His cousin’s face drew in tighter. “You’re right.” His voice was deadly quiet as he approached Sir Anselm. “I should thank him.”
Before Patrick could move, Ruarc drove his sword toward the Norman knight. Sir Anselm met the blow squarely, fighting without any emotion. In contrast, Ruarc poured himself into the sparring match, releasing his battle rage in a driven, vicious fight.
Although Sir Anselm met every strike with a deflection of his own, he didn’t make any moves to challenge Ruarc. Patrick watched his cousin growing tired, and though the Norman had several opportunities to end the fight, he did nothing to humiliate Ruarc.
His cousin’s strength was undeniable, but the knight was a superior fighter. As the fight wore on, more and more men gathered to watch. A few of the Irish began chanting in Gaelic, encouraging Ruarc’s blade. Patrick saw their faces, their desire to see the defeat of the Norman commander. They had pinned their hopes on Ruarc. Though Patrick hadn’t intended it, with each clash of steel, the gap between the men widened. He needed to stop the fight.
Sweat poured down his cousin’s cheeks, his dark eyes filled with hatred. It was as though he were fighting for his sister’s honor. But Anselm calmly continued the battle, letting Ruarc expel the last of his energy.
Patrick scanned the crowd for a glimpse of one his brothers and at last found Bevan. He strode toward him and said, “We must stop them.”
“You can’t. It’s too late for that.” The hardness in Bevan’s tone made him suddenly realize that his brother wanted Ruarc to win. He didn’t want peace either, nor did he believe it could happen.
Instead, Patrick unsheathed his blade and stepped between the men, blocking his cousin’s next strike. His muscles strained to keep Ruarc from releasing another blow.
“Enough,” he said quietly. To the commander he said, “You fought well. For you and your men, I’ll send a barrel of our finest ale.”
Then he turned to Ruarc. “We’ll go to Ennisleigh now. You can see to your sister’s welfare.”
The burning ire upon Ruarc’s face had not lessened. “I want nothing from you.”
“Meet me at the shoreline if you want to see Sosanna.” Patrick walked away from the ringfort and heard his men grumbling amongst themselves.
“He’s becoming one of them,” he heard a voice say.
“What did you expect?” another replied. “He’s wedded to a Norman.”
Patrick stopped short, training his gaze upon each of the men. “Is there something you wish to say to my face?”
A few reddened, but no one spoke. Patrick stared back, his own tension gathering. Gods above, he’d given up everything for these men. And he could see them turning away from him.
He was among family and friends. Despite it all, when he looked into their eyes, he read the doubts. They didn’t trust him, didn’t understand what he was trying to accomplish. How could they defeat the Normans if they refused to learn from them?
When Patrick strode away, he caught sight of Sir Anselm. The Norman knight met his gaze with a steady look of his own. When the Norman inclined his head, the unexpected gesture of respect caught Patrick unawares.
Like a knife in his own heart, the twisted fact remained that he planned to betray the Normans out of vengeance. He intended to drive them out and kill them, once his men were ready.
Anselm could have shamed his cousin before the others in that fight, but he had chosen not to. The commander had honed skills from countless battles. By refusing to attack, Anselm had lifted his stature in Patrick’s eyes. Then, too, the commander had rescued Sosanna, risking his own life for hers. Why?
Patrick wondered whether he would have done the same, if a Norman woman had thrown herself into the sea. He thought of Isabel standing in Sosanna’s place, and the answer came. Enemy blood or not, he’d have dived in to save her.
Isabel wanted to bring the men together, to make one tribe. Though he still did not believe it was possible, the idea of slaughtering the Normans seemed like an unnecessary waste of life. A coldness settled across his shoulders. Were his people right about him? Was he turning traitor without realizing it?
Patrick refused the offer of a horse and walked the long distance towards the shoreline. When he reached the sands and waited beside the boat, he tried to dispel the unexpected guilt building within his conscience.
Somehow he had to rid Laochre of the Norman forces. He had to detach himself from them, to see them as the enemy once more.
If he didn’t, his men would lose faith and he’d have nothing left.
Isabellaidmorestonesaround the fortress, and this time she was accompanied by the islanders’ children. More often than not the boys threw rocks at each other instead of rebuilding the wall. But it felt good to be around people once more.
She listened to them speaking, trying to catch words that Annle had taught her. The children had giggled at her efforts to speak, but after a few corrections, they taught her to speak simple greetings.
When the afternoon sun rose high above the island, warming her with its rays, Isabel saw Annle approaching. “How is Sosanna?”
Annle shrugged, which Isabel took to mean there was no change. Though Sosanna had opened her eyes once or twice, she hadn’t spoken. Terror lined her face, and after she touched her stomach and felt the reassurance of the unborn child’s movement, tears of hopelessness had come.
Annle spoke slowly, gesturing toward the ringfort entrance. Isabel understood only a word or two, something about a boat and men. She wiped her hands upon herléine, and joined Annle. “Is it Patrick?”
