So nothing had changed. And she didn’t know if there could ever be a difference in their thinking toward one another. “Do you want to return to England?” she asked.
“My men would leave within the hour, if the order were given.”
“And what of yourself? Do you want to leave?”
“It matters not whether I go or stay,” he admitted. “My sword belongs to Lord Thornwyck. But there are those among my men who long for their wives and children.”
“If I sent for them, would your men make their homes here?”
Sir Anselm shook his head with a sad smile. “They would only fear for their wives’ safety among the Irish. The division is too deep between us.”
“Is there any way to end the animosity?” she asked.
“No.”
Though she suspected he was right, she hated the thought of abandoning hope. Within the ringfort, the Irish resentment was palpable. The men could not see past their previous battle.
But it would be much harder for children to stay away from each other. Their natural curiosity might help bring the sides together, however grudgingly.
Her earlier thought of bringing the wives and children gathered strength. If the men would not come together, the women might. The more she considered it, the better it sounded.
She studied each of the people, and when she saw Ewan still eavesdropping, she relaxed. She would bribe the boy to send a message to her father. With any luck, before summer’s end, her father’s men would find a reason to shift their loyalties.
Springblossomedintosummer,and with each passing month, Isabel understood more and more of the people around her. Her grasp of the language had moved beyond pitiful, and she now could speak enough Irish to hold a minimal conversation with Annle. Though the people upon Ennisleigh had not yet befriended her, at least they seemed to tolerate her presence.
Today, the rain poured down, and she huddled near the fire inside the fortress. A fortnight ago, she’d convinced the islanders to help her patch up the roof of the donjon. It had allowed her to move out of the cottage, and she’d spent time fixing up the interior.
Though the Great Chamber was not a large one, she had spread fresh straw rushes and Patrick had granted her some furniture from Laochre. Trahern had made her a new chair, and Isabel had coaxed Annle to bring in one of the weaving looms.
The rhythm of weaving and the familiar wool set her mind at peace. In the past moon, she hadn’t seen Patrick but once or twice.
Ever since the night he’d almost shared her bed, he had avoided her. She tried not to think of it. They had agreed to go their separate paths after her father’s visit.
And yet somehow, she missed her husband. Even on the fleeting moments they had seen one another, he’d watched her as if drinking in the sight. As though she were forbidden to him.
The door burst open, and Ewan rushed inside. “We need to use the Great Chamber.”
Isabel stood and set her wool aside. “Why?”
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, half-dancing with excitement. “Trahern has come for the storytelling. But he can’t use the gathering space because of the rain, so they’re coming here.”
“Who is coming?”
“The islanders. Trahern is one of the best bards, and he has some new tales to share.” Ewan’s crooked grin showed brotherly pride.
Isabel winced. “But I don’t have any food or drink for them.” It was the first time she’d had to host a gathering since coming to Erin, and no doubt they would judge her hospitality. Or lack of it.
“You have to help me,” she urged Ewan. “Go back to Laochre and bring food and a barrel of the finest wine we have. Get the Normans to help you. Send for Sir Anselm and his men.”
Ewan shook his head. “I can get the food, but the tribesmen won’t want the Normans here.”
“I am not concerned about what they want. This is a chance for both of them to have a night of entertainment without any fighting. I want them here, mingled with the Irish.”
It might take a barrel of wine to make both sides drunk enough to endure each other’s company, but it would be worth it if the men would put aside their differences.
“We might need two barrels of wine,” she corrected. And she prayed to the saints that the men would not fight amongst themselves.
Isabel pushed the loom to the side and began straightening up the space. “We haven’t enough room for them to sit. Oh, by the Blessed Mother, what’s to be done?” She muttered to herself, thinking fast. Then she whirled upon Ewan. “Why are you still standing there? Run! They will be here before long.”
