The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance (63 page)

She sped down the tower steps, then climbed the ladder to the ground, ten feet below. She missed her footing in her haste and fel the last two feet, but was up and running towards the shore without missing a step.

It had come to pass, just as the skrying glass had foretold so many years ago. This had been her doing, hers alone. She had no one else to blame! She had known what the terrible cost of loving Colm would be from the very start.

By yielding to his wishes, by naming their wedding day, she had also named the day of his death. She was as responsible for it as the berserker who had slain him.

Onwards came the terrible
drakkar
, sailing onwards with its pal of smoke. A funeral barge fit for a fal en hero; one that showed the high esteem in which even Colm’s enemies had held him.

The Vikings had honoured Colm mac Connor with a funeral given to only their bravest warriors; a blazing ship to carry him to the feasting hal s of Valhal ah.

A few smal flames yet licked at the serpentine prow as the dragon ship was drawn closer to shore by the incoming tide.

Against al odds, Colm had come home to her.

She stared at the vessel, wil ing it to come deeper into the bay, hoping it would become stranded on the rocky shore so that she might see with her own eyes that Fergus was right, that her beloved was truly dead and gone, lost to her for eternity.

But as she gazed out to sea, tears streaming down her pale cheeks, wil ing the vessel to come closer, she saw the impossible: a movement where no movement should be.

The rays of the setting sun had reflected off a golden wristband as the dead man raised his arm.

A wild sob of joy tore from Siobhan’s throat.

He was not dead.

She had seen him move!

And as long as there was yet life inside him, there was also hope . . .

“A water creature / Shal I be,” she whispered. “Swimming in / The restless sea / By the magic /

In my blood / Change me!”

As always, whenever she shifted shape, the air grew very stil . The cries of the gul s ceased. The harsh caws of the crows that hung in the trees – black omen birds, harbingers of death – fel eerily silent. Even the sound of the waves breaking against the shore was stil ed as light began to pour from Siobhan’s fingertips.

She beckoned the light, bidding it engulf her, bidding it surround her in its magical golden aura.

“Change me! Change me!” she pleaded urgently.

Al at once, Siobhan, the woman, was no more. In her place was now a silkie, a creature half seal, half woman.

She slid off the rocks and dived into the shal ows as sleekly as any mermaid, streaking through the lapping waves of the bay towards the dragon ship.

“Fol ow me!” she cal ed to the fishermen mending their nets. “My lord lives! Al of you, help me!” The fishermen rubbed bleary eyes, unsure of what they were seeing. The light was fading. The rays of the setting sun dazzled their eyes. Was it a sleek brown silkie that begged their help? A magical silkie with the voice of their chieftain’s daughter, the Lady Siobhan? Or Siobhan herself?

Quickly, carrying their coracles on their backs, they hurried down to the bay, where they set the smal round crafts into the water.

Straightway, they began rowing towards the smouldering
drakkar
, and its precious cargo.

As they lifted Colm from the vessel into one of the coracles, Siobhan closed her eyes. She offered a heartfelt prayer of thanks to the gods, both Christian and pagan, that Colm had been returned to her alive.

Al that remained now was to summon her healing arts and al the spel s and simples in her stores to see that he remained that way.

Siobhan sent a fisherman for a cart to bring Colm home to Glenkil y.

He opened his eyes to find her hovering over him. There were tears in her green eyes, more rol ing down her cheeks. He had never seen a sight more beautiful than her face. He smiled and whispered, “Summon a priest, Siobhan, my darling.”

“Why, my lord? Not for the . . . the Last Rites?”

“No, my sil y love. To hear our wedding vows! Did I not tel ye we should be wed on Samhain Eve? Aye, and so we shal . I shal put an end to your wretched curse, woman, once and for al –

before it puts an end to me!”

Siobhan and Colm mac Connor were wed in a Christian ceremony in the chapel of St Kieran’s Church before midnight that Samhain Eve. The bride wore a gold kirtle. A harvest wreath of wheat, and red and golden leaves crowned her black hair.

That night, as Colm slept a deep and healing sleep, his bride celebrated their union in another, secret ceremony, deep in the woods; a ceremony that had its roots in pagan times. She also gave thanks for her husband’s life in a second ceremony that was nobody’s business but her own.

Magic was, after al , a part of her nature, a part of who she was. Siobhan mac Connor – shape-shifter.

The Houndmaster

Sandra Newgent

Hollylough, County Meath, Ireland – 1422

One

Branna Mordah understood little of weddings, but knew she wanted one like Mama’s.

Her mother knelt before the altar in the little stone chapel. Tiarna, the only name Branna had
ever called the man on his knees beside Mama, recited the priest’s words in a deep, comforting
voice. “I, Gavin, take thee, Aideen, to my wedded wife, to have and to hold from this day forward,
till death do us part, if the holy church will ordain it: And thereto I plight thee my troth.”
Branna turned her attention from the priest’s droning words to the beautiful window above the
altar. Decorated with pieces of coloured glass, the moonlight streamed through the window,
spilling green, gold and red on to the stone floor. A familiar object formed the centre of the
design. The image resembled a tree, yet it was unlike any she had seen in the forest.

The priest’s movements recaptured Branna’s attention. He held an item in his wrinkled hand,
but it was hidden beneath a white cloth embroidered with a tall cup.

The priest lifted the cloth.

Branna gasped. “’Tis wondrous, Mama.”

The brilliant gold cup bore green stones and mysterious etchings, giving Branna reason to
look again at the window.

“The wee one should be abed. She has no business here.” Shaking his head, the priest filled
the chalice with deep, red wine.

“I am not wee. I am five.” Branna held up the correct number of fingers as proof.

“She is my one child.” Mama’s voice held a slight pleading tone. “Hush now, Branna. ’Tis time
to drink from the chalice.”

“The little one stays, Father.” Tiarna’s voice was calm and the old man held his tongue.

With a wave of Tiarna’s hand the priest continued with his final prayer and blessing. He
placed the cup in Mama’s two hands. She turned, faced Tiarna and took a sip, her blue eyes
meeting his above the gilded rim.

“’Tis my heart’s desire.”

Mama looked beautiful. Her dark hair fell over her shoulders in gentle waves, haloed by the
circlet of white flowers Branna had tied all by herself. Her mother passed the chalice to Tiarna
and he sipped from the cup.

The blessed quiet was pierced by a chorus of high-pitched howls. Branna grabbed her
mother’s skirt when three white hounds crashed through the double doors and galloped down
the isle towards the priest.

Mama bent down and whispered, her voice calm, “Hide, my sweet, under the bord’s sacred
cloth.” Mama pushed her towards the table, and then stepped off the dais. Branna saw Mama
take the chalice and Tiarna’s proffered hand. He raised Mama’s hand to his lips, kissing her
fingers. Then they turned, standing shoulder to shoulder to confront the terrible dogs.

Branna faced the altar, but her feet would not obey Mama’s command. She could only stare
at the table covered by crossed white cloths embroidered with the same tree as in the windows.

Tears stung her eyes. She wanted Mama.

Tiarna scooped her up, kissed the top of her head and pushed her under the table. “Do not
come out till the dogs leave, Little Raven.”

Branna crouched under the heavy table. From a gap between the cloths, she saw the frenzy of
the battle. The priest chanted words Branna did not understand. He stood before Mama and
Tiarna, drawing a cross in the air. For a moment, the dogs hushed. Then, the hound with the
reddest eyes leaped upon the old man, ripping at his throat. Branna had seen Tiarna’s hounds
tear apart a hind in the same manner. The dogs turned next to Tiarna and Mama.

Mama stepped forwards and raised the chalice. Wine sloshed over the lip and down her arm.

She stood ready to strike down the lead dog. Tiarna swept her behind him.

Terrified, Branna squeezed her eyes shut, determined to make the bad dogs disappear. The
screams died quickly and all was quiet again. Branna felt hot, tinny air upon her face. She
slowly opened her eyes straight into the blazing red orbs of a dog. The hound panted in her
face, its breath heavy with the scent of the battle, his white fur flecked with blood and wine.

He growled low in his throat, and Branna crawled further under the table. With a last
threatening snarl, the dog captured the chalice in his jaws, and led the other Hounds of Hell out
of the chapel and into the night.

Branna ventured from beneath the table. Tiarna and the priest were sprawled in the aisle, not
moving. Branna crawled to her mother who lay still at the base of the dais. The white flower
crown had broken, its blossoms scattered about her mother’s body. Branna touched her
beautiful mother’s face, which was torn and bloodied. Mama’s lifeless eyes were locked on
Tiarna.

Branna screamed, the sound echoing in the empty chapel.

Branna swal owed the scream that threatened to escape her lips. She rode past a snagging tree, its bare branches sticking out like fingers twisted by age. The nearly ful moonlight shimmered off its bark, turning it silver. A light breeze shook its limbs, as if warning her away. She shivered and wrapped her heavy, fur-trimmed cloak closer. She squeezed Mol y’s ribs urging her on. The terrifying images of the past stil left her quaking, but it would not dissuade her from her task. She must find the emerald chalice.

Branna’s memory of the man her mother had loved was smal . She did not know his ful name, only had cal ed him “Tiarna”, the Gaelic name for lord. Two things she knew for certain – he had made her mother sing and he’d saved her from certain death. No matter what Aunt Meeda whispered amongst her friends, Branna knew Tiarna had been good.

Her life after that night had changed. She’d been whisked away and taken to her uncle’s modest house to live, but had never felt welcomed by his family. Her raven-dark hair and blue eyes, different from their red and hazel, had not helped.

Mol y picked her way over an il -repaired, stone packhorse bridge, its rough surface interspersed with timber planks. She stopped the mare on the other side and looked across the rocky field towards the imposing Norman castle upon the hil .

Castle Hol ylough.

Aunt Meeda had warned her to never travel to this land, as it was evil, but Branna could no longer abide her wishes. She would face down evil if necessary. She had to find the magic chalice and bring her mother back.

Dismounting, Branna removed the smal spade from her leather pack. She led her horse across the field, careful y stepping over a low hedge, moving closer to the standing stones. Outside the ring, she dropped Mol y’s reins to let her graze on the last of summer’s sweet grass.

Branna entered the circle, striding to the large dolmen in the centre. This is where Grandmama had said the chalice might be buried, inside the portal tomb. Branna couldn’t have attempted this without Grandmama’s assistance.

Her mother’s mother had been Branna’s only friend and confidante after Mama died. She had oftentimes been the shield between her and Aunt Meeda, who’d never been warm to her. Branna not only wanted to find the chalice for herself, but for Grandmama, who was becoming frailer every day.

Branna stepped beneath the huge angled capstone, supported by other upended boulders.

Looking around the perimeter, she estimated the centre of the tomb and pushed her spade into the earth, marking the spot.

Sweeping the hood of her cloak from her head, Branna tied a loose knot in her hair. She knelt and easily scraped away the upper layer of hardened topsoil, hitting solid rock with the next thrust of her shovel.

On her hands and knees, Branna grabbed the rock nearest the surface and wiggled it to and fro, moving it enough for her to grab. Sweat beaded her forehead as she threw the rock aside and began working the next one.

A soft snort and whinny sounded from the field. “Patience, Mol y. The ground is harder than I expected. I’ve only made a smal hole.”

She cleared away more dirt with the spade before hitting additional rocks. Branna attacked those with as much strength as possible, not caring if she tore fingernails or suffered cuts and scrapes. The dirt and pain would pale if she could see her mother again.

Mol y whinnied again, this time louder and of a different timbre. Branna straightened and looked over her shoulder. Mol y stood stil , her ears pricked forwards. Branna scanned the field. Had a shadow moved near the thicket of trees in the distance? The hair rose on her neck and arms. She squinted, forcing her eyes to pierce the darkness. Her heart pounded in silence for several minutes, but nothing stirred.