Their conversation ceased. No one smiled, no one offered any word of welcome. Instead, the women turned their backs on her.
She supposed it was the use of her Norman language. But nonetheless, she wasn’t a soldier. She had a right to be here, the same as them.
Isabel moved to stand beside the fire, not looking at the women. They worked in silence, keeping their distance. The roasting meat sizzled over the open flame, the fat catching fire. Isabel found a heavy cloth and turned the spit over the fire, while the warmth of the flames dried her sodden gown. She had never performed such a task before, but it seemed better than letting the meat burn.
The women’s infuriated looks made her wary. She decided to attempt speaking Irish, hoping that she would not sound foolish.
“I am Isabel,” she said. Her voice came out weaker than she’d wanted, but at least she’d managed an introduction. She forced a smile onto her face, feeling all the world like an outsider. Their language was not at all similar to her own.
At their blank expressions, she repeated her name again. “Isabel.”
A red-haired woman glanced at her peers. “Alannah,” she replied. Rapidly she spoke to the other women, and even as they stared at her, they made no gesture of welcome.
Isabel struggled to remember a simple greeting, but could not recall any of Patrick’s words. She acknowledged the woman with a nod. None of the others offered their names.
Alannah’s attention narrowed upon Isabel’s damp gown. She spoke rapidly, pointing toward the fabric.
“I swam,” Isabel explained, making swimming motions with her hands.
Their eyes widened, and one of the women giggled. Isabel did not return the laughter but instead pretended as if she didn’t hear them.
They talked amongst themselves, and no doubt it was about her. Isabel vowed to learn their language as quickly as possible. She could never be mistress here unless she learned to talk to the people.
The thought sobered her, for it was going to be much harder than she’d thought.
She warmed herself by the fire, her spirits sinking. Everything seemed so different here. Her husband preferred to exile her, rather than help her fit in. She stared into the fire, thinking of the night in the cavern when he’d drawn close to her. He’d claimed he would never touch her, and though she should feel grateful, now it made her even more aware of her loneliness.
The women began chopping vegetables for the noon meal, so Isabel moved forward and stood among them. As soon as she did, they moved away. She mustered a smile. “You aren’t going to make this easy, are you?” Since they didn’t intend to speak with her, it meant nothing if she spoke her opinions.
Seizing a carrot, she looked around for a knife. They eyed each other, as if trying to decide what her intentions were. She motioned to them as if chopping the carrot and finally, Alannah handed her a dull blade. Isabel scraped the skin from the carrot, behaving as though nothing were wrong. She had watched the servants prepare vegetables a thousand times before, but she struggled with the task. The knife slipped and knicked her finger. Every pair of eyes watched her.
“I suppose queens aren’t supposed to work, are they?” she muttered. “But since I haven’t anything else to do, I might as well be useful.”
After she had peeled three carrots, they stopped staring and began working at a distance from her. In time, their conversation resumed. Once or twice, the women’s gaze shifted upon her.
Isabel strained to catch a familiar word, but the language was too difficult to understand. Now and again, she heard a name, but that was all.
She kept her gaze lowered and caught another woman staring at her from the shadows. The woman had an unkempt appearance to her. Her long fair hair hung in greasy ropes around her dirty face. The gown she wore was stained and the hemline frayed.
The woman reminded her of a wild animal, too afraid to draw near. Isabel offered a slight smile, but she did not return it.
“Isabel,” she said, pointing to herself. The woman moved far away, huddling against the corner of the hut.
At her questioning look, Alannah named the woman. “Sosanna,” she said, pointing. Isabel wondered why the woman had not answered for herself, but the others seemed wary of Sosanna.
Outside, Isabel heard the sound of men’s voices. Her husband’s voice issued orders, and she caught a few men muttering protests in her own language.
What was happening?
Isabel moved stealthily to the entrance where she saw rows of her father’s men lined up. Beside them were the Irishmen. The two groups stood in sharp contrast. The Irish wore no armor, their rows uneven. Some stood openly glaring at the Normans. More than a few had raw sores upon their faces, bruises forming.
Patrick strode toward the Normans, rage creasing his face. “When I give orders, you are to obey them. If you expect us to feed and house you, then you must help us complete the task of rebuilding.”
“We’d have been better to burn it to the ground,” one Norman remarked beneath his breath. “At least then we wouldn’t have to live here.”
Isabel couldn’t believe the soldier had the courage to voice such insolence. How could Patrick let him speak in such a way? His disrespect was unacceptable.
She took a step forward from the hut, staring at the men. Her stomach clenched at the thought of interfering. This was Patrick’s battle, not hers. And yet, she felt an obligation to speak, despite her apprehension.
