“What happened?” he asked, nodding toward one of the men.
Bevan pointed toward Ruarc’s dwelling. “Ruarc started a knife fight, and though Trahern broke it up, a few of the others started a skirmish later.”
“Any broken bones or more serious injuries?” he asked.
Bevan shrugged. “None that I am aware of. But I bloodied a nose or two, myself.”
“You shouldn’t have done that.” He needed his brothers to break up the fighting, not encourage it.
His brother’s face grew taut. “They deserve far more than that, and well you know it.”
Although Patrick trusted Bevan implicitly, his brother despised the Normans. It would take very little to provoke his temper, but Patrick couldn’t allow more fighting—no matter the cause. The problem was, he needed every loyal man to protect their tribe, and Bevan would fight to the death for the MacEgans.
“Now is not the time,” Patrick said firmly. “Call the men together and bring the Norman soldiers in. I wish to address all of them.”
He didn’t know what he would say to the men yet, but the Normans had to understand their limits. At the moment, they bowed to Sir Anselm’s authority. Though the Norman knight had behaved with dignity, Patrick wanted Sir Anselm’s oath of allegiance. Only then could he command the Normans and keep them separate from his men.
Patrick entered the Great Chamber, going over the words in his mind. In the privacy of his chamber, he changed into a more formal tunic and trews. Though he had not taken care with his appearance before, today he had to assume the role of king. If he could not control the situation, his tribe would weaken even further.
He wore the blue cloak given to him by his father. Though it held the bright color and silver threads embroidered by his mother’s hands, it weighed upon his spirits. Often he doubted himself. He didn’t know how to be the quiet, resolute leader his forebears had been. He understood the use of a sword easier than the use of a crown.
But the people had chosen him. Whether he willed it or no, he had to accept the responsibilities that came with the kingship.
A knock interrupted his thoughts. His brother Trahern stepped inside. “The men have assembled. Both the Normans and our tribesmen await your orders.”
Patrick gave a nod of acknowledgement. He opened a chest at the far end of the chamber and removed the ceremonialminn óirand arm bracelets. Beside the diadem rested a silver circlet and silver torque set with amethysts. It was meant for his queen. Isabel de Godred would never wear them. He’d sooner see the jewels destroyed than give them to a Norman.
“I’ve not seen you wear that since your crowning,” Trahern remarked, pointing to the golden diadem.
Patrick set theminn óirupon his head. “It has its purpose. Today the Normans must accept me as their king.”
“You look fetching,” Trahern teased. “Will you wear golden balls in your hair as well?”
Idiot. Patrick hid his grin and swung a light fist at his younger brother, connecting with Trahern’s shoulder. Trahern pounded him on the back, his laughter easing the tension.
“Go and make yourself pretty,” Patrick advised his brother. “You look like a swineherd.”
Trahern wore a faded saffron tunic and brown trews. Mud caked his boots. “But I am not the king, am I? It’s you who must make ceremonial speeches and give commands.” He shuddered, leaning against the door frame.
“Would that I could command them to leave.”
“You can feed them a feast to remember,” Trahern suggested. “It may put them in a pleasant mood, as well as our own folk. We’ve not had fresh meat in a long while. Or good bread. Do you suppose your new wife knows how to prepare better food?”
“She’d sooner poison us all, I imagine.” But he remembered the quiet night of conversation they’d had, and the way Isabel had silently filled his goblet without being asked. With her hair falling over her shoulders and the innocence in her eyes, she possessed a simple beauty. Patrick closed his eyes. She was not, nor would she ever be his queen.
“Give the orders for a feast,” he commanded his brother. “And have Huon bring my horse.” Once he had finished donning the royal finery, Patrick moved through the narrow hallway and down the spiral stairs.
Inside the Great Chamber, his tribesmen had gathered together. Men and women alike stood at both ends of the Chamber as if awaiting instructions. A few of the smaller children chattered, breaking the silence, only to be hushed by their mothers. Several men raised their knees in a gesture of respect.
He crossed the Chamber and stood at the threshold, looking back at them. None of the Normans were present. “Come. What I have to say must be spoken to everyone dwelling at Laochre.”
From the sullen expressions on their faces, his folk appeared more like stubborn children than grown men and women. But they obeyed, following him outside.
The Norman soldiers stood at the opposite side of the rath. Some of them were seasoned fighters, others barely past the age of his younger brother Connor, who was eight and ten. Patrick expected Connor to return at any moment, for he had finished his fostering a year ago.
He mounted his horse, leading Bel to the center of the ringfort. “There will be no fighting this day.” He let his gaze fall upon each man, woman, and child. “Not from my people.”
He turned to the Norman commander Sir Anselm. “And not from yours. Anyone who attempts to break the peace will suffer the consequences.”
