The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance (50 page)

“Is that why I fel in love with you the moment I saw you? Because you cast a spel on me?”

“Stupid
guraiceach.
I could have cast any spel . . .” She dropped her hand to her side and Brian let go of her wrist. Her eyes softened and she wiped her lips. “Did you say something about love?” Brian nodded, wondering if she’d slap him again. “It makes no sense, but despite how much I seem to anger you, I feel as if I’ve known you for quite a while.”

“For quite a while?”

“And that underneath that beauty and temper is a wise, strong woman.”

“A wise woman?”

“And strong.”

Fiona’s mouth pul ed to the side and a frown creased her brow as she considered his words.

Brian’s heart raced as he waited for her to say something, anything, to indicate what she thought of him. He’d offered love to an enchantress, to the most beautiful enchantress ever born, if indeed they were born and didn’t spring from the earth ful grown. She would think him an idiot. In fact, she was now looking at him as if he were quite the oaf.

“Would it be best if I return to Boston, Fiona? I would understand. I know not how it became so complicated once Maeve left . . .” Maeve. How could he leave her as wel , and without a word of thanks or care? He would find her in Kilronan.

“Because of my very nature, Brian, I am forbidden to tel you why it is so, but I love you too, not as a stranger.”

The world spun beneath Brian’s feet. No, life did not bring such things to him so easily. Was this part of her enchantment? Again, he gazed into her eyes, searching for the truth, and found it. She loved him.

Enchantment be damned, he thought as he rose from the desk and swept Fiona off her feet.

She moaned in pleasure as he kissed her and fumbled up the winding stairs to his bedroom. He plopped her on the bed and her surprise turned to mischief as she wiggled a long finger for him to join her.

What then, Maeve? she asked herself. What happens when you must give the crone equal time, when Brian finds you missing, begins to ask questions, becomes obsessive, grows suspicious and angry? No, put it away, she thought. Take this for yourself.

For a few hours, Brian kissed and caressed away al thought. He stripped her bare with torturous slowness, showering every inch of her skin with his hot kisses and tongue. She returned the favour, again and again, adoring the feel of his strong embrace, the wonderful feel of his skin against hers, the cries of pleasure as she took him into her mouth, into her body. They fel into one another’s secret lives, limbs and burning bodies enmeshed as if they would always be one. Brian was not timid, not awkward, not sil y or vain. He was the man of Maeve’s dreams.

They lay in a close embrace, hours later, listening to the wind howl in suggestion of a terrible storm to come. Rain pelted the glass, and the candle flickered with the draught that tore through the old rafters.

Brian caressed Maeve’s hair and kissed her forehead. “Tel me this isn’t the only day I’l have you like this. Tel me this is the first of many.”

“The first of some, for certain.”

He tilted her chin so their gazes met. “How can I make it go on forever?” Ah, so there it was. The question she craved and feared, that stabbed at her heart. She turned away, lest he see the answer.

A terrible pounding at the front door startled them from their embrace. They both sat up and Maeve scrambled into her dress.

“Oh, let them knock,” Brian said, pul ing her back down.

“It wil take only a moment.”

He sighed and pul ed on his trousers, fol owed her down the staircase and stood behind her as she unbolted the front door. A young man, soaked from the rain, stepped in and fretted with his cap.

“Why, Padraig, what brings you from town?”

“I do not know you, miss. I was hoping Maeve was about?” He looked past her at Brian, and his eyes widened.

Brian stepped forward. “Come in, lad. Maeve is in Kilronan.” Maeve stepped in front of Brian. “Oh, I think she went back to Galway. She wil be a while.”

“Then it’s true!” Padraig troubled more with his cap and looked to Brian. “Sir, I am sorry to be the one to say so, but the ferry has floundered in the storm.” Maeve’s heart raced. She would surely know someone on that ferry.

“The fishermen have recovered most aboard, and they are wel , or wil be. But one old lady . . .

who looked like Maeve MacGearailt . . .”

“What!” Brian pul ed his sweater from the coat rack and slipped on his boots while Maeve and Padraig stared.

“I must go. Fiona, you stay here, out of harm’s way.”

“It’s not her, Brian.” Maeve pul ed at Brian’s sleeve and snapped at Padraig to leave.

“It could be her. They named her, Fiona. And you said she was crossing to Galway or back from Galway, which was it?”

“Do not go, Brian, I beg you. The fishermen are putting themselves at great risk to search, and I cannot lose you.”

“Ah, sweet girl. I wil be fine. But we must find your grandmother. Please, God, let it not be her.

Let no one be hurt.” He made the sign of the cross and pushed Fiona firmly aside.

“If you love me, you wil not go.”

Brian hesitated, then took her hand and kissed it. “I do love you, and I wil stil go. What kind of man would I be if I stayed to please one woman when another I love is in danger? I love Maeve too, Fiona. I trust that you understand that.”

“No, please. She is an old lady, it is her time.”

“How could you say such a thing? You cannot mean it. You are trying to trick me. Fiona, I could not live with myself. Please, sit and wait. I wil return, I promise.”

“You love her as much as you love me?” Maeve cried openly, so frustrated at the ridiculous, needless risk her beloved was taking.

“Yes, I do. Differently, of course.”

Maeve nodded and gave up, turned her back on Brian and wept as he rushed out the door. So, she might lose him to the sea, and needlessly. “Goddess, protect him.” A sudden thought brought her to her feet. If she showed Brian and the rest that Maeve was alive and wel , they would cal off the search! She closed her eyes and chanted to bring on the change.

And waited.

It must be her anxiety, she thought.
Come on with it!
This time, she added a prayer to the chant and ran to the mirror.

“Oh!” Maeve fel to her knees and wept like a babe. The crone and maiden were joined, forever.

The power lifted, the curse broken, al by the love of one man.

Brian returned, soaked, happy to have helped to rescue ancient Mrs O’Connel from the sea. Wel , truth be told, he’d been fairly useless, only helping to clear onlookers as the fishermen carried the old lady to safety. Maeve was indeed safe with her sister or sisters, as al aboard the ferry were now accounted for.

“Fiona!” He cal ed out, running from room to room when she didn’t answer.

He found her sitting in his study, knitting the sweater that Maeve had begun for him, needles clacking. She smiled up at him.

“It was not Maeve! Al are safe. Your grandmother is not harmed.”

“I know, Brian.”

“Who told you?” He sat in his chair, dripping on to the floor.

“Why don’t you put a page in that machine of yours? I have a story to tel you.”
The Morrígan’s Daughter

Susan Krinard

Ancient Ireland

According to the
Leabhar Gabhála Éireann
–
The Book of Conquests
– Éire has had many
rulers. The first were the Fomóiri, cruel brutes and savages who knew nothing of plough and
oxen and metal. Then came the Partholónians, descendants of Noah, who fought the Fomóiri
and won, only to be wiped out by a terrible plague and buried on the Plain of Elta. The third race
who sought to rule Éire were the people of Nemed, kin to the Partholónians. Nemed, like his
forerunners, defeated the Fomóiri, but in the end the Nemedians were destroyed in a mighty
flood. The fourth race were the Fir Bolg, who held Ireland for thirty-seven years before the
coming of the Tuatha Dé Danann.

But when the People of the Goddess Danu came from the north with their arts of magic and
won the right to rule Éire in the First Battle of Maige Tuired, they would have no peace. When
their king, Nuada, was forced to give up his crown, the half-Fomórian Bres held the people
under his tyrannical rule for seven long years. Only when Nuada was restored to his throne was
Bres compelled to flee, and urged the evil chief Balor to raise an army against the Tuatha Dé
Danann. So came the Second Battle of Maige Tuired, won by the People only when Lugh
Lámhfhada put out Balor’s evil eye and turned the tide.

Many are the tales of bravery and loyalty and betrayal during that great battle and what came
after. Many are the heroes who fought and died for freedom. But there is one story that has
never been told . . .

Séanat pushed aside the low-hanging branches and entered the clearing. The Fomóir she had been pursuing was nowhere in sight. He, like the other survivors of his evil race, had fled the battle in terror and humiliation, defeated at last and for al time.

At first the Fomóiri had fought bravely, in their way, until they had brought their chief Balor with his evil eye to strike down the King Nuada. Then the Morrígan had lent her powers to that of Lugh, Nuada’s champion, who put out Balor’s eye. The battle had broken.

But the stragglers remained, and it was the duty and pleasure of every warrior of the Tuatha Dé Danann to pursue and destroy them. Every warrior including the Daughters of the Morrígan, whose ferocity matched that of any man among the fol owers of Lugh of the Long Arm.

Lifting her bloodied sword, Séanat took a cautious step. A great oak spread its arms over the clearing like a Druid giving his blessing to those who would fight and die. There was a peace here, and Séanat felt the kil ing lust drain from her body.

Surely no Fomóir could have remained in such a place for long.
This
place belonged to the People of Danu, to the magic that had made the land strong.

The weight of Séanat’s armour began to sit heavily upon her, and she looked again at the oak with its broad tangle of roots and the thick cushion of last year’s fal en leaves that made a bed for anyone who should wish for rest.

You must not, she told herself. It was not her privilege to rest when any Fomóir roamed free upon this island. Let them be driven into the sea from whence they had come long ages past. Let Lir swal ow them and never give them up again.

But it was difficult now to feel the rage that had carried her through the battle and made her forget the wounds on her legs and the dirt on her face. The oak stirred in a gentle wind, brown and yel ow leaves sighing as they floated gently to the earth.

Only a little while
. Just long enough to regain her strength and her resolve. The enemy she pursued might get away, but it would only be for a little while. She would find him, or another like him, and go on until nightfal cal ed an end to the hunt.

Wearily she made her way to the oak, touched its rough bark with a chant of thanks, and laid herself down. The cushion of leaves accepted her like the arms of the lover she had never had.

The root that served as her pil ow seemed to soften under her head. Even her armour lost its hardness. She laid down her sword with a sigh, and the sound let loose a fresh fal of leaves that settled over her in a blanket of warmth and contentment.

She didn’t know how long she slept. It might have been the faint crack of a twig, or no more than the rustle of a single leaf that woke her. But Séanat opened her eyes, and there was a man in the clearing, no more than a dozen steps away.

Her sword was already in her hand as she leaped up, prepared to slash and stab. The man didn’t move. He stood completely stil , his own sword pointed towards the earth, dressed in the armour of the Fomóiri.

But his face was not hideous or twisted with evil, nor was his body misshapen. He was broad of shoulder and comely like the disgraced King Bres, who carried the blood of both the Fomóiri and the Tuatha Dé Danann in his veins. Like Lugh, born of Ethlinn, Balor’s daughter. His hair was like smoke to Séanat’s flame.

Stil he was of the enemy. Séanat lunged towards him, her sword reaching his throat before he could raise his own.

“Prepare to die, Fomóir,” she cried.

His eyes, blue as the sea, met hers. “Kil me, then,” he said, his accent so light that she might never have noticed it had he worn the armour of the People.

Her hand twitched, and her sword drew a thin line of blood from his neck. “Do you seek death?” He smiled with a great sadness that tore at her heart. “I do, for I have no people and no place.” He lifted his chin. “Finish it, warrior.”

If it had not been for the old oak and the magic of its peace, she might have severed his head then and there. But her fingers trembled and the sword went slack in her hand.

“Who are you?” she demanded.

“I am cal ed Aodhan,” he said in his soft, low voice. “I fought with the Fomóiri.”

“You are no Fomóir!”

“Am I not?” He gestured at his armour with its sigils of writhing wyrms and ravening wolves. “Wil it help if I fight you now, woman of the Tuatha Dé?”

She backed away. “I wil fight you, and win!”

He shook his head, stirring the black forelock that curled over his brow. “You wil win,” he said.

He dropped his sword and spread his arms. “Come.”

Séanat’s heart danced a wild jig in her chest. “Coward,” she hissed.

“Yes,” he said.

Moving clumsily as a newborn calf, she stumbled backwards until she came up against the oak’s massive trunk. Light filtered through the branches to lie across Aodhan’s head and shoulders like a crown of fire.