“It does,” Bevan agreed. “But our men should be fitted for chainmail. The weight would help them in training.” He met Patrick’s glance, and he knew what his brother was thinking. Their speed would be even faster one day, if they grew accustomed to the extra weight.
“Have we the funds to make it possible?” Bevan asked.
“No.” Outfitting all of his men would be far too costly. And he needed the funds from Isabel’s dowry to end their marriage.
If the Baron of Thornwyck had provided gold, that is. Patrick suspected that the dowry would be little more than blankets and a carved bridal chest.
“What did you pay as her bride price?” Bevan asked.
“I agreed to house and feed the Norman army.” He shot his brother a sidelong glance. “More than enough for a queen.”
His brother grunted in acknowledgement. They watched the Normans move through practice drills, their movements precise and trained. Patrick had seen exercises like these before, but his greater concern was the reaction of his tribesmen. They were leaning back to watch, drinking cups of ale and joking.
It was sobering, to see the enemy’s discipline exceeding that of his own men. Could they not see that unless they trained for battle, they would never be ready?
He strode forward and addressed his tribesmen. “Unless you learn to fight against them and know their strategies, you’ll never defeat them.”
Ruarc stepped forward. Red chafe marks lined his upper arms and wrists from where he had been bound. Dark circles ringed his eyes, but instead of exhaustion, fury tightened his features. “We need no strategy to defeat them. Only an opportunity.”
Patrick lowered his voice. “And you’ll gain that opportunity soon enough.”
Ruarc gave a thin smile. “I don’t believe you. You’re turning into one of them.” He glanced at his tribesmen. “He married a Norman, and now he thinks they are better fighters than us.”
“They are better,” Patrick said darkly. “While you sit around drinking, they grow stronger.”
“And what have you done?” Ruarc demanded. “Nothing except invite them to live among us. They eat our food, take our supplies, and now you’re building homes for them.”
“They won’t be here for much longer,” Patrick replied. “Your hatred blinds you.” His temper held by the barest thread, and at the moment, he’d like nothing better than to fight his cousin. The satisfaction of bruising Ruarc’s pride was far too tempting.
“I’m not blind.” Ruarc drained the rest of his mead. “But our tribesmen’s eyes are opening. They’re starting to see you as I do.”
“What do you mean?”
“You’re a traitor to us.”
Patrick grabbed his cousin’s tunic, but Ruarc reached out for his throat. He caught his cousin’s hands, digging his fingers into the sores upon Ruarc’s wrists. With a swift twisting motion, he sent his cousin sprawling to the ground. “You’ve caused enough trouble here. I should banish you.”
His men looked uncomfortable. He could feel their doubts and Ruarc’s anger undermining his authority.
“Go on, then.” Ruarc rubbed his wrists. “I’d rather leave this place than watch you betray our tribe.” The darkness of his cousin’s hatred was palpable. “What sort of king imprisons a man trying to defend his sister’s honor?”
Patrick’s expression hardened. He hadn’t told Ruarc of Sosanna’s attempted suicide. “She is safe now.”
“Now?” Ruarc whitened, his fists curling. “What happened to her?”
“She is on Ennisleigh and will remain there until she has healed.”
Ruarc expelled a foul curse. “How badly was she hurt? If the Normans—“
“She is alive, and I’ll take you there. Isabel is looking after her.”
“You let one of theGaillabhtake care of Sosanna?”
“I let my wife join the healer in tending your sister’s injuries. Sosanna tried to take her own life.”
Ruarc’s visage turned forboding. With his palm curling over the colc sword at his waist, he unsheathed the blade. “I could have saved her, if you hadn’t imprisoned me.”
“Put your sword away,” Patrick warned. “And it’s Sir Anselm you should thank for saving her life.”
