The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance (6 page)

Hadn’t she said she loathed him?

An astounding thought struck her. Could Merlin possibly have had a hand in this? But no, it wasn’t possible. The wise old wizard had promised he would not cast a spel .

When she stepped into her room, she stopped and gasped. A black feather lay on her pil ow.

From Merlin? Who else could it be from? Why the feather? What message did it convey?

She picked up the feather and went to her window. For a long time, she stood clutching it in her hand. Final y, as she knew it would, the message came clear. Of course! Merlin had promised he would not cast a spel on Lord Beaumont. And he hadn’t. He had kept his promise. But he had not promised to refrain from putting a spel on poor Bettina.

“Why, Merlin, you old rascal,” she said aloud and started to laugh. “What kind of spel did you use to make a woman fal in love with Algernon? I’d wager it was the strongest spel you had.” She touched the blue pebble. No more magic from now on. Absolutely not. Tomorrow she would throw the pebble into the nearby creek.

But then again . . . perhaps she should think about it first. No need to rush.

The Ballad of Rosamunde

Claire Delacroix

Galway, Ireland – April, 1422

The hour was late and the tavern was crowded. Padraig sat near the hearth, watching the firelight play over the faces of the men gathered there. The ale launched a warm hum within him, the closest he was ever likely to be to the heat of the Mediterranean sun again.

He should have gone south, as Rosamunde had bidden him to do. He should have sold her ship and its contents, as she had instructed him. Galway was as far as he had managed to sail from Kinfairlie – and he had only come this far because his crew had compel ed him to leave the site of disaster.

Where Rosamunde had been lost forever.

Instead he returned home, to his mother’s grave and the tavern run by his sister.

Padraig enjoyed music, always had, and song was the only solace he found in the absence of Rosamunde’s company. He found his foot tapping and his cares lifting as a local man sang of adventure.

“A song!” someone cried when one rol icking tune came to an end. “Who else has a song?”

“Padraig!” shouted his sister. She was a pretty woman, albeit one who tolerated no nonsense.

Padraig suspected there were those more afraid of her than her husband. “Sing the sad one you began the other night,” she entreated.

“There are others of better voice,” Padraig protested.

The company roared a protest in unison, and so he acquiesced. Padraig sipped his ale then pushed to his feet to sing the bal ad of his own composition.

“Rosamunde was a pirate queen

With hair red gold and eyes of green.

A trade in relics did she pursue,

Plus perfume and silks of every hue.

Her ship’s hoard was a rich treasury,

Of prizes gathered on every sea.

But the fairest gem in all the hold

Was Rosamunde, beauteous and bold.

Her blade was quick, her foresight sharp,

She conquered hearts in every port.”

“Ah!” sighed the older man across the table from Padraig. “There be a woman worth the loss of one’s heart.”

The company nodded approval and leaned closer for the next verse. Even his sister stopped serving and leaned against the largest keg in the tavern, smiling as she watched Padraig.

“She vanquished foes on every sea

But lost her heart to a man esteemed.

Surrender was not her nature true

But bow to his desires, she did do.

She left the sea to become his bride,

But in her lover’s home, Rosamunde died.

The man she loved was not her worth . . .”

Padraig faltered. His compatriots in the tavern waited expectantly, but he could not think of a suitable rhyme. He remembered the sight of Ravenmuirs’ cliffs and caverns col apsing, his men holding him back so he wouldn’t risk his life to save Rosamunde. He put down his tankard with dissatisfaction, singing the last line again softly. It made no difference. He had composed a hundred rhymes, if not a thousand, but this particular tale caught in his throat like none other.

“Her absence was to all a dearth,”
his sister suggested.

Her husband snorted. “You’ve no music in your veins, woman, that much is for certain.”

“
The son she bore him died at birth
,” the old man across the table suggested.

Padraig shook his head and frowned. “There was no child.”

“There could be,” the old man insisted. “’Tis only a tale, after al .” The others laughed.

But this was not only a tale. It was the truth. Rosamunde had existed, she had been a pirate queen, she had been both beauteous and bold.

And she had been lost forever, thanks to the faithlessness of the man to whom she had surrendered everything.

Padraig mourned that truth every day and night of his life.

He cursed Tynan Lammergeier, the man who had cost him the company of Rosamunde, and he hated that they two might be together forever in some afterlife. It was wrong that a man who had not been able to accept Rosamunde for her true nature should win her company for al eternity.

Because Padraig had loved her truly. His mother had warned him that he would be smitten once and his heart lost forever.

But he had held his tongue. He had spoken of friendship in his parting with Rosamunde, not the ful ness of his heart.

Now he would never have the chance to remedy his error. It had been almost six months since Rosamunde had gone into the caverns beneath Ravensmuir, Tynan’s ancestral keep on the coast of Scotland, six months since those caves had col apsed and Rosamunde had been lost forever, and stil Padraig’s wound was raw.

He doubted it would ever heal.

He knew he’d never meet the like of her again.

Padraig sat down and drank deeply of his ale. “Let another sing,” he said. “I am too besotted to compose the verse.”

“Another tale!” shouted the keeper. “Come, Liam, sing that one of the Faerie host.” The company stamped their feet and applauded, as Liam was clearly a local favourite, and Padraig saw a lanky man rise to his feet on the far side of the room.

He, however, had lost his taste for tales. He abandoned the rest of his ale, left a coin on the board, and headed for the door.

“We wil miss your custom this evening,” his sister said softly as he passed her. Her dark eyes shone brightly in the shadowed tavern, and he doubted that she missed any detail.

“A man should be valued for more than the volume of ale he can drink,” Padraig replied, blaming himself for what he had become. His sister flushed and turned away as if he had chided her.

He could do nothing right.

Not without Rosamunde.

Was her loss to be the shadow over al his days and nights?

Far beneath the hil s to the north of Galway, Finvarra, High King of the Daoine Sidhe, templed his fingers together and considered the chessboard. It was a beautiful chessboard, with pieces of alabaster and obsidian, the board itself fashioned of agate and ebony with fine enamel work around the perimeter. When he touched a piece, it came to life, moving across the board at his unspoken wil . His entire fey court gathered around the game, watching with bright eyes.

Finvarra was tal and slim, finely wrought even for the fey, who were uncommonly handsome. His eyes were as dark as a midnight sky, his long hair the deep blue black of the sea in darkness, his skin as fair as moonlight, his tread as light as wind in the grass. He was possessed of both kindness and resolve, and ruled the fey wel .

His hal at Knockma was under the hil , and as lavish a court as could be found. The ladies wore glistening gowns of finest silk, their gossamer wings painted with a thousand colours. The courtiers were armed in silver finery, their manners both fierce and gal ant, their eyes glinting with humour. The horses of Finvarra’s court were spirited and fleet of foot, gleaming and beauteous in their rich trappings hung with silver bel s. He had steeds of every colour: red stal ions and white mares, black stal ions and mahogany mares with ivory socks. Each and every one was caparisoned in finery to show its hue and strength to advantage. The mead was sweet and golden in Finvarra’s hal , and the cups at the board fil ed themselves with more when no one was looking.

But al the fairy court was silent, clustered around their king’s favoured chessboard. They watched, knowing that more than victory at a game hung in the balance.

As usual.

Finvarra did not care for low stakes.

Finvarra played to win.

The spriggan, Darg, sat opposite the King and fidgeted. Recently of Scotland, the smal thieving fairy had travel ed to Ireland in the hold of the ship of Padraig Deane, a blue-eyed and handsome pirate possessed of a broken heart. Caught trespassing in Finvarra’s
sid
, a crime punishable by death, the spriggan played for its life.

Finvarra, in truth, tired of the game. The spoils were not so remarkable and the spriggan was a mediocre opponent. The splendour of the board, indeed, he felt was wasted upon the rough little creature. Certainly, his skil was.

Then Finvarra heard the distant lilt of human song.

“Rosamunde was a pirate queen

With hair red gold and eyes of green . . .”

As was common with Finvarra, the mention of a beauteous mortal woman piqued his interest. He turned his head to listen, just as the spriggan interrupted with a hiss.

“A laughing trickster Rosamunde did be, but she did not have the best of me.”

“You knew this mortal?”

Darg raised a fist. “Stole from me! That she dared, but I did steal her from her laird. She would be dead but for me; now she owes me her fealty.” The spriggan cackled then moved a pawn with care. It was a poor choice. “Not dead but enchanted she doth be, while I choose what my vengeance shal be.”

Intrigued, Finvarra snapped his fingers and his wife, Una, brought his silver mirror to his hand.

She knew him wel . She caressed his hand as she passed the mirror to him, but Finvarra ignored her gesture of affection.

He didn’t imagine her sniff of displeasure, but Una’s pleasure was not his current concern. Not when there was a beauteous woman to be possessed. He murmured to the mirror and its surface swirled before his eyes, the image of this Rosamunde appearing so suddenly that Finvarra caught his breath.

Then his blood quickened.

Una, always able to read his response, spun on her heel. She strode from the hal , her ladies scurrying after her like so many sparrows. Finvarra was oblivious to his wife’s mood.

This Rosamunde was not just beautiful but spirited.

Finvarra had to know more. He touched the queen, his favoured piece, sliding his finger up her carved back. She strol ed across the board in perfect understanding of his intent, halted on the desired spot and tucked her hands into her sleeves meekly.

If only al queens might be so biddable.

“Check,” he murmured with a smile.

“No! I shal not die, not by your whim!” The spriggan erupted from its place in fury, jumping across the board and kicking pieces left and right. “I demand we play the game again!” Finvarra shook his head.

The spriggan scattered the pieces onto the earthen floor, then lunged at Finvarra. There was no contest between them, the spriggan being only as tal as the King’s golden chalice. Finvarra struck the il -tempered creature with the back of his hand, sending it sprawling across the floor.

The elegantly attired fey stepped away from the spriggan, whispering at its poor manners. It hissed at al of them, then made to run. Two elfin knights seized it, holding tightly while it bit and struggled.

“I have no interest in your life,” Finvarra said with soft authority. The spriggan froze, staring at him in confusion. It was a crafty creature and Finvarra deliberately stated his terms so that there could be no deception. “I would trade your life for a specific treasure in your possession.” Darg’s eyes narrowed into hostile slits. “No gem do I see fit to spare—”

“The woman,” Finvarra decreed, interrupting what would likely be an impolite diatribe. “I trade your life for that of your captive, Rosamunde.”

The spriggan regarded him warily. “I fear you make a jest of me, and would be freed ’fore I agree.”

Finvarra rose and clapped his hands. “There is no jest. When Rosamunde graces my court, you shal be free to leave.” He reached forwards and snatched at the spriggan, holding it so surely in his grip that it paled. He lowered his face to its sharp features, glaring into its eyes. Darg squirmed. “Deceive me, though, and I wil have your life as wel as the woman.” Darg’s eyes gleamed and Finvarra knew the creature would wil ingly deceive him. He beckoned to his armourer, who produced a fine red thread at his master’s bidding. Finvarra knotted that thread securely around the spriggan’s waist. It appeared to be made of silk but was strong beyond measure and it held the spriggan to Finvarra’s command. The smal fairy struggled and fought against the bond, grimacing where it touched the skin.

“It burns, it does, the knot too tight,” Darg snarled. “You cheat when I would do what’s right!”

“Only I can unbind this thread, and I wil only do so when you have fulfil ed our bargain.” Darg continued to pluck at the thread, its displeasure clear. It cast a glance over the company, then its lips tightened. It straightened and addressed Finvarra with surprising hauteur. “As you command, so shal it be. You shal see that Darg lives honestly.” Finvarra smothered a laugh. He didn’t doubt that the creature would try to break both cord and vow, but he knew such efforts were doomed to failure. “Tomorrow sunset,” he decreed. “I would have her by my side for the Beltane ride two nights hence.” The spriggan grimaced at the time constraint, but before it could argue, Finvarra made a dismissive gesture. “It is enough time. Should it not be . . .” He raised a brow and the thread bound around the spriggan’s waist tightened an increment. Darg screamed, swore agreement, then scampered across the court, muttering. Three elven knights fol owed it at a discreet distance, ensuring that it left the hal upon its mission.