Michelle Willingham - Her Warrior King

‘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.’

‘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.