Читать книгу Her Warrior King - Michelle Willingham - Страница 8

Chapter Three

White sails rippled in the wind, and in back of the vessel, the horses whinnied their displeasure at being trapped in one place. Patrick could sympathise with them. After a full day of nothing but grey skies and an endless sea, he longed to walk upon solid ground. Though he sailed when necessary, he disliked being at the whim of the seas.

In the distance, the green hills of his homeland emerged, fragments of the shoreline ridged with sandy earth and limestone. Patrick’s chest constricted with emotion at the sight of it. As a lad, he’d once run along the strand, playing with boyhood friends. Now, he held a different memory of these shores. The Norman invaders had landed here, spilling the blood of his people. And that of his eldest brother Liam.

His hand moved to his sword hilt, feeling the unfamiliar warmth of ivory and wood. The weapon was one he’d inherited by right, but he had not grown accustomed to it. A ruby, worn smooth by generations of MacEgan kings, rested in the hilt. Once, they had commanded an imposing presence upon the land. But his father’s men were used to tribal raids, not organised warfare. Most could wield a sword, but they had no formal training in how to withstand the enemy in large numbers.

He meant to change that now. The only way to protect themselves from the Normans was to learn their weaknesses. He would bring the soldiers among them, watch their training, and force his men to learn. Then he could use the Normans’ own strategies against them in battle.

Mists encircled the island of Ennisleigh while storm clouds gathered along the horizon. The craggy rocks protected a small ringfort atop the hill, enclosing seven stone huts. Only a score of ageing survivors remained. Proud and set in their ways, the folk had refused to join the remainder of his tribesmen on the mainland.

His gaze moved towards his wife. Isabel’s golden hair tangled in a web about her shoulders, shadows lining her eyes. She studied the land without any emotion in her face.

‘That is where you will live,’ he told her, pointing towards the island.

Her posture stiffened. She looked as though she was considering throwing herself into the dark waters. He wouldn’t put it past her.

‘You will have your freedom there,’ he said softly. ‘And in this way I can grant you my protection.’

She shook her head in disbelief. ‘Protection? We both know it is my prison.’ She turned her face away from the island, her veil whipping in the breeze.

‘There is nowhere else for you to go.’ Why could she not accept the truth? Her father’s men had murdered his. His tribe would never bid her welcome upon the mainland. But Ennisleigh had emerged virtually unscathed from the battle. It was an island sanctuary amidst the fighting at his own fortress.

The harsh scent of salt permeated the air while gulls screeched around them. A low fog skirted the ghostly island. With his brothers’ help, he drew in the sail, eager to get off the ship.

As they neared the dock, his brothers slowed the oars. Bevan held the craft steady while Patrick stepped on to the wooden pier. He reached down and helped Isabel off the ship. She took a few unsteady steps, and then walked across the planks towards the beach.

‘Let the horses off for some food and water,’ Patrick directed Bevan. ‘Then we’ll take them back to Laochre.’

‘I’ll get food for us,’ Trahern offered. ‘I’m wanting a taste of something fresh.’

Before his brother could leave, Patrick warned, ‘Keep the islanders away. Tell them to remain in their huts for this day and not to bother Lady Isabel.’ The islanders loved nothing more than gossip, and he knew his Norman bride would provide fodder for many nights’ conversation.

‘Should we reveal she is your wife?’ Trahern asked.

Patrick gave a curt nod. Trahern took the pathway up to the ringfort entrance while Bevan led the horses along the strand. Sunlight illuminated the ruined rath of Ennisleigh. Patrick waited a few moments before extending a hand to help Isabel up the steep walkway.

She did not accept his assistance, but set her face with determination. He kept his pace slow while she steadied her footing upon the path.

‘Why are you leaving me here?’ Before he could answer, she added, ‘And if you tell me one more time it’s for my own protection, I might seize your dagger and cut out your tongue.’

He didn’t believe she’d do it. ‘You won’t. After all, you’re afraid of mice.’

‘I’m not afraid of you.’

He stopped and leveled a glare at her. ‘Perhaps you should be, a chara.’ Before she could dive towards the blade at his side, he trapped her wrists.

She struggled to break free of him, muttering, ‘I should have stolen a horse when I had the chance.’

Patrick didn’t know what she meant by that reply, but he would not relent. ‘As I said, you have your freedom here. Live as you choose.’

‘But stay away from you and your tribe.’

He released her. ‘Yes.’ There would never be a time when she could be one of them. The sooner she understood that, the better for both of them. For a moment, he tore his gaze from her and stared out at the azure sea.

A stubborn glint lit her eyes. He didn’t know what she planned, but he didn’t like it.

‘Does my father know of my exile?’ she asked.

The question was a subtle threat. ‘You are no longer his concern.’

‘I will be when he arrives at Lughnasa,’ Isabel warned. ‘If this marriage allowed you to save the lives of your people as you claim, then I should at least be allowed to live among the tribe.’

‘I never said you would be living with us.’ Her assertion did not concern him in the least. By Lughnasa, his forces would be strong enough to drive out all of the Normans.

‘Aren’t you afraid of what my father might do?’

‘No.’ Though he’d conceded defeat in battle and wedded Isabel, he refused to be commanded by a Norman. ‘Edwin de Godred holds no power here.’

And the Baron would hold no power within the privacy of their marriage, either. If Isabel ever bore a child, it would not be of his blood. After they’d defeated Edwin’s men, he intended to sever the union. It would have to wait until after the harvest, but that would give him enough time to gather the funds needed to coerce the Archbishop.

Isabel strode past him, her mood furious. When they reached the crest of the hill, she stopped short. A moment later, her lips parted in surprise.

She saw its beauty, as he did. One side of the island near the channel was fierce and rugged, while glittering sand embraced the side closest to the sea.

Isabel held herself motionless. Her eyes held a muted awe as she surveyed the landscape.

A moment later, her softness disappeared. Rebellion brewed in her eyes, along with something else…like sorrow. ‘I don’t belong here.’

‘No,’ he said softly. ‘You don’t. But it’s the only place for you.’ He closed himself off to her feelings. His duty was to his tribe. There was no place for guilt. And yet, he found himself fascinated by the soft lips that argued with the ferocity of a warrior.

‘I’ll find a way to leave.’

His hand captured her nape, her hair tangling in his grasp. With mock seriousness he added, ‘Then I’ll have to chain you.’

‘You wouldn’t dare.’

‘I’ll dare anything.’ He met her challenge, even as her hands struggled against him. Fury flashed in her eyes, and he caught himself staring at her mouth. Full, with an intriguing lower lip.

Immediately he released her, angry with himself for even considering touching her. ‘I will return to you this night, after I have tended to my own fortress. You’ll need supplies.’

‘Why bother? I’m sure your tribe would prefer that you starved me to death and mounted my head upon the gate.’

He didn’t comment. For some, she wasn’t too far off from the truth.

Tall grasses swelled in the breeze, brushing against their knees as they walked. Up ahead, stone beehive-shaped cottages stood against the perimeter of the palisade wall. He inspected them, searching for signs of damage. He was satisfied to see none. Only his family’s dwelling had suffered, and it could be rebuilt.

Smoke curled from the outdoor cooking fires, wisping tendrils of burning peat. His stomach growled as the scent of hot pottage mingled in the air. Just in front of the fortress, a large stretch of land bloomed green with seedlings.

He heard the soft sounds of conversation, but none of the islanders emerged from their huts. Good. They had obeyed his brothers’ warning. Even still, he was certain that all eyes watched them from behind the hide doors.

He led Isabel towards the ruined fortress built by his grandsire. It stood on the highest point of the island, its proud walls humbled by fire.

This was the place where he’d often run away from home. Patrick laid a hand against a charred beam, remembering the broad laugh of his grandsire Kieran MacEgan. ‘This dwelling is mine.’

‘How did it burn?’ Isabel asked. ‘Was it the invaders?’

Patrick shook his head. ‘The islanders set it on fire, so the Normans would believe they were already under attack.’

He didn’t blame the islanders for burning it. His grandsire would have wanted it that way. Better to burn it than to let it fall into Norman hands. ‘And they saved themselves,’ he added.

The main building was mostly intact, save the burned walls. It would not be a comfortable place to live, but it provided a dry roof. In most places, Patrick amended, recalling holes in the ceiling.

At that moment Bevan and Trahern returned with two sacks of supplies. Trahern held a steaming meat pie in one hand, while he bit deeply into another. Patrick caught a sack tossed by Trahern. He hadn’t missed the way Isabel’s eyes devoured the mutton pie with unrestrained longing.

He offered one to her, and Isabel half-moaned when she bit into it. Her eyes remained closed, her lips tasting the food as if she’d never been more satisfied.

Patrick jerked his attention away. The look on her face might be unintentional, but his body could not help responding to her. This marriage would be far easier to endure if his wife had a nose missing or hideous scars. Instead, she had the face of the goddess Danu.

Patrick nodded for Trahern and Bevan to accompany him outside the dwelling. ‘What news have you heard from the islanders?’

‘The Ó Phelan clan is gathering its forces,’ Bevan told him. A grim edge of finality lined his brother’s voice. ‘They’re planning to attack while we are vulnerable.’

And here he’d thought matters could not get worse. First the Normans, now another clan. The Ó Phelans had easily survived the invasion. He suspected they had turned traitor, bribing the Normans or making other arrangements.

‘Prepare the men,’ Patrick commanded. ‘They need to be ready for an attack.’

Bevan shrugged. ‘I could, but it will be for naught.’

‘You think me incapable of defending our tribe?’ Patrick asked, his voice cold and hard.

‘I do,’ Bevan replied. ‘Especially since you must open your gates to the foreigners. Norman bastards.’ He spat upon the ground, hatred brewing in his eyes. Shaking his head in disgust, he added, ‘You should never have wed her.’

‘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.