Her Warrior King

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.’