The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance (62 page)

Soon, moonlight would dapple the forest with coins of white and silver, and Airgead would be invisible. Only then, when the moon was at its highest, would she hunt.

Her babies were hungry.

Seven

Siobhan was dozing in her roost when Airgead came, slipping through the moon-dappled shadows like a wraith.

She could see nothing, thanks to the soft hood over her head that blinded her, but she could hear the stealthy rustling as the she-wolf approached the three men, asleep by the fire.

Frantic to warn them, Siobhan stretched herself to her ful est height and beat her wings as hard and as fast as she could. She screeched a loud, “
Peeeewhit! Peeewhit!
” Colm heard the frantic hawk as if from a great distance away. Her harsh cries echoed through his dreams.

He awoke as Airgead leaped on him, going for his throat. Her amber eyes were like twin coals, the burning eyes of a demon. Strings of saliva dripped from her jaws.

Colm thrust his forearm into her mouth, forcing her stil powerful jaws apart. He flung the wolf over, on to her back, and would have leaped after her if Fergus had not rapped her across the skul with his club.

The beast fel with only a yelp.

Fergus quickly drew his dagger. Crouching down, he grasped the wolf’s muzzle, and jerked its head back. He would have slit its throat, had Colm not stopped him.

“Wait! She has done no wrong. It is in her blood, a part of her very nature. If her whelps are to live, then so must she. Remove the snare, then run her off with a brand from the fire. She wil not seek out such easy prey when she is healed.”

Siobhan gasped, astounded by Colm’s compassion.

In that moment, the spel was broken.

“My lady! Where did you come from?” Fergus asked, slack-jawed to see her over Colm’s shoulder. He looked astonished. The Lady Siobhan had appeared from nowhere! “And where did the hawk go?”

“Those questions are ones we shal leave for the morrow, cousin,” Colm cut in smoothly. “My lady? You must be cold?”

“I am, yes. Just a little.”

He removed his tartan mantle, and draped it around Siobhan’s shoulders. She was shivering, for the night was chil and her thin white kirtle was no thicker than an under-chemise. She smiled grateful y. “Thank you.”

“And hungry, too, I’m thinking?”

She eyed him askance, remembering the bloody venison, and gave a delicate shudder. “Not at al .”

He smiled.

“Remember the shepherd’s hut we passed yesterday?” Colm asked Fergus. “I wil take my lady there, that she may pass the night in comfort. Meet us there at dawn, with the others. I would be back in Glenkil y by sunset tomorrow.”

“Dawn it shal be. Goodnight, my lady. Colm.”

Fergus continued to stare after them long after they had walked away.

Eight

The shepherd’s tumbledown cottage was a poor place of spiders, cobwebs and mice, but better than sleeping outside in the frosty air. Siobhan was glad that it was too dark for her to see much of anything, for mice and spiders might not be her only companions. The only light was the ful moon’s light that spil ed through the ruined wal s. The only sound was the solemn hooting of hunting owls, and the rustling of the trees in the night wind.

While Colm lit a fire of twigs, she took his mantle and spread it across the dirt floor, before kneeling on it.

The fire started, Colm fol owed her down to the floor. Finding both her hands in the darkness, he took them in his own. He drew her cold hands to his lips, kissed each one, then drew her against his chest and cradled her in his arms. His body warmed her.

“Love me,” she whispered. “Take me, my lord!”

“When we are wed, then shal you be mine, and not before. Sleep, my sweet.”

“Colm? Do you know . . . what I am? What I can do?” Perhaps she could use her gift to frighten him off, make him think twice about marrying her. He would be safe then.

“I think I do, aye.”

“And you stil want me for your bride?”

“More than anything. It is in your blood, this magic you have, this power. It is your nature, a part of who you are. To love you is to love al of you. And I do.” Hearing his simple declaration of love, tears fil ed her eyes. “There is something else I must tel you, my love.”

“You need not tel me any—”

“No, no, I must. You see, when I was a little girl, my mother bade me ask a skrying glass to show me my future husband on our wedding day. The man I saw reflected in the glass was dead,” she finished, her voice catching. “And that man was you. I could not bear to lose you! But if I name a date for our wedding, you wil die on that day, I know it! I am cursed.”

“’Tis but superstition, and that is al it is, my love,” he murmured, stroking her hair. “We shal be wed on Samhain Eve, and there’s an end to it. Sleep now.”

“But my lord—”

“Sleep.”

Long after Colm had fal en asleep, Siobhan lay awake, staring at the tiny glimmer of light given off by the smoky fire.

Her head cradled on his chest, she listened to the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear, wanting more than anything to believe he was right.

The skrying glass was a toy for tel ing fortunes, something superstitious young girls played with and giggled over then just as soon forgot, was it not?

But if that were so, then why could she not put it out of her mind?

Why this terrible dread in her heart?

They had almost reached Glenkil y when some of Colm’s kinsmen met them, coming in the other direction.

“What do you here, Liam?” Colm demanded as a stocky fair-haired man reined in his horse alongside his own.

“Viking ships have been spotted in the channel, sir. We believe they are bound for Waterford and Colmskeep. We came straightway to warn you. An attack is imminent.”

“I must leave at once,” Colm told Siobhan urgently, lifting her down from Dibh’s back. “My servants wil see you safely home to Glenkil y. Finn, stay with my lady. Defend her with your life, if needs be.”

“I wil , cousin. God be with you and with Colmskeep!”

“Keep me in your heart, Siobhan, my love, as I wil keep you in mine. Until I return—” With one last lingering kiss, Colm took his leave.

A moment later, he was gone

Nine

Two days came and went. Two long days in which Siobhan heard nothing from Colm, although some travel ers on their way to Dublin in the north reported heavy fighting to the south, in the area of Colmskeep.

And then, on the third day, the thing she had dreaded final y came to pass.

Fergus clattered into the keep yard on a lathered horse. He appeared bruised and dishevel ed as he toppled to the ground.

She ordered the servants to bring him into the hal . Her hands trembled as she hurried to meet him. Her bel y churned in fear. The very first words from his mouth did nothing to stil her dread and terror.

“I bear grave news, my lady. In truth, I would sooner suffer torture, than tel it.” Fergus appeared exhausted and close to dropping as he bowed before her. There were tears in his eyes, trails in the dirt and smoke that blackened his face.

“Tel me anyway, good Fergus. I would hear it from your lips, and no other’s,” she whispered.

Her face was ashen, her green eyes dul with fear. She could hear the thud of her heart in her ears, like the slow beating of a drum.

“After we left you on the Glenkil y road, we rode south, my lady. By the time we reached Waterford, the Vikings had already sailed up the inlet to Colmskeep. There were thirty-five men to each
drakkar
, six dragon ships in al , by my count. They outnumbered us two to one. The Norsemen were armed to the teeth as they waded ashore. Swords. Two-headed axes. Daggers.

Clubs. You name it,” he said bitterly. “The berserkers came first, whirling their swords over their heads as they do. They were screaming curses, cal ing on their pagan gods to bring them victory.

‘Odiiin!’ those barbarians roared. ‘By Thor’s mighty hammer!’” Fergus shuddered. “Their war cries stil echo in my head. ’Twas enough to make even the bravest man tremble in fear – but not your lord, my lady. Not our Colm!

“Colm was like a . . . a bear – a lion – swinging his sword to left and to right, and cal ing upon the One God to help him. While lesser men ran, he pushed forwards into the heat of the battle.

“One by one, they fel like cornstalks before Colm’s sword. He carved a path through their numbers until only three of the Norse devils remained. Olaf the Red was one. Sven the Widow Maker was another. Lief Snorrison was the third. One by one, Colm sent them to dine with the Valkyries in Valhal ah!”

He stopped, overcome by the memory, unable to go on. Exhaustion ringed his eyes with dark shadows. His cheeks were hol owed and gaunt.

Siobhan feared he would col apse before he had told her what she must know.

“Bring wine – nay, nay, bring whiskey! Quickly! Here, Fergus. Drink. Drink it down, cousin,” Siobhan urged when the cup was brought. She pressed her hands over his and gazed earnestly into his eyes. “Is he truly dead? You must tel me everything! Is he truly lost to me, Fergus? Would I not feel it in my heart, somehow, were he gone from me for ever?” The fiery “water of life” restored Fergus somewhat. He drew a deep breath before he carried on. “Forgive me, my lady, but your lord is dead. We were cheering him on from across the inlet when a berserker hurled his sword into the air like a spear. It hurtled towards Colm, spinning end over end. Its jewel ed hilt flashed in the sunlight. The blade pierced my cousin’s side. A great gout of blood poured from his mouth. I heard him cal your name as he fel , my lady, and then he moved no more. We could only watch, helpless, as those godless heathens carried his body away,” he ended bitterly.

“Blessed Lady, no!” she whispered. “No, no . . .”

“The Vikings cal ed him a hero, my lady. They admired his warrior’s skil s, you see. His courage.

That he was an enemy lord meant nothing to them. They said their
skalds
– storytel ers – sang Colm mac Connor’s praises about their campfires that night, for al that he is Irish. He died a hero’s death, my lady. He is – was – a man to be proud of.” Siobhan swal owed over the choking knot of tears in her throat. If she gave way to her grief, she would not be able to go on. “And what became of his . . . his body?” she whispered. “Where did they take him?”

A great shudder ran through Fergus. He hung his head. “We heard Colm mac Connor was to be given a hero’s funeral. One fit for a Viking prince, my lady.”

“Then you could not find my lord’s body?”

“No, my lady.” Fergus hung his head in shame.

After Fergus had left, Siobhan sat and stared into the fire. She felt numb. She felt neither sorrow, nor rage. She felt nothing.

Colm is dead, she kept tel ing herself, over and over. Just as the skrying glass had foretold.

Fergus had seen Colm take a mortal blow, had seen him fal .

But though she believed Fergus, and knew he would never lie to her, she loved Colm, loved him with al her heart: she would not, could not, believe that she would never see him, touch him, hold him, again.

Surely she would be able to weep, if he was truly gone? Surely she would know, in her heart, if he were no longer of this world?

“What am I to do, Aislinn? What?” she whispered. “How shal I bear this?” Aislinn’s heart went out to her mistress. She was close to tears herself. “Oh, my lady,” she murmured, putting her arms around Siobhan’s shoulders. “Don’t despair. If your lord was truly dead, you would know it.” She hesitated. “There is . . . There is a way you could learn the truth.”

“There is? What is it?”

“The skrying glass, mistress.”

“No! Never again! That wretched glass has caused trouble enough!”

“But it could tel you what has befal en your Lord Colm!” Aislinn pleaded. “’Tis the only way.”

“I’ve not seen that wretched glass since before my mother died. I have no idea where it went.” Her twelfth birthday was the last time Siobhan had seen it.

“It is in the carved chest, my lady. The Lady Deirdre’s chest. I saw it only a few days ago.”

“Oh?”

Aislinn reddened but for once made no excuses. “It is wrapped in black cloth. Hidden at the bottom of the chest.”

“Very wel ,” Siobhan said, deciding. “Bring it to me, Aislinn. And be quick!” With every passing moment, her fear and uncertainty were mounting, spiral ing out of control.

Her heart said Colm was not dead; that the mirror had been wrong those many years ago. But Fergus had believed otherwise. He had been inconsolable, certain that he had seen his cousin struck a mortal blow. What harm could it do to consult the looking glass? Besides, what more had she to lose?

Knowing something, anything, was surely better than this endless torture?

Refusing Aislinn’s offers of help, she carried the skrying glass to St Kieran’s Tower. There, she propped it against the tower wal .

Standing before the ebony glass with its frame of tarnished silver, she drew a deep breath and demanded to be shown her husband on this, their wedding day.

’Twas the eve of Samhain.

A night when the impossible seemed possible.

At first, smoke boiled and gathered in the black glass, swirling and bil owing.

When, little by little, the smoke cleared, she saw Glenkil y Bay reflected in the mirror. The sunset sky was streaked with red, gold, orange. Coming night darkened the edges of the western sky like a great pal of black smoke.

And, from out of that glorious sunset sailed a Viking funeral ship, listing like a wounded swan as it sailed into the bay.

Atop the cliffs and headlands, the Samhain bonfires had already been lit; beacons to guide the funeral ship to shore on this Al Hal ows Eve; a night when both pagans and Christians believed the dead returned to earth.

A sob caught in her throat as Siobhan turned from the glass to look out of the window – and saw the same scene as that reflected in the glass.