The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance (7 page)

Finvarra eyed the path Una had taken, heard the distant sound of her sobs, and decided to remain in his hal a bit longer. He clapped and cal ed for music, for he was feeling as celebratory as Una was not.

After al , soon he would have a new prize to savour.

Rosamunde dreamed.

If she had been asked, she would have said that her expectation was to dream of Tynan through al eternity. But her dream took her further into the past, to an abbey on the coast of Ireland.

She had been summoned there by the bishop, anxious to increase the revenue of his remote diocese with the acquisition of a holy relic. One of the bishop’s men had eyes of bril iant blue and a steady gaze. She strove to ignore him.

The bishop purchased a perfumed braid said to have come from Mary, daughter of Lazarus.

They negotiated the price, the coin was counted and then deposited in Rosamunde’s purse. She sensed that the man with the blue gaze thought the bishop intended to cheat her.

Outside, Rosamunde was glad to see her ship. She emitted a high whistle, a signal to Thomas waiting in the dingy out of sight. She was not prepared to find Thomas dead, bleeding in the bottom of the boat. She was not prepared to have a man assault her in the darkness – the purse ripped from her belt, her blade snatched.

And she certainly was not expecting the blue-eyed man to leap out of the shadows behind her attacker, slicing him from gul et to groin and kicking his carcase into the sea.

“I sicken of his thievery,” he said softly, his voice as steady as his gaze.

“I thank you for your aid.”

“You are most welcome, I fear I have lost my employ this night. Have you need of another man of your ship?”

Rosamunde found herself liking this man a great deal. “I always have need of men with stout hearts and quick blades. Have you a name?”

Padraig Deane.”

Rosamunde shook his hand, liking the heat of his skin, the firmness of his grip.

“Welcome, Padraig. There is no better compliment than knowing a man can be trusted with one’s own life.

She watched the moonlight play on his muscles as he rowed them back to the ship. He was determined, stalwart, and unafraid. Rosamunde wondered how she had failed to see the ful merit of Padraig in al the years he had served her.

What lifted the scales from her eyes now?

Padraig wandered the streets of Galway, paying no attention to his course until he reached the gate in the Norman wal . He glanced back towards the harbour, then ahead to the hil s cloaked in starlight and shadow. He chose to pass through the gate and walk out of town, knowing that the way was not without risk. He was but half-Irish, half of town and half of country, though there were those who would have little interest in the details.

He did not care about his fate as much as he once had.

And he had no taste for human company on this night.

He walked as the moon rose ever higher in the sky. He walked as the church bel s sounded far behind him. He walked as the stars glinted overhead.

He heard the rustle of smal animals in the underbrush and the tinkle of running water. He felt the ale loosen its hold upon his body and grief wel in his heart.

He paused in the middle of the road, hours after his departure, and cast a glance back towards the sleeping town. His feet ached and he knew he should turn back.

Padraig just made to do so when he heard a woman singing, singing more beautiful y than ever he had heard anyone singing. It could have been an angel he heard, and he was drawn to the sound.

He could not hear the words, and hastened closer.

“Una was the Faerie Queen

Fairest woman ever seen

Wed centuries to her King

Love meant more to her than his ring.”

The ground rose ahead of Padraig in a mound, a low hil covered with grass. A circle of large stones surrounded the crest of the hil , like a crown upon it, and a hawthorn tree grew outside the circle of stones.

The hair prickled on the back of his neck for he had learned at his mother’s knee to be cautious in the presence of the fey. If nothing else, this was the kind of place they favoured.

He could barely discern the silhouette of a woman atop the hil . She was sitting on a stone in the midst of the circle, combing her long hair, and he knew she was the one who sang. Two women sat at her feet, one with a lyre the like of which Padraig had never seen, the other humming along with her lady. They were al lovely, ethereal in the moonlight.

Her voice had a lovely lilt and Padraig wished to hear more of her song. He walked closer, trying to move silently as he didn’t want to startle the women.

To his astonishment, as soon as he stepped within the circle of stones, the lady with the comb turned to confront him. She smiled, her hand fal ing to her lap as she sang directly to him.

With proximity, he could see more than her silhouette. Her hair was golden, as bright as sunlight, her eyes as blue as a southern sea. Padraig walked closer, awed by her loveliness.

“But Finvarra had an appetite,

For mortal women, both dark and light.

He vowed he’d have the pirate queen,

Held captive by the spriggan’s greed.

One glimpse of the fair Rosamunde

Had left him filled with lust and love.

And so his wife did come to dread

Her spouse taking Rosamunde to his bed.”

Padraig blinked. Surely she could not be singing of his Rosamunde?

The woman stood up, revealing that she was tal and slender. She wore a dress that was fitted to her curves and swept to her ankles; it was as blue as her eyes, rich with golden embroidery and gems encrusting the hem and cuffs. It seemed to Padraig that her slippers were made of silk the colour of moonlight.

Or perhaps she was wrought of moonlight. She seemed insubstantial as she walked towards him, both of this world and not. Was he dreaming? The hem of her skirt seemed to dance with a wil of its own, and lights glinted around the perimeter of the stone circle. He remembered wil -

o’
-
the-wisp from his childhood and knew that he had strayed into the realm of the fey.

Only when the woman was directly before him did he see the numerous smal courtiers holding the hem. They could not have stood as high as his knee, not a one of them, and were dressed in green livery. Their faces were sharp, their eyes narrow, and their hair caught with twigs.

Padraig remembered her own words and knew who he encountered.

The Faerie Queen, Una.

“Greetings, Padraig, sailor of the many seas,” she said, her voice as melodious in speech as in song.

“Greetings, beauteous queen.” Padraig bowed deeply, knowing wel the price of insulting one of the fey.

“Perhaps you have guessed that I have summoned you here. I heard your song and knew that our goals could be as one.”

“Heard my song?” Padraig glanced over his shoulder, unable to glimpse the lights of the town.

“But that was miles away. You could not possibly have heard . . .” Una laid a fingertip across his lips to silence him. Her touch was as cold as ice, as smooth as silken velvet.

She smiled. “She is not dead, your Rosamunde.” Her lips tightened and she averted her gaze.

“And now my husband, casting his glance over al of Faerie, with the aid of his treacherous mirror, has glimpsed the slumbering Rosamunde. He means to make her his own on Beltane.”

“I mean no offence, my lady, but Rosamunde is dead.” Padraig spoke with care. He knew of the fey inclination to trick mortals. “I saw the fal en rock, I tried to retrieve her from the destroyed caverns. She cannot have survived in any way.”

Una smiled. “The spriggan Darg took her captive when she might have died.”

“Darg!” Padraig exclaimed. He recal ed the deceitful spriggan wel , and its determination to have vengeance upon Rosamunde.

Una watched him careful y. “You know this creature.”

“Indeed, I do, my lady, although I believed the spriggan to be yet at Ravensmuir.” Una’s smile faded. “No. It came in your ship.”

Padraig frowned. There had been items disappear on their last voyage, including the ale that he knew the spriggan liked so wel . It was possible that Una spoke the truth.

“It trespassed in our
sid.
It has wagered with my husband and lost, so it wil bring Rosamunde to him tomorrow. You must steal her from him.”

“My lady! A man who steals from the Faerie king wil not live to tel the tale of it!” Una smiled. “With my aid, you wil not be detected.” She pressed a golden ring into his hand.

“Wear this and you shal pass unseen in any company.”

The ring was cold, as cold as the tomb. Even having it in his hand fil ed Padraig with dread. He was not afraid to risk his life for Rosamunde, not even of inciting the wrath of the fey king, but there was one more thing he needed to know.

“With respect, my lady, I would be certain of the desire of Rosamunde. It seems to me that it would be most fine to live at the Faerie court. She might not wish to leave.” Una laughed but not because of his compliment. “You must have heard the old riddle, the one with truth at its heart.”

“Which is that, my lady?”

Her eyes glinted with humour. “What gift is it that a woman wishes most from a man?” Padraig shrugged, not knowing the answer. Riches? Comfort?

Love? There were so many possible answers that he could not choose. He suspected the answer depended upon the woman.

Una leaned closer. “To have her own way.” Her eyes shone with bril iant light as her courtiers giggled around her hem. “I suspect you are a worthy lover, Padraig Deane, and in tribute to your love, I give you a gift.”

“You have already been too kind . . .”

Before Padraig could finish, the Faerie Queen framed his face in her hands. She leaned closer, her cold breath caressing his skin, then she kissed him ful on the lips. He tasted death and loss, a chil that shook him to his marrow.

And Padraig swooned.

Rosamunde dreamed of another day from her past.

The sky was pink, a sure sign of trouble in the morning, and the dark clouds racing overhead made no better forecast. Al the same, Rosamunde’s heart leaped at the familiar cliffs that rose before her, the cliffs surmounted by the keep she knew as wel as the lines of her own hand.

Ravensmuir.

Governed by Tynan, stern but fair, the man who had taken her to his bed, the man who had vowed subsequently never to wed her. The man who had chosen this pile of stones over her.

Twice.

In her dream, she was certain she would relive that last encounter, that final fatal rejection. But she did not. She dreamed again of Padraig.

Rosamunde stood on the deck of her ship, staring up as the land rose closer, her heart pounding with trepidation that Tynan would see her approach, that he would meet her in the caverns below the keep. She was in the moment of approach, felt her own hope and anticipation, yet at the same time, knew what had happened subsequently in those caverns. She felt the twinge of dread that she had felt that morning and knew it had been a warning. Although Tynan had apologised to her, he had once again chosen his holding over her.

And he had died.

Had she not died, as wel ?

Padraig came to stand beside her on the deck, but this time when Rosamunde turned to her most trusted friend, she saw him with clear eyes. He was tal and hale, was Padraig, experience tempering his expression and his choices. His dark hair was touched with silver at the temples, she noted, and there were lines from laughter etched around his eyes. His tan made his eyes look more vividly blue, and she was struck by his vitality.

By his masculinity.

With the clarity of hindsight, she saw what she had missed day after day in his company.

Padraig was of an age with her, and they had shared a thousand adventures. He was unafraid of her truth, much less of her temper. He was quick to laughter; he was clever; he dared to chal enge her when he believed her to be wrong. He was deeply loyal and she had always been able to rely upon him.

Her heart began to pound at the magnitude of her error, at her own blind fol y.

“I wil go into the caverns alone,” she said, feeling the words she had once uttered as they crossed her tongue in this dream. Her quest had been the retrieval of a silver ring, once given to her by Tynan, demanded by the spriggan Darg as the price of its assistance, but returned by her to Tynan after his rejection. It had not been hers to take, but on this day she had returned to steal it to ensure the future of her niece.

“I wil accompany you,” Padraig said, determination in his tone. They shared this resolve to protect those they loved, Rosamunde realized, this ability to stride into the shadows so others would not be compel ed to do so.

She and Padraig had walked the periphery of society together, daring al as they chal enged convention.

At each other’s backs.

While Tynan had upheld convention. He had found Rosamunde useful, he had accepted her favours abed, but he had never respected her or intended to honour her. It was no surprise in hindsight to realize that Tynan could never have loved her in truth.

“No, not this time,” she argued in her dream, just as she had argued on that fateful morning.

She saw Padraig for what he was. She saw the ardour in his eyes. She saw his fear for her.

She saw his valour and his loyalty, and she guessed the secret of his heart.

And Rosamunde regretted that she had surrendered her love to the wrong man.

She had suspected as much on that day. The ghost of the realization had teased at her thoughts, urged her to choose otherwise, made her words tumble forth with uncharacteristic haste.

“Take the ship,” she told him, in this dream as she had then. “See me ashore, then take the ship and sail south to Sicily.”