The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance (59 page)

Stil perched in the boughs of the oak tree, Aislinn groaned. She did not want to be nearby when Siobhan found out that her father was marrying her off for fifty cows.

Two

The doe was swifter than Colm expected. She ran like the very wind, nipping and tucking in and out of bushes, springing and turning this way and that, soaring over hol ows and ridges, darting between firs and oaks, ashes and birches until Colm was dizzy. He began to doubt he’d ever overtake her.

Why, it was as if the fleeing hind was a mythical creature. A magical doe that could escape a mortal hunter’s pursuit.

Pausing to catch his breath, Colm leaned up against a tree to nock an arrow against his bowstring before he raced on. The chal enge to overtake the doe drew him onwards, not the thought of the kil : the tantalizing flag of the doe’s white scut, its smal twinkling hooves. The little beast tested his hunter’s skil s!

The doe fairly flew before him now, leaping over the tussocks of thick turf, a white streak that nimbly leaped over rocks and deep drifts of russet and gold leaves. It was as if she fled a snarling pack of hounds, instead of a lone and badly winded hunter.

After a half-league at such a pace, he found himself short of breath, weary and wishing for his horse – or even his favourite wolfhounds – to help run the doe to ground.

He was thirsty too, his throat as parched and dry as a bit of old leather. Although it was a crisp autumn day, with the chil bite of winter on the wind, sweat rol ed down his back. More seeped into his deerskin boots.

And then, just when he was about to give up, he tripped over a gnarled tree root that snaked across his path and went flying.

With a startled grunt, he landed heavily on his bel y. The bow flew from his grip. The arrow sang through the air towards the doe.

With bated breath, he watched its flight; heard the animal’s shril scream of pain, abruptly cut short.

The white doe plunged between some gorse bushes and vanished – but not before Colm had seen the bright splash of blood that stained its right front leg.

He set his jaw, his expression hard but resigned. He had injured the pretty doe. It was now his responsibility to put her out of her misery. No creature would suffer a slow agonizing death for his misdeeds, intentional or otherwise.

He got to his feet. He drew his dagger from the scabbard at his waist and thrust his way into the gorse bushes in pursuit of the hind – only to trip flat on his face a second time.

He landed across a young woman, hidden in the bushes.

A young woman who was, moreover, the loveliest maid he had ever seen. Her dark-lashed eyes were as green as shamrocks, and her skin was clotted cream.

But at the moment, those shamrock eyes were consigning him to the devil.

“Wel , now! And who might you be?” Colm exclaimed, pushing himself up on to his elbows, to look down at her.

She had long curling black hair, and lips like wild strawberries. A mouth made for a man’s kisses.

His body stirred appreciatively.

“Who am I? I might ask you the same question, sir,” she shot back, “since you’re poaching in my father’s forest! Get off me, ye great lummox!” She thrust her palms ful force against his chest. She tried, in vain, to slam one or both of her knees into his groin.

He propped himself up, on his elbows, keenly aware that his body was far from indifferent to her charms, despite her efforts to geld him.

“Forgive me. I mean you no harm, my lady. Be stil !”

“Just as you meant that poor creature no harm, I suppose?” she said caustical y, sitting up and glowering at him. “I pity those you
do
intend harm, sir!” He scowled, shooting her a dark look. “I did not intend to shoot the doe, my lady. But I shal find her, and put her out of her misery, my word on it. No living thing shal suffer needlessly by my hand.”

“I’m touched, sir. But you should have thought of that before you released your arrow! The doe fled in that direction,” she told him through gritted teeth, waving a hand towards the west. “Poor wee creature.”

“I shal go after her straight way,” he murmured. Sheathing his dagger, he retrieved his bow from the grass. He hesitated. “If your father owns this forest, then you must be the Lady Siobhan, aye?” She said nothing.

“Shal I see you tonight at Glenkil y keep?”

She smiled sweetly. “Not if I see you first.”

He grinned. “Ye don’t mean that, Siobhan, my darlin’. You’l seek me out. Al the maids love me,” he boasted with a roguish wink.

“Not this maid!” Siobhan gritted, uncomfortably shifting position. She grimaced. “Now, then.

Weren’t you going after that poor doe when you flattened me like an oatcake?”

“I was, aye. I am,” he amended. His eyes twinkled. His smile was merry.

He was laughing at her, the brute!

His grin, his eyes, the very size of him, with those broad shoulders and those muscular horseman’s legs, made her feel weak. Vulnerable. Excited.

“Then be on your way, my lord—?”

“Colm,” he supplied, starting off in the direction she’d indicated. He looked back at her, over his shoulder, adding, “I am Colm mac Connor of Colmskeep, County Waterford. Nephew to the High King – and the man you’re going to marry,
mo muirnin
!”
Three

“Shal I comb your hair for you, my lady?” Aislinn offered later that same evening.

The sooner her mistress was dressed and gone to join her father and their many guests at table, the sooner Aislinn could get away to join her own friends – the other serving girls – in gossip and flirting with the stable boys and the grooms.

“Aye. Please do,” Siobhan said thankful y. Her right arm ached. She had dreaded the thought of combing out her own hair. It was so long and thick.

Surprised by her unusual y gracious tone, Aislinn took up a comb and began ridding her mistress’ hair of tangles, one curly lock at a time. She was surprised to find pieces of leaves and even a strand of moss caught within the inky mane.

With al the tangles gone, Aislinn pinned Siobhan’s hair back behind her ears, with carved ivory combs set with amethysts and pearls. The jewels caught the rushlights and sparkled prettily, a lovely foil for the rich amethyst kirtle she was wearing.

It was her mistress’ finest garment. The long, fitted sleeves ended in deep points at the wrists, but left her creamy shoulders bare. A girdle of tablet-braided silver and purple silk spanned her slender hips, its free ends finished with tassels.

Looking over Siobhan’s shoulder at her mistress’ beautiful reflection in the mirror, Aislinn smiled.

“’Tis lovely you’re looking this even’, mistress,” she said with a sly half-smile on her dimpled face. “Might our special visitors have anything to do with that?”

“Special visitors? I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Siobhan lied. “My father told me there would be guests at supper tonight, so I dressed in my finest. I always try to look my best when we have guests at Glenkil y.”

“Aah. Lord Diarmaid didn’t tel you, then?”

“Didn’t tel me what?”

“That these guests are special – suitors for your hand? Didn’t he tel ye he’d named a bride price for ye, mistress? Fifty head of cattle, he’s asked for. Fifty! Oh, my lady, aren’t you excited?

The daughter of the High King of Eire could command no higher price from a suitor! Everyone says lords and princes have come from al over Eire t’ make offers for your hand, my lady. Aye, and mayhap from foreign parts, too.”

“My father did what?” Siobhan echoed in a faint whisper. The colour had drained from her face.

“He offered . . . he offered your hand in marriage, for a bride price of fifty cows, my lady.

Everyone says that—”

“I don’t care what everyone says! Everyone says I should box your ears, but that doesn’t mean I shal , does it?” Siobhan snapped, but her voice broke. “Or that I won’t! Oh, be off with you, you wretched girl! Leave me be.”

Seeing her mistress’ shock, the pain and tears that sprang into her green eyes, Aislinn felt a sharp twinge of remorse.

She should not have told Siobhan in such a cruel blunt way about the bride price Lord Diarmaid had offered. She’d known Siobhan knew nothing of her father’s plans, but had taken spiteful pleasure in tel ing her anyway. Stil , what was done was done. It could not be unsaid.

“Forgive me, Lady Siobhan,” she said with one last flick of her comb. “Truly, I did not mean to cause you any— Oh! My poor lady, you’re hurt!” Aislinn exclaimed suddenly, apologies forgotten.

“Whatever have ye done to yourself?”

Blood was trickling down the pale curve of her mistress’ right shoulder. Finding a linen kerchief, Aislinn dabbed at the red angry wound. It was long, but not very deep, just as if an arrow had creased it.

An arrow?

“Blessed Saint Patrick! The hunter, he shot you, didn’t he, my lady? When you shifted shape?” Siobhan nodded glumly. “He did, aye. Oh, Aislinn, when his arrow creased my shoulder, the pain broke the spel ! It was agony! Is it stil bleeding?” She bit her lip as she craned her neck to look over her shoulder, trying to see the wound for herself. It stung like fire.

“Not any more. Be stil , my lady, or it wil start up again. Did he— Did the hunter say anything to you?”

“Who?”

“You know very wel who, mistress! The handsome one! Colm mac Connor!”

“Oh. Him. Yes, yes, he did. Alas, for al his fine looks, he’s a . . . a coarse unmannered lout! A clumsy lummox. Aye, and I told him so, right to his face!”

“Aaah. So you liked him,” Aislinn said with another of her infuriating smiles. “Did ye not?”

“Aye, I did, damn his black heart,” Siobhan admitted with a ferocious scowl. But there was a certain look in her green eyes, for al that. “He’s a handsome devil, sure he is.”

“Aaaah,” Aislinn pronounced again, looking even more pleased. “And what did he say to you, mistress, that has you so riled up? Wil ye tel your Aislinn, hmm?” Cook and the other serving wenches would be open-mouthed when they heard about this turn of events. As the harbinger of such juicy gossip, she would be the centre of attention!

“He said that— He said that he was the man I was going to—”

“—aye, aye, going to what?”

“—to marry!”

“To marry? Did he now, the bold wretch! The rogue!”

Aislinn’s spirits soared. She had heard much of County Waterford, which lay to the south of Glenkil y at the mouth of a bay. She would love to live near such a bustling port. It would be exciting, what with al the ships, the comings and goings, the trading, the merchants, and such.

Who knew? She might be wed herself, if Siobhan were to wed the nephew of the High King.

“And would you accept his suit, my lady?” she asked eagerly. “Do you think you could love him?” She held her breath as she awaited Siobhan’s answer.

“I think I could, aye,” her mistress confessed tearful y. Her lower lip wobbled.

“Then why do ye look so glum? It wil be wonderful, if this Lord Colm makes an offer for your hand, wil it not?”

“He can’t! I could never marry him, no matter how much I might love him!”

“Why ever not? You said yourself that you could come to love him, given time?” Aislinn said, thoroughly confused. She saw her dreams of a fine husband and a Waterford cottage sliding out of reach.

“Exactly. And I can never marry him because I might come to love him!”

“My poor love.” The serving wench pressed her palm to Siobhan’s brow. “The wound has given you a fever, that’s why your wits are so addled. You’re making no sense, my poor lady!”

“Nothing has addled my wits. ’Tis the curse put upon me! Don’t you remember what the skrying mirror foretold on my twelfth birthday? That my husband would die on our wedding day! Don’t ye see, Aislinn? If I marry Colm mac Connor, he’s as good as dead!” That evening, in the hal of Glenkil y, Lord Diarmaid told the gathering that he had chosen a husband for the Lady Siobhan from among the many suitors who had flocked to his hal . Her prospective husbands had come from as near as County Waterford, and as far away as Gaul and Britain.

The gathering held its breath. The future bride felt sick to her bel y as she awaited her father’s announcement.

“My beautiful Siobhan received more than a hundred offers for her hand. One hundred of the finest men! After – but only after – much thought, I have chosen the young man she shal wed from among them. Her husband shal be—”

An expectant hush fel over the gathering. Al eyes were fixed on the Lord of Glenkil y. The only sounds were that of the spit, squeaking as it turned, roasting the juicy side of beef that would soon be carved for the celebration feast.

Siobhan peeked nervously under her lashes at the motley assortment of men ranged along wooden benches pul ed up to the long trestle tables.

There was a fat fel ow who’d come al the way from Gaul sitting across from her. He had a swarthy complexion, and a huge hairy mole on his chin that rose every time he smiled at her, which was often. She frowned. She wouldn’t be too upset if he were to be chosen. After al , she would only be his bride for a day, at most.

Or perhaps the one with the long beaky nose and only a few wisps of hair left upon his shiny pate would be a better choice? The less attractive, the better. She was not as likely to love a man she did not find attractive, as she was if she married a man with hair as black as jet, eyes of sparkling blue and a smile that would lighten the darkest room better than any rushlight . . .

She caught herself in mid-thought.

What sort of wretch was she, to think such low and unworthy thoughts? How could she calmly sit there and choose a husband solely by his lack of appeal, because if he was unattractive, she would not be overly distressed if he were to . . . to wel , to die?