The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance (10 page)

And the fey laughed.

Padraig stared in awe at their magnificent display.

Then lo, he saw the Faerie host,

Their company more beautiful than most.

He saw the silver and the gold;

He saw the Faerie knights so bold;

He saw the maidens garbed so fine;

He heard the music, saw the wine.

The will-o’-the-wisp danced on the hill

Fey light glimmering and never still

The stars seemed to have come to earth

As the Faerie host rode in mirth.

And so it was he glimpsed his lady,

On the left of the King of Faerie.

There were horses in the company without riders, or perhaps their riders were too smal to be seen. Padraig would have eased his steed to join the company, but the beast seemed to know his expectation – it marched alongside, as if it had done as much a dozen times before.

The Faerie host flowed over the hil s, eased down to the val ey and ascended the next hil . Smal Faeries darted towards the occasional cottage, claiming whatever gifts had been left for them.

They shared the milk and ale with their fel ows, lapped the porridge and cast gold coins in their wake. Each Beltane fire they passed snapped and crackled in acknowledgment of their passage, and Finvarra laughed at the sight. His wife, riding on his right, smiled but there was no joy in her eyes.

Neither was there joy in the steady gaze of Rosamunde.

Padraig eased his horse closer to the royalty, stroking its neck to encourage it to pass between the other beasts. The stal ion needed little encouragement, and Padraig considered the possibility that horses felt a natural attraction to the Faerie King.

Just as the Beltane flames acknowledged his presence.

Padraig did not know how long they rode, nor how far. He thought solely of getting closer to Rosamunde without attracting attention, and he made consistent progress in that goal. They crossed a vale and ascended another hil . When they reached the top, the shining dark water of Lough Carrib was visible, gleaming at the foot of the hil s. There were more stars on this night than he had ever seen and the moon rose high in pearly splendour.

When they began to descend the hil , Padraig’s horse eased so close that he could touch the hem of Rosamunde’s dress.

It was time.

He spurred his horse, he galloped near

He seized the lady he loved so dear.

He stole her from the Faerie host

Claimed she Finvarra desired most.

The fey did scream, the horse did run,

Finvarra shouted ’twould not be done.

“Hold fast, hold fast,” Rosamunde cried.

“For she would steal you from my side.”

And so he held with all his might

Even as Una unleashed her spite.

The company jostled for position as they began the descent. The fey were celebratory, and less disciplined than when they had first left the hil . Their laughter was louder and their songs more merry.

Padraig lunged through the company with purpose. He dug his heels into the stal ion’s side, and the horse leaped with power. Padraig snatched Rosamunde from her steed, his arm locked around her waist, and placed her on the saddle before him.

Then he fled.

As the stal ion raced down the hil , the golden ring upon Padraig’s finger cracked in half. It fel from his hand and was trampled beneath the horses’ hooves, leaving him revealed to the fey.

“Impostor!” they cried. “Thief!”

“Fetch my mistress!” bel owed Finvarra.

Padraig gave the horse his heels. The steed raced down the hil ahead of the Faerie host, running so quickly that the ground was a blur beneath their feet.

“Faster,” Rosamunde urged, glancing back. “Faster!”

Padraig heard Una’s song rise sweetly in the distance, but did not trust her ode.

“Padraig!” Rosamunde said, locking her arms around his neck. “She means to make you spurn me. Be not deceived.”

Padraig guessed the test he would face a heartbeat before it began.

“They will turn me to an ancient crone

A woman wrought of sinew and bone.

A cold, rotted body from the grave

Hold fast, my love, you must be brave.”

In his embrace, Rosamunde turned to a hag, appearing to have endured a thousand years of hardship. Her skin was wrinkled like ancient leather, her eyes yel ow and her teeth missing.

She cackled at him, this apparition, and looked fit to devour him. Padraig could see the bones of her skul beneath the loose flesh of her face, he could smel the fetid stench of decay, and he felt the clutch of her skeletal fingers on his neck. Everything within him was repulsed and his urge was to cast her aside with al speed.

Padraig told himself it was but a spel and held fast.

“Next I’ll be a writhing snake

With a toxic bite your life to take.

I will be as slipp’ry as an adder

My release lies solely in your power.”

Rosamunde changed then to an enormous snake, green and slippery in Padraig’s grasp. The snake bared its fangs and malice lit its eyes as it reared back to strike. He had no doubt its bite was poisonous, but he did not release it.

There were, after al , no snakes in Ireland. Padraig knew that this, too, was but a fey trick.

He heard Una’s song, realized it was growing in volume, and knew there would be worse to come. Three tests there would be, he guessed as much, and they would become more fierce. He held fast to the writhing green snake and hoped he could keep hold of Rosamunde. The horse ran, outdistancing the shouting host at its heels.

The snake twisted in his grip, as elusive as a fish, but Padraig held tightly. The water of the lake drew ever more near and he wondered what the horse would do. He thought to direct it around the body of water, then Rosamunde changed shape again.

“And last I will become a flame,

As hot and fierce as ever came.

A Beltane fire, orange and hot

My love, my love, release me not.”

In the blink of an eye, Rosamunde became a fire in his embrace. The bril iant light of the flames nearly blinded Padraig and surprise almost loosened his grip.

He cried out and tightened his grasp upon her. The fire burned his skin, the flames licking at his flesh. He closed his eyes to the sight of his own body burning, to the smel of his destruction. He held fast to the column of flame, even as he feared he could not have the strength to endure against the fey.

Padraig thought of the way Rosamunde’s hair looked in the sunlight.

He recal ed her bold stance on the ship as they sailed to adventure. He remembered the light in her eyes when they had first met. He thought of her determination, even when the spriggan Darg had stolen her charts and trapped the ship in a calm.

He recal ed her pride in her nieces and her joy in seeing them wel wed. He thought of her passion and her pride and he fortified himself with the truth of why he loved this woman with al his heart. Padraig squeezed his eyes shut as the pain built to a crescendo.

He could not lose his love.

He recited the paternoster, on impulse, recal ing his mother’s counsel. Tears stung his cheeks as he said the familiar prayer.
Our Father . . .

The horse halted abruptly, reared, then it ducked its head. Padraig was thrown over its neck and gasped aloud when he landed in the lake with a splash.

He sank low, stil holding fast to Rosamunde, and the cold dark water of the lake embraced them. He felt the flame in his arms turn to a woman again.

A naked woman.

A naked woman he loved more than life itself.

And Padraig knew he had triumphed. They broke the surface together, Rosamunde’s smile enough to light Padraig’s nights forevermore.

When they might have spoken each to the other, a man cleared his throat at close proximity.

Finvarra stood on the shore, holding the bridle of the stamping black stal ion. “And so the contest goes to you,” the High King of the Faerie said. He stroked the horse’s nose with affection and the beast nuzzled him. Finvarra smiled and his eyes glinted. “I shal take this horse into my care, seeing as it was once stolen from us and is rightful y returned.” Padraig understood why the horse had not been startled by the fey, why it had been so at ease joining the host. Recognition was possibly why it had been al owed to join the company in the first place.

He understood then why it had thrown him and saved Rosamunde. Padraig fancied that the horse had intended to reward him for bringing it back to Finvarra.

“You are a man of more cunning than most.” Finvarra smiled. “I should have liked to have played chess with you.”

“With respect, my lord, I have little to my name and nothing I would choose to lose.” Padraig kept his arm around Rosamunde, noting how the King’s gaze flicked between the two of them.

“Should his devotion falter,” Finvarra said to Rosamunde, “you are always welcome at my court.”

“I thank you, my lord, and thank you also for your hospitality,” Rosamunde said with a bow.

“You and your fel ows wil always find welcome at our home,” Padraig added with a bow of his own.

Finvarra smiled, his gaze trailing to his wife, who remained upon her steed and at a distance. “It is no crime to covet a beauteous gem,” he said softly, “but a rare triumph to possess one. I salute you, Padraig. May your love never be tarnished.”

With that Finvarra turned and led the prancing horse back to the company. Padraig felt the chil of the night air on his wet skin as he stood with Rosamunde fast at his side, but he could not tear his gaze away from the departing company. He doubted he would ever see them again. They rode forth, passing over the hil s like a vision, leaving only the echo of their silvery laughter behind.

And Rosamunde.

“Thank you,” she said, smiling up at him.

“You are welcome. I am glad to see you hale again.” Padraig stared down at her, knowing his desire but afraid to speak of it too soon.

Rosamunde, as was typical of her, showed no such restraint. She twined her arms around his neck, sliding her fingers into his hair. “I am sorry, Padraig, that I erred so badly. I love you. I think I have always loved you, but I wish I had seen the truth of it sooner.” Padraig bent to touch his lips to hers, his heart swel ing that his dream should be his own. “I know that I have always loved you,” he murmured against her mouth.

Rosamunde laughed. “Then I shal have to spend the rest of our lives atoning for my error.”

“I do not think it wil be so onerous.”

“Nor do I!”

Padraig laughed at the prospect, then he sobered. Rosamunde’s eyes were the richest green, fil ed with a conviction that stole his breath away. “Marry me, Rosamunde. Marry me and seal our bond for al to see. I have little to offer you but myself.”

“Your ship.”

“
Your
ship, and the contents yours as wel . I have only myself.”

“And it is more than enough. I wil wed you, Padraig Deane, and I wil honour your love every day and night of my life.”

It was everything he had ever wanted, and yet more.

Rosamunde’s kiss sent a welcome heat through Padraig, a heat that her presence would never fail to kindle. Padraig knew that whatever he had suffered had been worthwhile, for he had gained his heart’s desire.

When he lifted his head, her eyes were sparkling and her cheeks were flushed. She glanced about herself and shivered. “Tel me, though, that we can sail to warmer climes.”

“I thought Sicily,” Padraig said, smiling as pleasure lit her expression. “With the morning tide. Al is prepared.”

Rosamunde laughed. “A man of confidence, and one in pursuit of my own heart.”

“I thought I possessed that prize already,” he teased, loving the sound of her answering laughter.

“You do, you do.” Then Rosamunde raised a hand to his cheek, as solemn as he had ever seen her. Her voice dropped to a fervent whisper. “Oh, Padraig, never doubt that I am yours.” A tear glistened in her eye, a tear that he knew was rare for this bold woman. “I may have been late to see the truth, but I shal never forget it now.”

“I shal never let you forget it,” he retorted then winked. Rosamunde smiled and he swung her into his arms then strode from the lake. He had an idea of how they might warm themselves before the walk back to town.

One glance at his lady told him that their thoughts were as one. Yet again, they would chal enge convention. Yet again they would fol ow their hearts. But from this day forth, they would do so together.

It was as close to heaven as Padraig Deane ever expected to be.

Padraig gained his lady’s heart,

She vowed they’d never be apart.

Rosamunde was a pirate queen

With hair red gold and eyes of green.

Her lover true did hold her fast,

Showed all the fey his love would last.

They ne’er forgot those of Faerie,

And lived out their days most happily.

Oracle

Margo Maguire

One

The Isle of Coruain – 938 AD

Ana Mac Lochlainn came awake suddenly, her heart pounding, her mouth dry. She felt confused by the sights and sounds of destruction that were so real, so horrifying.

She opened her eyes and had trouble discerning her surroundings. At length, her vision cleared, and she saw that she was stil in the Oracle’s cave, sitting comfortably on the Seer’s divan where she’d lain no more than a quarter-hour before.

“What is it, lass?” asked the màistreàs, the prime Oracle, the Seer to whom Ana would soon make her Oracle’s vows. She had felt ready to make the commitment – to hold her virginity sacred, and keep a vigilant watch over her people, the magical Druzai – for weeks, but the màistreàs had said it was not yet time.