If that breach could be mended, there was no question that they would become the most powerful fortress in all of Eíreann. No longer would they need to fear any invaders. Isabel believed it was possible that the Normans could become part of their tribe. He was beginning to wonder.
His hand moved over the hilt of his sword. Liam’s sword, it had been. He’d had it since his brother died, and now the painful memory seemed to be receding. For so long he had walked in his brother’s shadow, wanting to be as fine a king as Liam.
He would never be his brother. He could only make his own decisions and hope that they were the right ones.
The wind shifted, blowing a cool breeze across his face. He wanted to go to his wife, to share the night with her once more. But likely she’d turn him away after he’d refused her the right to join in the Lughnasa celebration.
He journeyed down the hill, greeting several tribesmen. When he came upon Ruarc, he walked alongside his cousin. “How is your sister?”
Ruarc shrugged. “Annle says the babe will come at any moment.”
“Have you learned anything about which man harmed her?”
Ruarc raised infuriated eyes to his. “Would it matter to you? You seem to be more interested in bringing Normans among us instead of protecting those who remain.” He increased his stride, walking away.
Patrick would not let Ruarc away so easily. He caught up to him and gripped his shoulder. “Do you think I like having them here, any more than you? A greater force is coming, and I mean to be prepared for it. If we war with the Normans now, they will kill every last one of us.”
“I’d rather be dead than live my life a prisoner to their whims.” His cousin’s rigid glare could not be convinced otherwise. It was futile asking him to bide his time.
Patrick sat down upon one of the rocks, the wild heather blooming around the hillside. His torch cast off sparks, the light growing dimmer. The accusation cut him, for now he questioned whether being rid of the Normans was what he truly wanted. By joining with Isabel and allowing her to keep the Norman women upon the island, had he already betrayed his tribe?
Perhaps his cousin was right, and he’d blinded himself to what his people truly needed. If he meant to continue his kingship, he would have to choose between Isabel and the tribe.
And though he knew what the answer had to be, it didn’t hurt any less.
IsabelsatbesideSosanna,whose face was white with pain. Sir Anselm had come to fetch her, after he’d learned of the young woman’s labor pains.
“Can I do something?” he asked, standing near the door frame while Sosanna closed her eyes at another contraction. Annle hummed lightly while preparing the pallet with clean linen.
Isabel shook her head, hiding a smile. The Norman was behaving like an expectant father, though he had nothing to do with the babe’s conception. Though she had sent word to Ruarc, Sosanna’s brother had not yet arrived. “It will be many hours yet.”
The knight muttered something beneath his breath about how women shouldn’t have to endure such pain. Though he departed, she saw him hovering, as if finding an excuse to be nearby.
The afternoon merged into evening, and later that night, Sosanna was fighting the pain, crying out with each contraction.
“The babe will be here soon,” Isabel soothed, speaking in Irish to the young woman.
Sosanna gripped her hand, squeezing so hard Isabel feared she might break her fingers. She bit back her own pain, for it was nothing compared to the woman’s.
When the pains only intensified, Isabel’s nerves grew more ragged. She had heard of women dying in childbirth, and she prayed to God she would not see it this night. For a moment she felt faint, while the sounds in the hut seemed to come from a faraway place.
Was this what she would endure if she bore Patrick’s child? She touched a hand to her midsection, remembering the way he had touched her, making love to her outside.
“Isabel, go outside,” Annle ordered. “Take some fresh air.”
She obeyed, stumbling out into the night air. Sir Anselm waited outside the hut. In his hands, he held a few springs of heather.
“How is she?”
Isabel shook her head. “She’s in so much pain.”
Anselm pressed the sprigs of heather into her palm. “I doubt if she would want these, but you might give them to her.”
Isabel’s face turned with surprise. “You care for her.”
The knight nodded, his cheeks brightening. “She’s still afraid of me, I know. I won’t bother her.”
“Have you learned any Irish in all this time?” Isabel asked, holding the soft purple flowers.
