And leading them was his wife.
Gods, he was dreaming. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. He rushed toward the men, while the Normans attacked the Ó Phelans. Isabel sat upon horseback, wielding her bow against the enemy tribe.
She loosed arrow after arrow upon the Ó Phelans, protecting both the Normans and the MacEgans as they fought for their lives. He wanted to drag her from the horse and put her someplace safe. She had no right to fight among them, like a warrior queen. Patrick tried to reach her, but more and more men seemed to block his path.
Another bloodcurdling scream echoed amid the battle noise. He saw Sosanna pointing at one of the Ó Phelan men, her eyes wild with fear. Sir Anselm caught her gaze, and with a vicious swing of a battle axe, he beheaded the man. Moments later, Sosanna buried her face in Anselm’s chest, embracing him.
Patrick slashed his way past the enemy, needing to get to Isabel. Though he was barely aware that the Ó Phelans had retreated, he lost sight of his wife. Her horse was gone, and so was she.
He prayed that common sense had led her out of harm’s way.
Before long, he and his brothers had encircled the remaining members of the Ó Phelan tribe. Bevan brought forward two young men, barely older than six and ten. “Hostages,” was all he said.
“What is your name?” he asked the older boy. The adolescent’s eyes glittered with hatred, and he spat upon the ground.
Patrick signaled to Bevan, who seized the younger boy, pulling his arms behind his back.
“Don’t hurt him!” the elder protested.
“Your names,” Patrick commanded.
The boy looked torn, but at last answered. “I am Fergus. He is Jarlath.” Fergus clenched his fists. “Now let him go.”
“Bind them,” Patrick ordered. “We may need them for negotiation.” He stared back at the younger boy Jarlath. “Your father will want your safe return, I am certain.”
Both boys blanched, and Patrick knew he’d guessed correctly. These were Donal Ó Phelan’s sons, valuable hostages indeed. And until he knew of Isabel’s safety, he would not release them.
“Go and find Donal Ó Phelan,” he ordered one of his men. An uneasy feeling tightened inside. It wasn’t like Donal to avoid a fight.
He didn’t wait to discover the answer but walked into the Great Chamber. It was empty, with no sign of his enemy.
His suspicions tripled. Having both his wife and the enemy chieftain missing was too much of a coincidence. Again, he looked around the ringfort, but Isabel wasn’t there. A sudden wave of cold fear caught him in the gut, and he suspected the worst. He stopped to ask several tribe members if they’d seen her, but no one had.
His tribe was busy escorting the last of the enemy outside the gates. When all of them had gone, the Irish let out an enthusiastic roar.
Patrick did not join in their celebration. He stared at each person, searching for a sign of Isabel. With each passing moment, his worry increased. Was she hurt? Had Donal Ó Phelan taken her? A black fury took root inside him. If the chieftain laid a hand on Isabel, he’d lose it.
He glanced over at his own hostages. His brothers had bound the boys tightly, but they were unharmed. He would find Donal and bargain for Isabel’s release.
Patrick passed by the soldiers, startled to see several of the Irish welcoming the Normans, clapping them on the backs. At that moment, he suddenly understood what Isabel had wanted to accomplish. As one people, no one could defeat them. A dryness coated his throat, and he hastened toward the place where he’d seen her last. Perhaps he could track the horses.
But he was stopped by Ruarc. His cousin waited until all eyes were upon them. Then he knelt before Patrick, bowing his head. “Forgive me, my king.”
Though Patrick wanted to continue searching, he understood what it had taken Ruarc to humble himself in this way. He touched his cousin’s shoulder and raised him up to stand before him. “I accept your apology.”
Relief flooded his cousin’s face. His shoulders hung low, and he added, “I would understand if you want me to leave Laochre.”
“No. You are part of this tribe.” The words were an absolution.
“No one here doubts who is the true king. Or the queen.”
In silence, every last man kneeled before him, including the Normans. To see the unity among the men humbled him.
“Rise,” Patrick commanded. “I accept your allegiance.”
He moved toward the edge of the ringfort to Sir Anselm and Sosanna. “Have you seen Isabel? She is missing.”
The Norman soldier shook his head. “I have not.”
