The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance Part 14

"Drink your fill," Nia said, a bite to her words even she could hear. She held her gaze to his, and Cyric did exactly that.

She watched his green gaze slowly move over her face before he lifted a hand to her cheek. Inwardly, Nia flinched, but she wasna going to s.h.i.+rk his inspection. He'd saved her life. If he wanted to see the horror of her scars for himself, she'd let him. Then, she'd leave.

Cyric's eyes flashed as he firmly but gently grasped her chin. "Do you think so little of me, Nia of Clare?" Slowly, he released her, and let the back of his knuckles drag slowly over the very skin marred by the fire that took her mother's life. His eyes softened, and when they moved to her lips, turned even smokier. "You've no right to judge me by others, Nia," he said quietly. His thumb grazed her lower lip, and his eyes followed the motion, seemingly fascinated by it.

Then, he cupped her face on either side with both of his hands, tilted her head just so, and lowered his mouth to hers.

She allowed it.

His lips were a whisper away from touching hers when he stilled. "You are the most beautiful woman I've ever seen," he said, his lips brus.h.i.+ng hers softly with each word. "The way you look at me you didna fear the beast." He brushed his lips over hers. "I've waited for you my whole life, Nia of Clare." He pulled back and searched her eyes. "I think you were meant to be mine." He kissed her again, his thumbs brus.h.i.+ng the puckered skin on her face. "Ne'er has any mortal been able to tame the Beast, but you did. I knew who you were last night," he said. "And you feared me not. You were so verra brave."

Nia was lost in his touch and his words. Ne'er had she been looked upon with such love. "My da deemed me unworthy of a husband because of my face," she said. "I was being sent to the abbey to live a life wors.h.i.+ping G.o.d, alone." She c.o.c.ked her head. "Why have so many men before you seen my face and thought me ugly, yet you find me beautiful?"

Cyric's gaze stared down at her, and the sincerity Nia saw in the green depths rocked her to the core.

"Fools, for one," he began, and lowered his head once more. He brushed a light, teasing kiss across her lips. He leaned back, just far enough so his eyes weren't crossed at being so close. "And I've seen inside your head," he said proudly. "What's in there has a powerful beauty, as well." He c.o.c.ked his head and stared directly at her scars. For once, she didna cringe. "When was the last time you saw your face, Nia?"

Nia had to think quite difficult whilst being held in the arms of a half-naked marked man, centuries old. Then, she laughed. "I don't recall."

Cyric smiled. "Come. Let me show you something." He tugged her hand and pulled her away from the window. Then, he suddenly stopped, wrapped his arms around her and pulled her close, lowered his head, and covered her mouth with his. Everywhere his hands touched, her skin burned, and Nia slid her hands over his marked skin to clasp her fingers behind his neck. He moved her slowly until her back was against the aged wall, and they kissed until breathless.

Finally, Cyric pulled back and rested his forehead against hers. "Come," he said. He pulled her out of the ruined room, down a stone corridor, then down a narrow flight of steps. "Careful," he warned, leading the way.

Nia smiled at that. Cyric could turn into a bloodthirsty, frothing-at-the-mouth fanged beast that could rip a man in two, and he was telling her to be careful of the stone steps.

Finally, they reached the bottom. The roof of the castle was mostly gone, with wooden beams and sky exposed overhead. Cyric guided her to a wall where an old knight's s.h.i.+eld hung askew. He reached up, grabbed it and, with the tail of Nia's cloak, polished it. He stared into it, grinned, and turned it around and held it up.

"See for yourself."

Nia stared into Cyric's mischievous eyes, then slowly let her gaze settle on the polished metal. Although no' a perfect mirror by any means, she could certainly see her reflection.

Nia blinked and drew closer. She felt her mouth slide open in surprise, and she lifted a hand to her marred cheek.

Rather, the cheek that was once marred. Now, 'twas just a bit pinkish and ever so slightly puckered.

'Twasna nearly as bad as it used to be.

Then, Cyric's image edged into the s.h.i.+eld as he looked on with her. "Beautiful," he whispered and, for once in her life, Nia felt it to be true.

He then set the s.h.i.+eld down and walked Nia to what once was a ma.s.sive landing overlooking the sea. He pulled her close and tucked her head beneath his chin. "You and I make quite a pair," he said, holding her tightly. "I dunna ever want to let you go." He lifted her chin, forcing Nia to meet his gaze. "Will you stay wi' me? I canna offer much, other than warmth, food and safety-"

"Aye," Nia said, joy filling her soul. "I never dreamed of finding someone who loved me as much as I loved them."

A wide smile stretched across Cyric's breathtaking face. Nia noticed how it curled one tip of the black Pict marking in his lip. "You love me, then? Beast and all?"

Nia wrapped her arms about Cyric's waist. "I do love you, Cyric, Beast of Killarney Wood." She raised on tiptoe and pulled his head down to her. She kissed him. "I'll love you forever."

Cyric embraced her tightly, then kissed her back with just as much fierceness as she. "I love you too, Nia of the Wood."

With a deep laugh that reverberated off the walls and cliffs of the sea, Cyric scooped Nia up and kissed her some more.

Beyond the Veil.

Patricia Rice.

Connacht Region, Ireland 161 AD.

One.

A blast of wind and hail burst from the roiling black clouds, battering bodies crumpled in a sea of red. Rain lashed at the valley and the gra.s.sy mound rising above the fallen warriors, as if to wash away the stench of death. But the carrion crows already gathered.

Mortally wounded and bleeding profusely, one soldier determinedly staggered up the greensward, away from the battle scene. Caught sideways by a fierce gust of hail and rain, he sagged to one knee. But his will was mightier than the storm. With gasping breath, he dug his fingers into a boulder and hauled his big body up again. A cut across his cheekbone bled freely down his square jaw and into his long, wet hair, staining it a deeper shade of auburn.

The great sword slung across his back dripped with the blood of his enemies, but Finn mac Connell knew, in the end, they had killed him. Others like him, warriors all, the kind of which legends are made, lay slaughtered in the valley below. The battle had been won, but at a high cost.

Finn lurched on to a rocky path, his gaze fixed on the wooden fort at the top of the hill, where he'd left his wife. The women and children had fled with the cattle to the woods and hills when the battle arrived at their doorstep. But Niamh had been in childbed.

He had fought furiously to protect his home so he might return to the woman who owned his heart, and the child she was about to bear.

He prayed to all the G.o.ds that she was safe. In response, the gale blew so wildly, Finn stumbled backwards, but he fought for his balance and pushed onwards. The gnarled Druid Oak sheltered him momentarily, allowing him to fill his lungs, giving him the strength to continue, although the gash in his side was deep, and he'd lost more blood than any normal man could survive.

No smoke curled from the chimney. She would be freezing in this bl.u.s.tery damp air. He would start a fire for her before he left because he knew he was not long for this world. But Niamh must live. And his child. Without them, he had no home to defend, and brave men had died for nought.

Using his sword to hold himself upright the last few steps, Finn pushed open the crude plank door of his home.

At the sight within, his roar of rage and agony surpa.s.sed the thunder, bringing him to his knees at last.

Niamh, his beautiful black-haired Niamh, lay in a bed of blood, her usually rosy cheeks now as pale and still as the winter snows. Her once flas.h.i.+ng eyes stared lifelessly at the ceiling. Her warm smile would never greet anyone again.

The warrior crossed his arms on the timber bed and buried his face against them. He was not a man who wept, but his heart howled like an infant- Like an infant. His head shot up, causing his long hair to swipe the tattered shoulders of his tunic. The cry was real! Alive. Bellowing with hunger and rage the cry of a warrior's son.

Pressing his hand to Niamh's cold forehead, he blessed her, kissed her cheek and closed her eyes.

With his last fading breath and hope, he lifted the cover concealing his son. Niamh had wrapped him in swaddling clothes and kept him warm for as long as she'd had life in her body, sacrificing her fading strength to save their child.

Hugging the howling babe to his chest, the newly widowed warrior wept, and prayed, "Aoibhinn, please, save my son, take him to your bosom, care for him as your own so that I may follow my heart."

"And lose the finest warrior that ever walked this land?" a harsh voice asked from the doorway. "I think not, Fionn mac Connell. If you wish to save the child, you must do so yourself. Stand like a man and come with me."

He had no choice. Much as he'd rather die beside his beloved Niamh, he could not let his son, Niamh's flesh and blood, die here cold and alone. With the last of his strength, Fionn stood, huddling the now quiet babe.

The wraith in the doorway gestured impatiently.

Accepting that he left the mortal world for the one beyond, Fionn followed the cloaked figure in grey out of the door he'd just entered into a world that looked like his own but wasn't.

The wind and hail that had rattled the walls miraculously vanished to reveal a sun s.h.i.+ning in a sky of brilliant blue. Flowers danced in the valley where blood had moistened the trampled earth. The Druid Oak stood young and healthy, shading the richly garbed fae on their fine horses, awaiting his arrival.

The wound in Fionn's side had already begun to heal. He knew he had to pay a price for this peace, but for his son for Niamh's son he would forfeit whatever they demanded.

On the other side of the Veil, in the real world, a high keening shrieked over the roar of thunder.

Connacht Region, Ireland 1161 AD Anya O'Brion listened to the keening of the bean si and s.h.i.+vered. She feared, in another few minutes, the wraith would have reason to wail again. The fine tapestries, rich panelling and precious gold adorning the high-ceilinged chamber could not stop Death.

Tears sliding down her cheeks, Anya sat on the bed beside her sister-in-law, holding Maeve's frail, cold hand. The keening could be dismissed as the wind on a bl.u.s.tery night such as this, but Anya knew it was not. The bean si always recognized the death of an O'Brion, and the stillborn child in the cradle was the last of them, except for Anya herself.

The priest called the sidhe "fallen angels", but Anya had been born with the caul, and had seen the Other World before she'd breathed her first breath. She would not call the fae ones by any name but "Good Neighbours". She did not wors.h.i.+p their ancient G.o.ds of the earth, but she respected their ways.

She knew her family thought her soft in the head for believing in the old tales, so she'd learned not to speak of what she saw. Instead, she had trained to become the tough, decisive ruler required of a king's daughter. That did not stop her from hearing the bean si's cry and feeling the hairs rise on the back of her neck as the spirits walked.

Maeve whispered incoherently and attempted to squeeze Anya's hand. The rising wind rattled at the windows. Murmuring a prayer, Breeda, both maid and midwife, shook her head sadly while removing sheets soiled by birthing.

Outside the richly panelled door of this tower room, guards waited, guards who would report to the household with great joy if an heir was born to their recently murdered king, Anya's brother.

If Maeve did not bear a son, those same guards would lay down their swords and swear fealty to a man Anya despised with all her heart and soul. The man whose consort she would become once the heir was reported stillborn, and she became the last remaining O'Brion to defend her family's keep.

"Sleep, Maeve," Anya said soothingly, shoving aside her own fears to rea.s.sure the dying Queen. "You have done well. You've borne a son and heir. You have done your duty. Rest easy."

Not quite a lie. Heaven would surely not deny her for easing a dying woman's heart. Feverish, Maeve still fretted at the sheets.

For her father's people, Anya was prepared to stand steadfast and do her duty, but her soul would surely wither within her, piece by little piece, once she was wedded to the Beast who had killed so many of her family. As he had killed her father and brother.

The tears slid off her cheek to fall on the simple tunic she'd worn to aid in the birthing. Turning away from Maeve, Anya gazed helplessly at the still, cold form, swathed in white linen, in the cradle at her feet. Even in death, a king's heir would not lie naked. The boy had dark hair, like his mother. Born early, he'd been too frail to breathe so much as a single breath. Her nephew, the king-who-was-meant-to-be, had pa.s.sed from the womb directly to heaven.

As she wept over the dead infant, the air over the cradle began to s.h.i.+ver with translucent blues and reds.

Recognizing that ethereal s.h.i.+mmer, Anya pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, hiding her gasp. She had not seen this so close since childhood, when others had laughed at her foolish visions. She was no longer a child, but still, she was aware when the fae pierced the Veil between this world and the next. She knew when the faerie court went riding.

To her knowledge, they had never before entered the castle.

Muttering and shaking out fresh linen, the midwife had her back to the bed. Only Anya could see the cradle rock. Transfixed, she watched the s.h.i.+mmer form a fog that hid the child within. Surely, a dead child could not move? Her heart raced, and she feared to stir.

The mist parted, and a man appeared. Biting her tongue to keep from crying out, she studied the apparition standing tall, straight and strong. Hair the dark red of drying blood fell to his shoulders. A scar marred his harsh jaw. No smile softened his expression, but as he leaned over the cradle and rocked it, the streak of a single tear glistened, as if he wept for the dead King.

Standing again, he caught her eye, nodded and vanished.

In the cradle, the new King whimpered hungrily.

Anya froze, until the midwife swung around at the sound. She breathed again that she was not imagining what she had seen. Or heard.

Seeing the cradle rock, Breeda cried out to all the blessed saints and hurried across the room, her gnarled hands wrapped in her ap.r.o.n, her face lit with disbelief.

"It is a miracle, Breeda," Anya whispered. Terrified her anguish had led her to visions of what she wanted, and not what was, Anya leaned over to touch the crying child. The live child. She could feel his warmth and solidity. Tufts of dark hair crowned his delicate skull, just as she'd noticed earlier. She unwrapped his perfect limbs, and strong feet kicked at his covers. A tiny fist popped deliberately into a rosebud mouth.

But even though his limbs had been hidden, Anya knew this was not the puny infant that had been delivered dead a few minutes ago. This one was healthy and strong.

Committing the first lie of her new life, Anya placed the changeling against the Queen's breast. "Your son, Maeve, your beautiful son."

The Queen died with a smile of peace upon her pale lips.

And the bean si wailed again.

Two.

Fionn stood outside the stone bailey wall of the grand castle that had been built on the hill where his timber fort had once stood. With the pa.s.sage of time in the Other World, he'd buried the melancholy of losing all he knew and loved. But now, he had to let his son go to mature in the human world where he belonged. He grieved mightily at the loss of his boy.

Below him, he could see that the Druid Oak was gone, no doubt reduced to ash for a winter fire as people forgot the old ways. The greensward had worn to a barren hill of rock beneath the pa.s.sage of so many horses and carts prosperity took its toll. At the foot of the hill, a ditch had been half completed a fine defence once it was finished and filled with water. Aobinnhe had been kind in choosing a time when his son could return to his rightful position.

He could leave now. Should leave. He was no longer chieftain here. He was from the past, a time forgotten. He had watched from the safety of the Other World as battles were fought and won, new G.o.ds were wors.h.i.+pped, new families ruled. Time did not change the dimension he inhabited. He was the same now as he had been then, but the human world had moved on.

But he still possessed a warrior's fierce heart, and a warrior protected his own. Fionn had heard the bean si's cry, seen the worried face of the la.s.s inside as she sat beside her dying queen. All was not well here.

The la.s.s had not been frightened when he'd appeared. Fionn smiled for the first time in a long, long time. He wanted a woman of courage to care for his son, a woman who might understand that the old ways had pa.s.sed but the G.o.ds lived still beyond the Veil.

Aware of the pounding of the distant sea and the rising dawn, Fionn called his horse from the Other World and waited for the sounds of jubilation and mourning to ring inside the castle.

His duty to his son was not yet done.

"Your Highness," the elderly steward said, interrupting the prayers in the Queen's chamber.

The steward had come from the formal courts of France and could not be convinced that the Irish did not bow to t.i.tles. He lost his bearings and grew confused unless he was "my lording" or "your highnessing" someone, and Anya had grown accustomed to his ways. She looked up from rocking her nephew, no longer annoyed with the man. How could anyone be annoyed while holding the future in her arms?

"Yes, Francois, what is it?"

"There's a knight outside, says he's been sent by the High King to serve the new O'Brion. His mantle is lined with fur, and the fibula must be pure gold! Shall I bring him here?" The last was asked dubiously since the upper chamber was filled with keening women.

Honouring a knight of the High King would be Anya's first duty as the new King's guardian. She had to play the part of ruler well or lose the respect she must command until the child could lead on his own. A daunting task for a gentle woman who would feed on dreams if allowed, but one to which she'd been raised.

"I will meet him in the hall, of course. Summon Garvan, if you will, and any of the other knights with him. Have the kitchen provide suitable fare for a man who has travelled far. I will be down shortly."

Anya's Norman mother had introduced many of the French ways to the O'Brion stronghold, but Conn the High King was pure Irish warrior. His men would not be gallant knights. Calling for scented water and her richest tunic and mantle, Anya pondered whether or not she should accept this "gift" of service. Did Conn mean for his knight to rule the O'Brions in the absence of a male O'Brion leader? If so, did she dare turn him away?

The maids wrapped silver ribbons in her long, blonde hair and one fastened the triple spiral gold fibula to her blue wool mantle. Anya owned nothing so fine as fur but would not have worn animals on her back anyway. Even her shoes were of matted felt and not leather. Her kingly brother had laughed at her odd ways, but her mother had seen the caul when Anya was born and accepted that her daughter was more attached to the natural world than most.