was a difficult birth.’ Isabel sat down upon a large pillow beside the low table and took one of the honeyed cakes.
‘But she is all right now?’ He sat across from her and Isabel nodded.
Her husband watched her across the table, his eyes upon her as though she were one of the honey cakes. But he didn’t move to touch her.
She leaned her head upon her hand, resting her elbow upon the table. ‘What did you want to speak to me about?’
‘Us. Our marriage.’ He reached out as if to touch her, but Isabel drew back. Her senses were already in disarray with him sitting so near to her. She could smell the scent of pine about him, from walking out of doors.
‘What about it?’
‘Donal Ó Phelan asked me to set you aside and wed his daughter.’
She should have expected this. The chieftain of their rival tribe would certainly prefer an alliance with Laochre.
‘And you told him yes?’ Although she kept her voice calm, inside she felt as though a thousand knives were carving up her heart. Of course he would agree. Though she didn’t know when he would petition the Archbishop for a divorce, enough money would buy anything.
‘I refused his offer.’ He stood from the low table and offered her a hand to help her up.
She sensed an underlying threat and crossed her arms. ‘Why? Isn’t that what you do? Wed women in order to keep the peace?’
A blackness descended over his calm, and he took hold of her waist. ‘No. That isn’t what I do at all. I came to tell you of his offer because you would know it soon enough. You deserved to hear of it from me, not them. And I came to ask your counsel.’
She expelled an angry laugh. ‘What counsel? On whether to marry her in a fortnight or next season?’ Her anger was so great, she wanted to lash out at something. She kicked the low table, satisfied when some food splattered to the floor. ‘On whether to wear your blue tunic or your brown one to the wedding?’
He captured her, gripping her arms beneath his strength. Isabel fought him, but it was like trying to free herself from stone.
Lowering his voice to her ear, he murmured, ‘I wanted to know your desires. Do you still want your freedom?’
The husky tone of his voice, coupled with the nearness of his mouth, made her cheeks flush. His body was pressed up against hers, and she felt every inch of his lean, muscled frame.
‘Why are you even asking me this? You will choose whatever is best for your tribe. And we both know that I am not what they want.’
He didn’t speak, but reached up to stroke her hair. Isabel stepped back, lowering her head. ‘You know the truth, Patrick. I cannot stay here.’
‘You want a divorce, then?’
She wanted to cry out no, to deny it. More than anything she wanted to stay with him, to be a beloved wife. But even if he did not wed Ó Phelan’s daughter, another offer might come. She did not fool herself into believing that their marriage would ever be permanent.
His hands moved over her spine, caressing her. The length of his manhood showed the evidence of his need. And saints, she could not ignore her own wild desires. She wanted him to kiss her, to push away all the loneliness welling up inside. To love her.
‘Just leave me alone, Patrick,’ she whispered. A tear rolled down her cheek, for she could no longer hide the heartbreak she felt. ‘I want you to go.’
And perhaps then it wouldn’t hurt so much.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
Before the sun rose from the horizon, Patrick reached Ennisleigh. Trahern and Ewan joined him, each in their own boat. It would take many trips to bring all of the islanders and Normans to Laochre.
With each passing day, his nerves strung tighter. Though he was certain the two peoples would resent living together, he did not want his forces divided when the Normans arrived.
He wore the minn óir upon his head, the symbol of his kingship. Dressed in his finest clothing, he could only hope that the people would hold their peace this day.
They dragged the boats upon the shore and Trahern and Ewan accompanied him inside the ringfort. Whorls of smoke rose from the chimneys, and he could smell the faint aroma of morning pottage. His stomach rumbled, for he had not broken his fast.
‘I will get Isabel. You summon the others,’ he ordered. When he entered the donjon, men and women lay sleeping inside, their bodies twined together. He stepped carefully, moving towards his wife’s chamber.
Opening the door softly, he found her sleeping on the bed, the coverlet tangled beneath her long slim legs. Her hair hung in disarray about her shoulders while she slept. Lug, she was beautiful.
He moved with stealth towards the bed and sank down beside her. She didn’t stir, and he reached down to kiss her awake. At the first taste of her warm mouth, he lost himself. When it came to Isabel, he had no discipline any more.
He wasn’t sure if she was awake or dreaming, but he kissed her with all the pent-up need inside of him. His hands moved over her skin, down to cup the heavy breasts beneath her shift. His thumbs caressed the nipples, and she shuddered.
Then her eyes snapped open and she shoved him away. ‘What do you think you’re doing?’
‘Waking you up.’ And the thought of seducing her had crossed his mind as well.
‘Why are you here?’
‘Because I am bringing everyone to Laochre. If what your father says is true about the invasion, we’ll need all the men fighting together.’
She paled, but nodded. ‘Leave me, and I’ll dress.’
‘I’ve seen you unclothed before,’ he remarked. He drew closer, sitting beside her on the bed. ‘Unless you require my assistance.’
She drew back the bedcovers. ‘I don’t need you at all.’
‘Don’t you?’ he whispered. The warm, tempting female skin sent need roaring through him.
He pulled her on to his lap, trapping her in place. He let her feel how much he wanted her, giving her a chance to leave if she would. When she didn’t move, he kissed her again, giving rein to the tide of desire rising within him.
His mind cursed the fact that she could not take her place as queen. They had only stolen moments together, and by God, he meant to make the most of them.
Her bottom twisted against him, and it only made him grow harder. With one hand, he held her waist while his palm slid beneath her shift to her bare breast. He stroked the nipple, heard her gasp when he lifted the shift away. She sat naked in his lap, and he kissed her shoulder, palming both breasts as she stood between his legs.
‘Patrick,’ she breathed. ‘You shouldn’t—’
‘I know it. There are many things I shouldn’t do.’ He fought against the vicious desire gripping him. ‘Do you want me to stop?’
Silently she shook her head. Her full lips tempted him, her hair falling around her bare shoulders like a Saracen veil. Her breath hitched as he kissed every inch he could reach. He kneaded her breasts, turning her to face him before he captured her mouth again.
Like an invader, he seized his plunder, barely aware of why he had come. All he could think of was his beautiful wife standing naked before him. And gods, he wanted her.
Her hands moved down to his trews, unfastening the ties. He tore at his own clothing, needing her skin against his. She touched him everywhere, her palms against his heart, moving down to the hot length of him. He closed his eyes with the dark pleasure.
Before he lost control, he picked her up and laid her upon the bed. Joining her, he leaned down to kiss her breasts. With his tongue he swirled circles over her skin, until he sucked the nipple deep into his mouth. She let out a low moan, a
nd then he reached down to the centre of her womanhood. He rubbed it with his thumb, watching her strain to meet the pleasure. Abruptly, he plunged his fingers inside and she cried out, shaking in his arms as the waves overtook her.
He rolled over and lifted her above him to sit upon his manhood. She slid down, wet and hot with desire. For a moment she sat with him inside her, and the intense agony made him want to beg her to move.
He pulled her mouth down to his, lifting her hips to move her. Her nails dug into his shoulders, but she met his rhythm, taking him deep within her womb.
As he made love to her, his sense of possession grew stronger. He didn’t want any man to ever touch her, save himself. She belonged to him, and for a moment, he allowed himself to imagine a life with her. Even though it was forbidden to him.
He changed their position, standing up beside the bed. He pulled her hips to the edge of the bed and lifted her, driving deep inside. Her breath shattered and he growled as the fierce pleasure took hold. Before he could spill himself in her depths, he pulled out, his seed spurting beside her.
He had done it without thinking. Crestfallen, she turned away from him.
‘Isabel, I didn’t mean—’
‘Yes, you did. I know you don’t want a child. Not by me.’
He stood and got a cloth. While Isabel cleaned herself, he put on his clothing. ‘I am sorry.’ He tossed her the léine and overdress. ‘I did not mean to hurt your feelings. You caught me by surprise.’
Isabel moved to a table and picked up her comb. Running it through her hair, she covered it with a veil.
She counted herself a fool for allowing Patrick back into her bed. She’d let herself be ruled by the needs of her body, instead of thinking clearly. And now he wanted her to join him at Laochre with the rest of the islanders and her people. She dreaded it.
Outside the donjon, the folk gathered. Trahern and Ewan had loaded their boats, and a few of the islanders took their vessels, filling them with people. The grey sky released soft drops of rain, coating her skin with a fine mist. Isabel raised her brat over her head to shield it from the rain.
The MacEgan Brothers Series Volume 1 Page 47
