Her Irish Warrior by Michelle Willingham (best novels of all time .txt) 📕

Genevieve held her composure and inclined her head. ‘As you say.’

Without another word, she turned and strode away from him.

Her anger increased with each step, until she realised she had gone outside without her mantle. The bitter winds whipped her hair into her eyes, and she shivered.

‘Here,’a voice called out. She caught the brat just as Ewan threw it.

‘You are wrong about my brother,’ he said.

‘Were you listening?’

He gave a sheepish grin and nodded. ‘Of course.’

Genevieve sighed and wrapped the blue woollen brat about her, shielding her head. She supposed it was foolish to chastise the boy. ‘What am I wrong about?’

‘Bevan does want you. And if you weren’t a Norman I know he would take you as his bride.’

The beliefs of a boy hardly older than four and ten did little to reassure her. Genevieve continued her walk towards the inner bailey, Ewan following at her heels. ‘Well, it is fortunate for him that I am Norman. And he is so thick-witted he cannot see past it.’

‘He came to say goodbye to you,’ Ewan pointed out. ‘Come to the gate with me. We can watch as the soldiers ride past.’

‘I have no wish to see him again.’

‘If we climb up to the gatehouse we can throw snow upon him as he passes,’ Ewan suggested.

In spite of her anger, Genevieve laughed. ‘No.’

They stood in the courtyard, and as she watched the men riding past her good humour faded.

Bevan caught sight of her and drew his horse to a stop. Flakes of snow drifted across his dark mane of hair. He stared, his gaze fastened upon her. Her heart beat rapidly as he leaned down to her.

‘Tá brón orm.’

His gloved hand touched hers, pressing against her palm. The intensity of his gaze almost undid her.

Genevieve blinked back tears and nodded in response. ‘I am sorry, too.’ She swallowed hard, and in a wistful moment she imagined his lips upon hers. Her body remembered full well his touch, the way his hands had moved over her bare skin.

His apology was genuine, and it eased the resentment she held within her. He joined his men, and Genevieve ignored the curious stares of the people around her. Though some would never call his scarred face handsome, it had become dear to her.

She was afraid the King’s decision would alter their lives irrevocably. For when Bevan returned he would become either her enemy or her husband.

The High King Rory Ó Connor’s fortress of Tara loomed over the vast lands of Éireann. His wooden structure dominated the landscape, with several mottes surrounded by palisades. Each of the five ancient roads converged at this place.

As their horses drew near, Bevan heard cries for mercy from the dugout mound used for hostages. Though a fair High King, Rory Ó Connor was not fond of the Normans. Bevan wondered how Rory would respond to the issue of his land. The Norman King Henry was visiting him, accepting allegiance from the Irish kings and chieftains.

On the far side, he spied the large Lia Fáil stone. At the sight of the grey standing stone he wondered if the stories were true. It was said that the stone would cry out when the true High King was present. Bevan rode past the Lia Fáil, hiding his disappointment when the legendary stone remained silent. Instead, he focused on his task. If all went well he could put the matter of Rionallís to rest once and for all.

Yet he resented the fact that Patrick had involved the Norman King. The dispute could easily have been resolved in the Brehon courts. A foreign king had no right to interfere with land that belonged to him.

The men busied themselves with eating and drinking, enjoying the attentions of serving wenches. Bevan awaited his opportunity to speak with the High King, the food tasting dry in his mouth.

Rory Ó Connor was speaking with Ailfred, the chief poet. As his advisor, Ailfred enjoyed a position of honour, but the man cared little for ceremony. He wore frayed robes, and his grey beard hung well below his chest.

Seated beside the High King was King Henry, laughing and jesting with his men. He appeared confident and relaxed, but there was no mistaking the shrewd politics of the Norman King. Bevan knew that Henry wanted nothing more than to add Éireann to his kingdom. Rory Ó Connor was also aware of it, from his strained expression.

In time, Bevan was summoned to speak before them. Ó Connor sat upon the dais, his hand cradled over a goblet of mead. He handed Bevan another goblet, inviting him to sit beside him.

‘I know why you are here,’ the High King began without prelude. ‘And I have agreed to grant Henry the authority to pass judgement upon this matter, since it concerns his subjects.’

Bevan drank the mead, keeping his face impassive. He didn’t know why the High King had bowed to the foreigner, but no doubt it was a political agreement. He didn’t like it at all.

The smile on Henry’s face was guarded, as if the man were judging him.

‘We understand that you once dwelled upon the lands called Rionallís,’ Henry began. ‘What we do not understand is why you left it unguarded and free for the taking.’

Bevan met the King’s gaze evenly. ‘Those reasons are my own. But Strongbow did not earn the right to take the land from us and grant it to the Gaillabh.’

‘And so you thought to take it back?’ Henry remarked. ‘Your men attacked the lands belonging to Thomas de Renalt, the Earl of Longford, but did not succeed in retaking them. And then you tried to murder their daughter’s betrothed, Sir Hugh Marstowe.’

Bevan’s grip tightened upon the goblet. ‘I defended myself against his sword, tá.’

‘You wounded him and took his bride. But, thanks be, he has recovered from his injuries and is here now, to claim the rights to Rionallís and to his betrothed.’

Bevan turned and saw the face of his enemy as Marstowe entered the chamber. Clothed in