Each held his weapon of choice, from the eldest grandfather down to the youngest boy. The women stood farther 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.”
Ruarc wore the blue colors 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. And now there were hardly two score in total. The heaviness of loss numbed all 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 armor. 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.
He 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 ourrath.”
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, and 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 dishonor her, if you do not place her here as your queen.”
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 honor 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 return to your camp outside the walls.”
