Her Warrior King

‘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.’