The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance (8 page)

It had been their jest, al those years, that they would one day sel everything and live out their lives in Sicily. They had both preferred the sun’s sultry heat there to the chil of the north.

“But what of the contents?” Padraig’s displeasure was clear.

“Sel them, sel them wherever you can fetch a fair price for them, and keep the proceeds for your own.”

“But . . .”

“I owe you no less for al your years of faithful service.” It was a facile lie and they both had known it, even then.

“But the ship?”

“Sel it as wel , or keep it for your own. I do not care, Padraig.” Rosamunde uttered that heartfelt sigh, acknowledging the shadow of dread that touched her heart. “I have had wealth and I have had love. Love is better.”

It was a lie. She had never had Tynan’s love. She had had the il usion of his love, and had been seduced by that. She had had no more than the physical expression of his love, and that was a paltry offering.

On the other hand, Rosamunde saw in her dream that Padraig’s love had been before her, awaiting her invitation, for years.

“You wil fare wel enough,” she said in her dream, and the declaration of her gift of foresight struck her as ironic. “I have seen it and we know that whatsoever I see wil be true.”

“What do you see for yourself?” Padraig asked softly, his survey of her so searching that Rosamunde could scarce hold his gaze. He frowned and looked away. “I always said that you saw farther than most, but could not see what was before your own eyes.” There was a truth in his claim that she had missed on that red-stained morning. She declared her destiny to be at Ravensmuir, seeing in her dream how the notion displeased Padraig.

How could she have missed such an offering?

How could she have overlooked the affection of one who knew her better than she knew herself? She had been a fool and lost her life because of it. If only she had another chance, she would seize the opportunity Padraig presented to her.

“Farewel , Padraig,” she heard herself say. “May the wind always fil your sails when you have need of it.”

And Padraig embraced her, catching her close. She could feel the muscled strength of him, the resolve of him, the power he oft held in check. In her dream, she closed her eyes and savoured what she had lost through her own fol y.

His voice was husky when he spoke. “We have fought back to back a hundred times, Rosamunde, and always I wil consider you to be my friend.” His blue eyes fil ed with heat as he regarded her. “You have been my only friend, but a friend of such merit that I had need of no other.”

“No soul ever had a friend more loyal than I found in you,” she said, her heart aching at her own fol y.

“I did,” Padraig said, his words fierce. His gaze bored into hers, then he turned away, staring at the cliffs of Ravensmuir. “I did,” he added softly.

And in her dream, Rosamunde did what she should have done on that day. She reached out.

She touched Padraig’s shoulder. She saw his surprise when he turned towards her. Then she caught him close, hearing the thunder of her pulse in her own ears, and kissed him.

It was a sweet, hot kiss, a kiss that sent a torrent of longing through her. It was a kiss tinged with regret, fil ed with love, a kiss of yearning and potency. It left her dizzy. It left her hot.

It left Rosamunde wide awake and blinking at a ceiling she could not place.

Was she not dead?

It appeared not. She was simply alone. She touched her lips, caught her breath, and dared to wish.

Padraig awoke abruptly, his heart racing and his breath coming in quick spurts. He was hot and tight, the taste of Rosamunde upon his lips.

He had also slept, apparently, in the field.

The sun was rising in the east, gilding the hil s and setting the dewdrops ablaze. He stared around himself. He was alone. He was cold and his clothing was damp with dew. The stone circle was a dozen steps away, silent in its secrets. The women were gone, if indeed they had ever existed, and there was no music echoing in his ears. No lyre, no smal faeries, no footsteps in the grass.

Padraig heard a man shout at a cow as he drove her along the road to town.

He ran his fingers through his hair and his tongue across his lips. He tasted the kiss of Rosamunde again, closing his eyes at the rush of pleasure he’d felt beneath her touch.

Rosamunde had never kissed him.

Except in his dream.

He had indulged too much the night before. It was the ale, confounding him, feeding his desire and leading him astray.

Padraig shoved to his feet, grimacing at the distance he had to walk back to town. His feet were stil sore and his head ached. He made to brush himself down, removing the twigs strewn across his clothes, and realized there was something in his hand.

It was a stone. The stone was round with a hole in the middle of it. It was the colour of gold. Was this the golden ring he believed the Faerie Queen had given him?

Padraig smiled at his own foolish dream. He had been in his cups. Stil , a stone of such a shape was unusual. It might be lucky. He was possessed of al of the superstitions of a seafaring man and a few more besides, courtesy of his mother’s upbringing in these hil s and her respect for the fey. If nothing else, it would be an error to cast the gift aside where the donor might witness his rudeness.

Padraig pushed the stone into his pocket and strode through the damp grass. And as he walked back to his accommodations in Galway, he savoured the memory of Rosamunde’s kiss.

Even in a dream, it had been a sweet prize and was enough to put a spring in his step.

But Rosamunde, she had not died

In truth she breathed still.

She was a captive of the fey

And lost beneath the hill.

Such marvels she did see while there

Such beauty, wondrous still

Still Rosamunde did not wish to be

Captive beneath the hill.

The spriggan Darg was not a creature Rosamunde was glad to see.

Solitude was better than the company of this
thing.

That the smal fairy had a red cord knotted around its waist was curious, and surely did not improve the creature’s mood. It hissed and spat, pinching her to wake her up then nipping at her heels to hurry her along.

“Make haste, make haste, the King is not inclined to wait.”

“Where are we going? I thought Faerie was like limbo.”

Darg chattered unintel igibly, as was its tendency when it was annoyed. The creature led her more deeply into the caverns beneath Ravensmuir and Rosamunde was glad to leave her past behind.

It wasn’t truly the caverns beneath Ravensmuir, though. Those caves and their pathways were wel known to Rosamunde, having been her secret passage to the keep for decades. As a child, she had played in them, learning their labyrinth, delighting in their secret corners. But they were dank and made of grey stone, dark and fil ed with the distant tinkle of running water.

She did not know the passageways that Darg fol owed. Rosamunde had never spied that entry lit with golden light until the col apse of the cavern and the death of Tynan. She suspected that Darg had opened a portal for her, but knew not where it truly was.

This cavern could not be fairly cal ed a cave or even a labyrinth. Indeed, Rosamunde did not feel as if she were underground at al . There was bril iant golden sunlight, the light that had spil ed from that unexpected portal. The sky arched high, clear and blue, over verdant fields. The air was fil ed with music and fine singing, and every soul she saw was beautiful.

It took Rosamunde a while to realize that she only saw nobility. There were aristocrats riding and hunting, borne by finely draped steeds so majestic in stature that the beasts rival ed the famed destriers of Ravensmuir. The women were dressed in silk and samite, their garb of every hue, their long hair flowing over their shoulders or braided into plaits. They wore coronets of flowers, and gems were plentiful on their clothing, even wound into their hair. Many played instruments as they rode. Golden flutes and silver lyres abounded in this strange country. The women’s laughter sounded like music as wel .

The men were just as wel wrought, tal and slim, muscular. There was a glint of mischief in every eye. Their armour shone as if it was made of silver, their banners were beautiful y embroidered and their steeds gal oped with proudly arched necks. Silver bel s hung from every bridle.

The land itself was bountiful, the trees lush with fruit and flowers blooming on every side.

Rosamunde thought she saw fruit of gold and silver, and flowers wrought of precious jewels, but Darg did not delay their passage so she could look more closely. Birds sang from every tree, their song blending so beautiful y with the ladies’ tunes that Rosamunde felt they made music together.

Just passing through the beauty of this realm, even at Darg’s kil ing pace, lightened Rosamunde’s heart. It healed her wounds and made her believe that she might live on, even without love. It made her think of the future with an optimism that she had believed lost.

It made her wonder where Padraig was.

It made her wonder how she might get from here to there.

“Where are we?” she shouted to Darg, who hastened ahead of her, muttering al the while.

“A foolish mortal you must be, to not know the land of Faerie.”
Faerie.
Rosamunde was a pragmatic woman, one who had never believed in matters unseen or places to which she could not navigate. Was she dreaming?

A butterfly lit on her shoulder, its wings fairly dripping with colour, its beauty far beyond that of any earthly insect.

Rosamunde realized with a start that it was a tiny winged woman. The fairy laughed at her surprise, a sound like tinkling bel s, then darted away, disappearing into the blue of the sky with a glimmer.

“And why do we not linger in this magical realm?” Rosamunde asked Darg.

“Late we are, late we must not be! Finvarra waits impatiently.” The spriggan tugged again at the red cord knotted around its waist. It spat in the grass with displeasure, then snatched at Rosamunde. “Hasten, hasten, by the moon’s rise, we must be safely at his side.”

“Who is Finvarra? And why do we go to him?”

“Questions, questions, instead of haste! Your queries do the daylight waste! We have far to go without rest: Finvarra wil accept no less.”

They crossed a bridge; the river running beneath looked to be made of mead. Rosamunde caught a whiff of its honeyed sweetness and saw a cluster of bees hovering at the shore. A beautiful y dressed suitor offered a golden chalice of the liquid to his lady, who flushed, fluttered both wings and lashes, then accepted his tribute.

“But why do we go to this Finvarra? Who is he and what hold has he over you?” The spriggan spun round abruptly, facing Rosamunde with fury in its eyes. “A match I lost, the price my life. His demand was you as his new wife. High King of Faerie is his task, a man whose patience does not last.” Darg wrestled with the red cord, then released it with disgust. “This bond he knots, it burns me true; ’til you are his, this pain my due.”

“You traded me to the Faerie King?” Rosamunde demanded, bracing her hands upon her hips.

“What if I have no desire to be his toy? Or that of any other man, for that matter? I wil not go complacent to his court, no matter what you have promised.”

“I pledged my word, I swore my life; Finvarra wil have you as his wife!”

“I think not.” Rosamunde turned her back on her vile captor, having no inclination to make such a submission easier. She surveyed the beautiful countryside and spied a man tending a pair of horses that were drinking mead on the bank. He was handsome, and his gaze was bright upon her.

His hair was as dark as midnight, and if she narrowed her eyes, he could have been mistaken for Padraig.

Save that Padraig had neither wings nor pointed ears.

Perhaps he could aid her in finding Padraig.

When the Faerie knight smiled, Rosamunde found herself smiling in return. “I wil take my heart’s ease here instead,” she said to Darg and turned her back upon the creature.

“No!” the spriggan screamed, as once it had screamed before in Rosamunde’s presence. She glanced back warily, then ran when she saw that the spriggan had become a large and menacing black cloud. When enraged it could change shape with frightening speed – the last such eruption had led to Tynan’s death after it had shattered the caverns.

“I saved your life, it’s mine to give,” Darg shouted. “I trade it now so I shal live!” Rosamunde ran as quickly as she could, feeling the other faeries watching her with bemusement. She could not outrun Darg’s fury, however. Her heart sank as the dark cloud enveloped her, surrounding her with fog as black as night.

Then she was snatched from the ground, as helpless as a butterfly caught in a tempest, and carried away. She thought she heard someone cry out, but Darg did not slow down.

Finvarra’s wife.
King or not, Rosamunde had no interest in his attentions. The very fact that he would trade a faerie’s life for a woman, with no consideration of any desire beyond his own, was no good endorsement. She struggled and fought, knowing it was futile, and she wished again for a loyal friend to fight at her back.

Padraig. How could she have been so blind?

Padraig fondled the strange stone in his pocket as he returned to the tavern that night. It was fal ing dark, the sun blazing orange just before it slipped beneath the horizon.

He could not dispel his dream of kissing Rosamunde and, in truth, he did not want to do so. The dream had lifted the shadow from his heart, made him feel that there might be some purpose to his life even without his partner by his side.