Isabel spoke to one of the doors, a hide-wrapped entrance with a bundle of wool hanging above it. No one had answered her knock, but she knew they had heard her.
She tried again, knocking upon the wooden frame. Silence. She bit her lip, wondering what they would do to her if she dared open the door. In her hand she held a dead branch she’d picked up from the apple orchard. She had wrapped it in dried grass, but what she really needed was oil or pitch to keep it burning long enough to start a fire.
This was the third door she’d knocked upon. Her quest for fire was not going well, and it was getting dark.
The cozy beehive-shaped stone huts had wisps of peat smoke rising from them. An outdoor hearth stood nearby, but no one had made use of it this night. Blackened bricks of peat remained behind.
Very well. If they weren’t going to help her, she’d simply wait on Patrick. She strode back to the fortress, pushing open the charred oak door. Her barbarian husband would return eventually. Surely he would not let her freeze to death. He’d gone to enough trouble to bring her to Erin that her death would be an inconvenience.
A low growl rumbled from her stomach. She hadn’t eaten since this morn, and there was nothing inside the broken-down donjon to salvage. At this rate, she’d be reduced to gnawing upon seaweed.
Isabel sat down upon a flat tree stump left behind as a stool and surveyed her dwelling. She had inspected every inch of the fortress, fully aware that the islanders were watching her from inside their huts.
Good. Let them stare. Let them see she was not the enemy they seemed to believe.
Weaponless and alone, her skin prickled with uneasiness. Sometimes the echo of voices carried upon the wind. They spoke in Irish, a language unlike any other she’d heard. She’d tried to learn a few words, but to little avail. The foreign sound had a musical quality to it, and in no way did it resemble the Norman tongue.
She had to learn it. If the king expected her to weep and gnash her teeth at being exiled, he was wrong. She would find a way to survive here.
Night cast its shadowed cloak upon the land, and she shivered in the evening chill. Perhaps she should have stormed one of the stone huts, demanding a torch. Of course, given their cool reception, she supposed they’d sooner set her on fire than give her aid.
A harsh wind cut through her woolen shawl, and Isabel moved toward a more sheltered part of the fortress. She should have accepted her husband’s offer for a hut of her own.
The sound of footsteps made her heart quicken. Isabel reached down and grabbed a small stone.
Of course, if the man had a sword or arrows, the rock would do naught more than give him a headache. Still, it made her feel better. Was it her husband? Or someone coming to harm her? Isabel clutched the rock tighter.
A man’s shadow fell across the darkened ruins of the castle. No, not a man’s. A boy’s.
A young lad with scraggly fair hair stepped across the threshold. He looked as though he’d never made use of a comb. In his hand he held out a sack.
“What is it?” she asked, but he made no reply. Instead, he moved forward and handed her the bundle.
Bread. The warm yeasty smell made her mouth water. She hesitated, wondering if Patrick had sent him. “Is this for me?”
He gestured toward the supplies, his eyes watching the food. Isabel took the hint and tore off a piece of bread, handing it to him.
“I suppose you do not speak my language.”
The boy devoured the bread, behaving as though he hadn’t heard her. She found a jug of mead inside the sack and took a long steady drink. The food and drink improved her temperament, and she began making conversation with the boy.
“I am sorry I do not have a fire to share. On a night like this, it would make my donjon more comfortable.”
She finished the bread and handed the boy the mead to take a sip. He drank deeply and gave it back. “Of course, your islanders would not help me. I would build one myself, if I had flint and steel.”
Though he said nothing, his sharp eyes studied her. Despite his rumpled appearance, his face reminded her of Patrick’s.
“You’re his brother, aren’t you?” She stood and circled him. The boy appeared uneasy. “Well, if he sent you to spy upon me, you can tell him that he isn’t much of a king. His hospitality is greatly lacking.” With a glance above her, she pointed toward the burned stairs. “I should like to retire to my chamber, but it seems I must use a rock for my pallet and dirt to keep warm.”
He rubbed his hand and pointed to the empty hearth. Isabel brightened when he gathered up a small stack of peat and tinder. He reached inside a fold of his cloak and withdrew flint and a steel knife. In moments, he sparked a flame to life.
“I could kiss you, you know,” Isabel remarked. “Clever lad.”
His ears turned bright red, and he didn’t look at her. Isabel’s expression tightened. “You understood what I said, didn’t you?”
He made no reply, but his color brightened.
“I might have known.” She tossed another brick of peat into the fire. “Well, then, what’s your name?”
