Silence descended over the people and rebellion brewed. He could feel their resentment, but it did not sway him from his decision.
“Trahern,” he called to his brother. “Begin pairing them up. One tribesman to each Norman.” Trahern’s eyes lowered, but he did not disobey.
“As a penalty for fighting, you will spend this day working alongside each other. Each man will be assigned to a section of the palisade wall or to the main fortress. You will begin the repairs today.”
A few of the Normans glared at him, defiance written upon their faces. But when they looked to their commander, Sir Anselm gave a silent nod. Though the knight had done nothing to undermine his authority, frustration seethed within Patrick. This was his fortress, and he could not have the men looking to Anselm for commands.
He stood back, watching as Trahern matched the men together. The Norman forces outnumbered them, and when a score of men remained, Patrick said, “Bevan and I will take the rest.”
“What should we do?” a woman asked. “Shall we work upon the thatching?”
“No,” he answered. “Slaughter several of the sheep and begin preparations for a noon feast for the men. Those who accomplish their repairs will be rewarded. Those who continue to fight will go hungry.”
With the message delivered, he ordered the remaining Norman forces to follow him. Bevan walked among them, with unshielded hatred in his eyes. Though his brother had threatened to leave, Patrick was grateful he’d stayed. The only men he trusted at the moment were his brothers.
He led the men toward Baginbun Head, in clear view of Bannow Bay where the Normans had landed last season. Patches of new spring grass shifted in the breeze while the sea tide swept over the sand. Reddish-brown rocks lined the edge, as though the earth had absorbed the bloodshed from the invasion.
He drew Bel to a stop when they reached the summit of the hill. “Do you remember the battle?” he asked the men, his voice grim. Upon their faces, he saw their memories. More than one man held the hollowness of grief from those who had died.
“Our men killed one another last summer. We won’t ever put that behind us.” Even now, he relived the moment when he’d seen his brother Liam fall, the sword cutting him down. He blamed himself still.
Patrick raised his eyes to the men. “And I know that both sides would like nothing more than to kill each other now.” His hand moved to the hilt of his sword, palming the familiar ruby. “But though we may be enemies, I ask that you live among us in peace until the end of the harvest.” He said nothing of Thornwyck’s intended visit, nor his own plans to send them back to England.
He turned to Sir Anselm. “And I ask for your oath of allegiance.”
The Norman knight’s face turned rigid with anger. His hand moved toward his sword, as if to defy the order. Before he could speak, Patrick added, “I am king of these lands. I have wed Thornwyck’s daughter, and if you are to live among us, you must accept our laws.” He rode closer to Anselm, meeting the knight’s gaze with his own hard stare. “I won’t tolerate disobedience. Or disloyalty.”
He addressed the remainder of the men. “Each of you has a choice to make. If you refuse to give your oath, you will live outside therath. We will provide you with nothing.”
“And what if we choose to take what we need?” Anselm asked, his dark eyes glittering.
“Then the battle will begin anew.”
He didn’t want war, but neither could he allow the Normans to take dominion over Laochre. Though he knew not whether he could gain their obedience, there was no alternative.
Thiswas,quitepossibly,the worst idea she’d ever had. The water was brutally cold, like knives against her skin. Isabel’s teeth chattered, her limbs half-frozen as she struggled to reach the opposite shore. The waves battered at her arms and face, filling her mouth and nose with salt water.
She clung to a broken segment of the palisade wall that she’d used as a makeshift raft, forcing herself to keep swimming. The stout limbs were tied together in a rectangular shape, but they would not support her weight as she’d hoped. She had placed a small bundle containing her gown atop it, but even that was soaked.
Isabel had made up her mind this morning that she would see the mainland and fortress for herself. She had not yet seen the extent of the damage, and she needed to know the truth. Not to mention, she was dying of boredom.
The problem was, she could not find where the islanders kept their boats. None were visible along the shoreline. She didn’t know how Patrick had reached the opposite side a few nights ago, and so she was left with no choice but to form her own vessel.
The mainland had seemed so close, and yet with each stroke, her arms felt heavier. If she drowned, she could imagine the souls of the dead laughing at her idiocy.
Well, she’d come this far. She had no choice but to reach the shoreline. With one arm grasping the raft, she continued swimming.
It seemed like hours, but eventually her feet touched bottom again. She staggered upon land, her shift clinging to her body. The late afternoon sun offered no warmth at all, and she couldn’t remember ever being this cold. Shivers coursed through her, and she clutched her arms, unable to feel anything in her fingertips. Perhaps her husband would find her dying body here, frozen.
From inside the bundle, she pulled out her shoes. Her fingers trembled as she tried to put them on. Though she hated the thought of donning a wet woolen gown, at least it would protect her modesty. The clammy fabric weighed down upon her, offering no warmth.
A fire. She dreamed of a roaring fire and warming herself before it. The thought elevated her spirits, and she trudged up the bank until she reached the rise of the slope. Shielding her eyes, she nearly groaned when she saw the distance to the ringfort.
But at least she’d found it. The fortress of Laochre dominated the landscape, with even fields of seedlings dotting the hills with new green. Beehive-shaped stone cottages with thatched roofs encircled the structure, while a wooden palisade wall protected the inhabitants. Beyond the wall, a large ditch and embankment offered further defenses.
When she reached the fields, Isabel pressed her hands to her mouth. At a closer view, she saw the blackened walls and the crumbling homes. She had imagined a place of grand wealth, a fortress worthy of a king.
But this . . .
