Though Trahern looked doubtful, Ruarc continued. “It was my fault she was taken. I would bring her back, but I suspect you would rather do so.” Regret lined his voice. “I will help your brothers keep the enemy out.”
“I don’t want Thornwyck to know she’s been taken,” Patrick warned. “He’ll blame us for it.” A part of him feared that Isabel had been gone too long. Though he knew his wife had unshakable courage, already he had failed to protect her.
“Then you must go now,” Trahern said solemnly, “before they breach our defenses. You’re her only hope.”
Patrick clasped his brother in an embrace, then gripped Ruarc’s hand. He said farewell to Ewan and to Connor before mounting his horse Bel.
“If I don’t return within a sennight, name a successor.” He cast one more look upon his people, fully aware it might be the last time he saw them. With a heavy heart, he rode through the gates and around the back of the fortress. The open fields stretched before him as he turned north.
When he was clear of the fortress, he let Bel free, thundering across the plains. He questioned the wisdom of leaving his tribe behind, to fend for themselves against the Normans. Another part of him recognized that the battle was out of his hands. He had prepared his men as best he could—it was now up to them to fight together and win.
As time blurred and his thoughts drifted, he recalled the way Isabel felt in his arms. He remembered the way she would lie against him after lovemaking, her fingers tracing patterns upon his shoulders. A hard lump gathered in his throat, and he increased the horse’s gait.
He’d lost his temper when she’d come charging through the ringfort, leading the Normans. She’d been right to bring them. He had been too stubborn to seek help from the Normans. But his true enemy was the Ó Phelan tribe, the men who had stolen Isabel from him. And if he didn’t bring her back, Edwin de Godred would invoke his vengeance upon the MacEgan tribe.
When the afternoon light began to fade, Patrick reached the outskirts of their lands. He halted Bel, tethering the stallion to a nearby tree. A low hissing sound caught his attention and he saw his brother Connor waiting. He was relieved to see him unharmed.
“Is she inside?”
Connor nodded. “Too many of them are guarding her. I think you should bargain for her life, since Ó Phelan expects you. Bevan and I will help you get out.”
“Bevan?”
Connor pointed in the distance to where a lone rider approached. “He followed you here.”
Patrick cursed. “Is no one guarding Laochre, then?” He was relying upon his brothers to keep their tribe safe. Leaving the fortress in the hands of the Normans and Trahern seemed the greatest of risks.
Connor shrugged. “I was too busy guarding your queen. I had to stay a fair distance back so they would not see me.”
It was too late to send both of them away. Inwardly he cursed his brothers for endangering themselves.
“We’ll use our arrows first,” Patrick said. “I’ll go in and you guard my back. Shoot anyone who moves toward Isabel or me.” He handed the quiver of arrows and bow to Connor.
Moments later, Bevan arrived and Patrick explained his plan. He didn’t know what Ó Phelan wanted by holding Isabel hostage. There seemed little point in it, save revenge. But at least he had hostages of his own.
“Does he think to exchange Isabel for Laochre?” Bevan asked, dismounting.
“There is no chance of that. Not with the Normans.” Given the armies sweeping across the coast, they could only pray that Thornwyck’s men would keep Strongbow away from Laochre.
Patrick mounted his horse, and paused a moment as if to memorize his brother’s faces.
“Is she worth it?” Bevan asked softly. The scar upon his cheek tensed. Patrick recalled the death of Bevan’s wife last summer. His brother had not cast eyes upon another woman since, vowing to remain faithful to her.
Was Isabel worth dying for? A strange ache took hold inside, tightening at the thought of anything happening to her. Was it guilt? Or something more?
He stared back at his brother. “She is worth it.” When the words fell from his mouth, he sensed the truth of them. His wife had slipped beneath his defenses, capturing his heart. He needed her at his side more than he needed air to breathe. And he would willingly surrender his life for hers.
He rode toward the ringfort without looking back. The early evening sun blazed hot upon his face, and he shaded his eyes to see who guarded therath.
“Donal Ó Phelan!” he called out. “I’ve come for my wife.”
He waited outside for several minutes, not knowing what to expect. When no one came forward, he drew nearer.
An arrow struck the ground at his feet, and seconds later, the archer dropped to the ground, an arrow protruding from his heart. Patrick’s hands tightened upon his sword hilt. Thank God his brothers were guarding his back.
“Unless you want another tribesman to die, I’d suggest you call off your men and face me yourself,” Patrick commanded.
The chieftain revealed himself then, standing several paces inside the gate. Donal remained out of an archer’s range, but close enough to be seen. “My men stay at their positions,” he answered. “It is your small escort against my entire tribe.”
