Her Warrior King. Michelle Willingham
Читать онлайн книгу.
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.
‘I’ll return afterwards,’ he assured Bevan.
‘Ewan!’ he called out to his youngest brother. Ewan was caught in the awkward age between child and adolescent. Despite his gangly thin frame, the boy ate as much as a fully grown man.
His brother eyed the roasted mutton before him, as if wondering whether anything could be more important. ‘What is it?’
‘I need you to go to Ennisleigh. My bride Isabel has no food or supplies for this night. Will you take them to her?’
Ewan’s ears turned red. ‘If you wish.’ He stuffed a small loaf of bread into a fold of his tunic, then tore off another bite of the meat. ‘Is she fair of face?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘I heard Sir Anselm say that many noblemen wanted to wed her. Like a princess from one of Trahern’s tales.’
‘She is a woman, like any other.’ Even as he denied her beauty, the vision of her face taunted his memory. The stubborn set to her mouth had caught his attention more than once. And her deep brown eyes held intelligence.
Patrick walked outside with Ewan, staring at Laochre. The wooden fortress wore its battle scars like the rest of the ringfort. Once, he’d dreamed of building one of the largest raths in Eíreann, a dwelling worthy of his tribe. Now he worried about whether they would survive next winter. Though the corn and barley flourished in the fields, he now had to feed even more people with the addition of the Normans.
He led Ewan outside to where his horse was waiting with supplies. ‘Go now. If it rains again, she’ll need a better shelter. I fear she’ll want to dwell inside the fortress.’
Ewan’s eyes widened. ‘Why?’
‘To spite us.’
‘Oh.’ He shrugged. ‘She’ll just get wet, then. But I’ll go and tell her you sent the food.’
‘Do not eat any of it,’ he warned.
‘I wouldn’t.’ The lad’s voice cracked upon the last word.
Patrick hid his smile. ‘Of course you would. I mean it, Ewan. Not a bite.’
He added another loaf of bread to the sack, tying it off. His brother rolled his eyes and set off to the island. Patrick cast a look towards Ennisleigh. He would come to Isabel later. Though she would protest, he had to make her understand that she had no other choice but to make the island her new home.
‘Forgive me for intruding, but might I please light a torch from your fire?’
Isabel spoke to one of the doors, a hide-wrapped entrance with a bundle of wool hanging above it. No one had answered her knock, but she knew they had heard her.
She tried again, knocking upon the wooden frame. Silence. She bit her lip, wondering what they would do to her if she dared open the door. In her hand she held a dead branch she’d picked up from the apple orchard. She had wrapped it in dried grass, but what she really needed was oil or pitch to keep it burning long enough to start a fire.
This was the third door she’d knocked upon. Her quest for fire was not going well, and it was getting dark.
The cosy beehive-shaped stone huts had wisps of peat smoke rising from them. An outdoor hearth stood nearby, but no one had made use of it this night. Blackened bricks of peat remained behind.
Very well. If they weren’t going to help her, she’d simply wait upon Patrick. She strode back to the fortress, pushing open the charred oak door. Her barbarian husband would return eventually. Surely he would not let her freeze to death. He’d gone to enough trouble to bring her to Erin that her death would be an inconvenience.
A low growl rumbled from her stomach. She hadn’t eaten since that small meat pie earlier, and there was nothing inside the broken-down donjon to salvage. At this rate, she’d be reduced to gnawing upon seaweed.
Isabel sat down upon a flat tree stump left behind as a stool and surveyed her dwelling. She had inspected every inch of the fortress, fully aware that the islanders were watching her from inside their huts.
Good. Let them stare. Let them see she was not the enemy they seemed to believe.
Weaponless and alone, her skin prickled with uneasiness. Sometimes the echo of voices carried upon the wind. They spoke in Irish, a language unlike any other she’d heard. She’d tried to learn a few words, but to little avail. The foreign sound had a musical quality to it, and in no way did it resemble the Norman tongue.
She had to learn it. If the king expected her to weep and gnash her teeth at being exiled, he was wrong. She would find a way to survive here.
Night cast its shadowed cloak upon the land, and she shivered in the evening chill. Perhaps she should have stormed one of the stone huts, demanding a torch. Of course, given their cool reception, she supposed they’d sooner set her on fire than give her aid.
A harsh wind cut through her woollen shawl, and Isabel moved towards a more sheltered part of the fortress. She should have accepted her husband’s offer for a hut of her own.
The sound of footsteps made her heart quicken. Isabel reached down and grabbed a small stone.
Of course, if the man had a sword or arrows, the rock would do naught more than give him a headache. Still, it made her feel better. Was it her husband? Or someone coming to harm her? Isabel clutched the rock tighter.
A man’s shadow fell across the darkened ruins of the castle. No, not a man’s. A boy’s.
A young lad with scraggly fair hair stepped across the threshold. He looked as though he’d never made use of a comb. In his hand he held out a sack.
‘What is it?’ she asked, but he made no reply. Instead, he moved forward and handed her the bundle.
Bread. The warm yeasty smell made her mouth water. She hesitated, wondering if Patrick had sent him. ‘Is this for me?’
He gestured towards the supplies, his eyes watching the food. Isabel took the hint and tore off a piece of bread, handing it to him.
‘I suppose you do not speak my language.’
The boy devoured the bread, behaving as though he hadn’t heard her. She found a jug of mead inside the sack and took a long steady drink. The food and drink improved her temperament, and she began making conversation with the boy.
‘I am sorry I do not have a fire to share. On a night like this, it would make my donjon more comfortable.’
She finished the bread and handed the boy the mead to take a sip. He drank deeply and gave it back. ‘Of course, your islanders