The desolate ringfort had been brought to its knees by her father’s forces. She could almost smell the smoke, hear the screams of those who had died. It hurt to look at it.
And she suddenly realized why her husband hadn’t wanted her to see it. This was not the glorious kingdom of a warrior, but the dying remains of a tribe. Isabel tried not to think of the women and children who had suffered. She huddled with her arms wrapped around her middle, struggling to think.
Seeing it brought back all the harsh memories of the destroyed village and the crying child. She hadn’t acted then, and she carried the guilt upon her conscience still.
The weariness in her husband’s eyes, the unseen weight upon his shoulders became evident. She felt it as though it were her own. Could she help him in this task? But her stoic husband would likely refuse any assistance, particularly from herself.
With each step forward, she understood the decision she’d made. She was going to stay here because it was the right thing to do. She couldn’t abandon those who had lost so much, not when she had married their king. Even if her marriage remained a distant arrangement, she was needed here.
Isabel moved toward the ringfort, passing through the underbrush and beyond small groves of trees. She stopped to rest, still shivering violently. Only the thought of a fire and her own stubborn refusal not to die kept her moving.
In the distance, she heard men’s voices. It was too late to hide, and so she squared her shoulders.
Behave like a queen, she instructed herself. She tried not to think of how bedraggled she looked or how angry Patrick would be when he discovered her escape.
Men surrounded the palisade wall, ripping away broken limbs and binding new ones in their place. Her father’s men worked alongside the Irish. Now and then she heard the lilting tones of the unfamiliar language, but not once did she hear her own tongue. The Normans held their silence. One stared at her, and Isabel’s throat went dry at the caged hostility in his face. It felt as if she were stepping into the midst of a battle. Her husband didn’t want the Normans here. And now she wondered if she’d made a mistake.
Isabel turned her gaze away from the man, moving toward the gate house. She nearly screamed when a boy’s face loomed before her, out of nowhere.
“Ewan,” she gasped. “You startled me.”
The boy grinned, his gamine face delighting in the trick he’d played. His shaggy blond hair curled around his ears, and he jumped down from the wooden ladder. “Come.” He grabbed her hand and led her inside the ringfort. “Before he finds you.”
Isabel didn’t have to ask whom he meant. She wasn’t entirely eager to face Patrick, not uninvited as she was. Like as not, he’d drag her away and force her back to Ennisleigh again. She obeyed Ewan, following him through the gates.
The interior of the ringfort was as bad as the exterior. Blackened by fires, destruction surrounded them. She shivered at the sight, her own nerves gathering strength at the thought of what Patrick would say. Then she stopped short when she spied a child.
A young girl stood nearby, so thin Isabel could see the sharp angles of her bones. Pale and weak, the child stared with curiosity. And she wasn’t alone. Other children, frail with hunger, eyed her and Ewan with interest.
Her resolve to help them only strengthened. No child should have to suffer, especially not from hunger. Whether Patrick wanted her help or not, she wasn’t going to stand aside.
“What happened to them?” she asked Ewan.
He didn’t seem to understand her question at first. Then comprehension dawned. “The Normans destroyed our winter stores. Laid siege, they did.”
Isabel expelled a breath. By the Blessed Virgin, how could her father ever believe the two sides could be brought together? The answer came quickly enough: he didn’t. He expected the Normans to conquer the Irish. And what of herself? Was she supposed to govern them as their queen, ignoring their suffering?
No. She couldn’t turn aside and pretend she didn’t see what was happening. As lady of these lands, she knew her duty was to protect the weak.
With her family’s wealth and her dowry, she could restore their fortunes and blot out the evidence of hunger. Her mind hearkened back to their wedding day. Patrick had warned that his people would die if he didn’t wed her. She hadn’t wanted to believe him, thinking that her father would never make such a terrible bargain. But seeing evidence of the conquest made it clear Patrick was right.
Ewan stopped in front of an empty storage hut. “You could wait here. No one will see you.”
“That isn’t why I came,” Isabel admitted. She had no intention of hiding herself. Though she had no idea how she would begin taking her proper place, she would find a way.
“I think you should stay here until Patrick comes,” Ewan warned, his adolescent voice cracking. “They cannot speak your language.”
He tried to pull her inside the hut, but Isabel stood her ground. “I’m not afraid of them.” Perhaps if she said the words aloud, they would become true.
Ewan looked about to protest again, but a male voice called out him in Irish. “Wait here,” the lad said. “Trahern has asked for me.”
Isabel nodded. “Go on. I’ll be fine.” And yet, at the moment, she felt terribly isolated and afraid. She waited until Ewan had disappeared and then studied the remaining huts.
The rich scent of roasting mutton filled her nostrils, and she decided to enter a large stone hut that appeared similar to her father’s kitchen. A group of women spoke Irish to one another, their voices mingling in pleasant conversation.
For a moment Isabel hung near the door, forcing away the shyness she felt. This would be so much easier if she could speak their language. She only knew a few phrases, hardly enough to converse.
This is your duty, she reminded herself.These are your people now.She stepped inside the hut. “Good morn to you,” she said.
