“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 tribesmen 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 the Normans had defeated his tribe. He had no doubt the Normans would return, along with the earl.
Patrick gestured toward 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 toward 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 his brother 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 trestle table, helping themselves to the food brought by the Cook and a few maids. As the soldiers helped themselves to 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 offered with the meal.
Patrick ate, hardly speaking to his brothers who sat at the farther 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 theGaillabhentrance. They would lie dead upon the fields, as they deserve.”
Patrick stopped and directed his gaze toward 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 after 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 toward 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. Eying 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.” His cousin Sosanna MacEgan—Ruarc’s younger sister—like many of the women, had suffered during the invasion. Afterwards, Ruarc’s fury toward the Normans had increased tenfold.
Patrick gestured toward his men. “Our men should not have to 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. At the age of twelve, 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.”
