скачать книгу бесплатно
‘I had no choice and well you know it. Stop dwelling on what cannot be changed. The men must be ready. Thornwyck has orders to destroy Laochre, do we fail to meet the terms of surrender,’ he reminded Bevan.
‘At least we’d die without bringing traitors among us.’
‘Not everyone wishes to die.’ Their gazes locked in an unspoken battle of wills. Patrick knew his brother would lay down his life in a moment, especially after the Normans had murdered his wife in the last battle. ‘Open the gates to the Norman soldiers. I will speak to them when night falls.’
‘How can you betray us like this?’ Bevan’s fists were clenched, his eyes burning with fury. ‘If you let them in, I’ll not stay.’
‘Then go back to Rionallís,’ Trahern urged. ‘You haven’t been to your own fortress since Fiona died.’
An icy cast of pain flickered across Bevan’s countenance. ‘I’ve no further need of Rionallís.’
‘Your people need you there,’ Patrick reminded him gently. The past year had not been kind to Bevan, with the loss of his wife and child.
‘I have pledged my sword to those who fight against the Normans. If my own brother will not join me, then I will go elsewhere.’
Patrick watched Bevan tread towards the shoreline, but he made no move to stop his brother.
‘Ruarc is gathering others against you,’ Trahern warned. ‘We need Bevan at our side, else you could lose your position as king.’
At the mention of his cousin, the tension inside of him wound tighter. ‘Ruarc is more interested in power than the needs of this tribe.’
‘Then do not lose the people’s faith.’ Trahern pressed a hand to Patrick’s shoulder. ‘They prefer you as their king, but I cannot say what will happen when you bring the Normans among us. Ruarc has not forgotten his defeat at your hands.’
Though his cousin posed a threat, Patrick could not allow one man’s dissent to sway him from his duty to the tribe. He steeled himself, his gazed fixed upon the empty horizon. The sun touched the water’s edge, spilling gold and crimson across the waves.
‘This night, we open the gates to the Norman soldiers,’ Patrick commanded. ‘Those who attempt harm towards our people will not live to see the dawn.’
The island held a mystical beauty, almost pagan in its contrast of stone and grass. Isabel’s throat grew dry, her eyes burning with unshed tears.
She walked the perimeter of the dwelling, studying the blackened walls. At one time, the wooden structure must have stretched skyward, with stairs leading up to the bedchambers. She kicked one of the support posts, noting that it was indeed solid.
A chill in the air brought goose bumps on her arms. Even now, the ground seemed to sway after being on the boat for so long. Her body ached with the need for sleep, but she could not succumb to it. How could she close her eyes, when she was surrounded by strangers in an unfamiliar land? As small as it was, she needed to study the island and become acquainted with the people.
A hollowed feeling invaded her stomach. Would they try to kill her because of her Norman blood? Patrick had said she would never reign as queen here. A part of her was grateful for it. What did she know about ruling anyone? She preferred to remain unseen, running the household without all eyes upon her.
After her sisters had married, she’d taken care of Thornwyck Castle. Nearly two dozen servants had worked under her command, and she’d taken pride in mastering the inner workings of the dwelling.
Not that Edwin de Godred had ever noticed, or uttered a word of praise.
Isabel shivered and walked back to the entrance of the donjon. In the distance, she saw Patrick speaking with his brothers. Trahern and Bevan disappeared down the slope of the hill, moving towards the boat. Her husband strode towards her, with all the fierceness of an invader.
His black hair fell against his shoulders, eyes of steel boring into hers. The folds of his cloak draped across his strong shoulders, while leather bracers encased his forearms. ‘I have arranged a hut for us, this night.’
‘I am sleeping here in the donjon.’ Where you cannot touch me, she thought. She didn’t trust him for a moment. He might claim he had no intention of bedding her, but eventually he would want sons.
Patrick seemed to read her thoughts. ‘Sleep wherever you wish. It matters not to me. But the nights are cold.’
Her skin prickled, but she did not look away. ‘You’re not staying here on the island, are you?’
He took another step closer until his body almost touched hers. His gaze assessed her, and in his eyes she saw fury. ‘As I said before, I won’t be sharing your bed.’
‘Good.’ Don’t look away, she warned herself. Though every part of her wanted to run from him, she held steady. ‘But I want to dwell at your fortress on the mainland.’ Once she saw his home and people, she would know whether he’d lied to her about the damage. And then she could decide whether to stay or leave.
‘No.’
Isabel continued, ‘I’ve had no choice in what has happened to me. I’ve lost my home, my family and now I’m forced to live here. Put yourself in my place.’
‘Put yourself in mine,’ he countered, his expression hardening. ‘I watched my people die at your father’s blade. Did you think I wanted a Norman as my wife?’
Isabel did not let him see how he affected her. ‘I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘No.’ He pulled away, his visage growing cool. His glance moved across the thatched cottages within the ringfort. ‘But to them, you are an enemy.’
And he viewed her in the same light, it seemed.
‘What am I to you?’ she whispered.
‘A means towards peace,’ he replied. ‘But you have my protection. Call our marriage what you will.’
Isabel closed her mind to the images he evoked. She needed no imagination to see the coarse barbarian before her. His tunic stretched against battle-hewn muscles. Black hair contrasted sharply against his warrior’s face and granite eyes. His face never seemed to smile.
‘There was no choice for either of us, Isabel.’ Like a droplet of water, his baritone slid over her. The very sight of him made her want to flee. At her belt, she palmed the familiar hilt of her eating knife.
A spark of amusement seemed to soften his eyes. ‘Do you think to stab me with that?’
‘Widowhood looks promising.’
He reached out and captured her wrist, holding her still. ‘I’ll return to you later with the supplies you’ll need.’
‘I hope not.’
He ignored her. ‘In the meantime, you may explore the island.’ He turned to leave and the wind slashed at his threadbare cloak, revealing its holes.
Her mind warned her not to be deceived by appearances. A king Patrick MacEgan might be, but beneath the cloak of his authority lay the demeanour of a warrior. Merciless, unyielding. And fiercely loyal to his people.
After he’d gone, she began traversing the island as he’d suggested. She needed to learn every inch of her prison, for only then could she find a way to reach the mainland.
Chapter Four
Patrick’s palm curled across his spear as he waited near the wooden gates. His brothers held steady by his side, all mounted and heavily armed. His skin prickled with coldness, as though he were standing outside himself. At any moment, the Normans might break their word and attack. He gripped the spear so tightly his knuckles grew white. Silently he murmured prayers that they wouldn’t be slaughtered where they stood.
The darkening sky turned indigo, storm clouds rising. He smelled earth and peat smoke, along with his people’s fear. And now it was time to open the gates to their enemy.
Behind him stood the remainder of his tribe. A motley group of farmers, blacksmiths, and labourers, their fighting skills were few. His best men had surrendered their lives in battle, and only these remained.
Each held his weapon of choice, from the eldest grandsire down to the youngest boy. The women stood further back, but they held their own weapons in readiness. Pale and stoic, they awaited his command.
‘You’re making a mistake,’ a low voice muttered. His cousin Ruarc had already unsheathed his sword and looked ready to skewer any man who passed through the gates. ‘They’re going to kill us all.’
Ruarc wore the blue colours of the MacEgan tribe and held a battle-scarred wooden shield. Like the others, his body had grown thinner during the harsh winter. At his temples, war braids hung down, framing his bearded face. ‘We should fight them. Drive them out.’ He lifted his sword in readiness.
‘We made a bargain.’
‘We can still fight. There are enough of us.’
‘No.’ Enough blood had been shed. Their tribe had been conquered, and surrender was the price of their lives. ‘I’ve kept my word, and I believe Thornwyck will keep his.’
‘Your beliefs will not matter if we die,’ Ruarc replied. The rigid hatred carved upon his cousin’s face would not be swayed. Patrick turned his back, refusing to justify himself. He had made his decision, and because of it, his people would live.
He caught sight of a young boy, hiding behind his mother’s skirts. The child’s innocent face burned into his mind. He studied each member of his tribe. Once, they had numbered over a hundred. Now, there were hardly two score in total. The heaviness of loss numbed everything else.
All around them, the wooden palisade was the only remaining barrier of protection. The dying scent of burning peat encircled the air. Rays of the sunset filtered through the edges of the gate while dusk conquered the day. It was time to face the inevitable.
‘Open the gates,’ he ordered.
Two men raised the heavy entrance gate. Beyond them stood two mounted captains and the Norman soldiers, wearing chain mail armour. Patrick mounted his steed and urged the animal forward.
Though he tried to maintain a façade of calm, it was difficult to still the energy rising inside him. What if they broke the agreement and attacked? He prayed he had made the right choice.
From a distance, the Norman army held their weapons and shields in readiness. Swords raised, and with arrows nocked to bowstrings, they awaited the command to kill. Eyes cold, they would fight to the death.
Yet, when he drew nearer, he saw the faces of men. Weary, hungry, like himself. They had obeyed their leader, taking the lives of his people.
Was he expected to welcome them? Though he had restrained Ruarc’s sword arm, his own desire for vengeance was harder to quell. For these men had killed his eldest brother.
Regret pierced him at the memory of Liam’s death. Though he could not know which soldier had struck his brother down, he’d not forget what had happened.
Darkness and anger filled him at the memory. He blamed himself. He should have reached Liam in time, blocking the enemy’s sword. And though he longed to release the battle rage within, he could not let his people’s lives be the penalty for it. His personal vengeance would have to wait.
Patrick beckoned to one of the captains, and the Norman approached, his hand upon his sword. Patrick palmed his own hilt, watchful of the enemy. ‘I am Patrick MacEgan, king of Laochre.’
‘I am Sir Anselm Fitzwater,’ the Norman replied. ‘Lord Thornwyck gave me command of these men.’
Sir Anselm did not remove his helm, nor did he release his grip upon the sword. The Norman’s cheeks were clean shaven, his lips marred by a long battle scar that ran to his jaw. His face was impassive, as though he were accustomed to his enemies surrendering.
‘The terms of the agreement with the Baron of Thornwyck have been met,’ Patrick said, handing him the orders with Thornwyck’s seal. ‘Your men may enter our rath.’
He granted permission, though it was like baring the throats of his people to the enemy sword. He still didn’t know whether the Normans would hold the peace.
‘Where is the Lady Isabel?’ Sir Anselm inquired.
‘She dwells upon Ennisleigh. You may accompany me there on the morrow to see for yourself.’ He glanced over at the island, and a sense of guilt passed over him. Though he hadn’t wanted to bring Isabel amid this battle, he didn’t like leaving her alone either. She would be tired and hungry. It was his responsibility to take care of her.
Sir Anselm shook his head. ‘I will see her this night to ensure her safety. Have her brought here.’
Patrick would not defer to the man’s commanding tone. ‘To do so would endanger her. She is safer upon Ennisleigh, away from this strife.’ He didn’t want her anywhere near the Norman army.
‘You dishonour her, if you do not place her as your queen and lady.’
Patrick’s hand moved to his sword. His horse shifted uneasily, sensing his anger. ‘She is under my protection, and there are those among my people who would sooner see her dead. I see no honour in that.’ The raw wound of defeat still bled in his people’s hearts.
‘It is her rightful place.’
‘Until we have brought peace between our people, she stays where I command.’ Patrick gestured for Sir Anselm to follow him. ‘Your men will join with mine this night in an evening meal. Then you may resume your camp outside the walls.’
‘Our orders are to dwell within the fortress,’ Anselm said.
‘Your men killed ours.’ Patrick tightened his grip upon the reins. ‘None welcome you here.’
‘If your Irishmen raise a weapon against us, they will regret it.’
‘As will your men,’ Patrick replied, anger threading through his voice. Though the captain might expect them to cower before his men, Patrick did not fear their forces. It was a larger threat that concerned him. Although this army had strength, it was only with the combined forces of Robert Fitzstephen, the Earl of Pembroke’s man, that they had defeated his tribe. He had no doubt the Normans would return, along with the Earl.
Patrick gestured towards the large wooden fortress he’d constructed. ‘Your men may enter our Great Chamber.’ He dismounted, handing his horse over to a young lad. Bevan and Trahern remained mounted.
‘Give your horses over to Huon there,’ Patrick instructed, gesturing towards the boy. ‘He’ll see to them.’
He led the Normans inside, standing at the entrance to the fortress as if to guard them. With bitter expressions, most of his kinsmen turned their backs and entered their own huts. They blamed him for this. A few stared, whispering amongst themselves.
Sir Anselm accompanied him inside the main dwelling. From the way his gaze fixed upon the wooden fortress, Patrick wondered if the Norman commander was assessing its worth.
The Great Chamber held no decorations, nothing save weapons mounted upon the walls. Ever since his mother’s death years ago, no woman had made her mark upon the gathering space. The sparse furnishings were functional with two high-backed wooden chairs upon a small dais and five smaller chairs for his brothers and him. The small backless X-shaped chairs were carved from walnut, the seats formed of padded wool.
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.’
