The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance Part 5

Padraig smiled at his own foolish dream. He had been in his cups. Still, a stone of such a shape was unusual. It might be lucky. He was possessed of all of the superst.i.tions of a seafaring man and a few more besides, courtesy of his mother's upbringing in these hills 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 gra.s.s. 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 small 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 unintelligibly, 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 well known to Rosamunde, having been her secret pa.s.sage 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 filled with the distant tinkle of running water.

She did not know the pa.s.sageways that Darg followed. Rosamunde had never spied that entry lit with golden light until the collapse 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 called a cave or even a labyrinth. Indeed, Rosamunde did not feel as if she were underground at all. There was brilliant golden sunlight, the light that had spilled from that unexpected portal. The sky arched high, clear and blue, over verdant fields. The air was filled with music and fine singing, and every soul she saw was beautiful.

It took Rosamunde a while to realize that she only saw n.o.bility. There were aristocrats riding and hunting, borne by finely draped steeds so majestic in stature that the beasts rivalled 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 well.

The men were just as well wrought, tall 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 beautifully embroidered and their steeds galloped with proudly arched necks. Silver bells 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 pa.s.sage so she could look more closely. Birds sang from every tree, their song blending so beautifully with the ladies' tunes that Rosamunde felt they made music together.

Just pa.s.sing through the beauty of this realm, even at Darg's killing 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 all 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 b.u.t.terfly 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 bells, 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 gra.s.s with displeasure, then s.n.a.t.c.hed 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 will 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 cl.u.s.ter of bees hovering at the sh.o.r.e. A beautifully 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 will not go complacent to his court, no matter what you have promised."

"I pledged my word, I swore my life; Finvarra will 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 will 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 shall live!"

Rosamunde ran as quickly as she could, feeling the other faeries watching her with bemus.e.m.e.nt. 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 s.n.a.t.c.hed from the ground, as helpless as a b.u.t.terfly 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 endors.e.m.e.nt. 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 falling 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.

"You are fair pleased with yourself tonight," his sister said as she set an ale before him. She smiled and propped her hands on her hips to regard him. "A conquest was it then?"

Padraig laughed for the first time in a long time. "Naught but a dream, but 'twas a fine one."

"I wager it must have been," she said, her smile teasing. "You dreamed then of a lady?"

"None other than the Faerie Queen," Padraig agreed amiably. "And she gave to me a token."

His sister sobered. "Did she then?" Her wariness reminded Padraig of their mother.

"A ring with the power to make a man invisible to others." Padraig chuckled at the whimsy of it all, then reached into his pocket to show her the stone. He thought she would be amused by the evidence of his drunken dream, but when he pulled the gift from his pocket, it had become a golden ring again.

Padraig stared at it on his palm and blinked in wonder. "But a moment ago, it was a stone," he whispered.

His sister caught her breath and took a step back. "A Faerie gem." She crossed herself quickly. "Mind your step, Padraig. A man does not easily elude the favour of the Faerie Queen."

Padraig barely heard her warning. He knew all the tales of the fey, courtesy of his mother. He simply could not believe that the ring had changed twice.

But then, if it was fey, the charm upon it would hold for the night and not the day. He stood and, leaving his ale, looked out of the door of the tavern. Sure enough, the sun had set completely and twilight, that time so potent for the fey, had fallen.

He gazed at the circle of gold. What if his dream had been true? What if this ring truly did have the power Una had stated? What if he could reclaim Rosamunde from the realm of the fey?

What if his dream of that kiss had answered his question what was Rosamunde's honest desire? Did she wish for him as well as for freedom?

But before he dared to enter the Faerie mound, before he dared to abduct a women destined for the High King of Faerie's bed, Padraig would be sure of the ring's powers.

He left a coin for the ale, having no taste for it any longer. He strode out into the streets of Galway, slipped down an alleyway, then donned the ring.

To his astonishment, when he stepped back into the crowded thoroughfare, a man walked right into him, frowning at the obstacle he could feel but not see.

Padraig spent an hour testing the ring's abilities, but it was clear that no human eye could discern his presence.

Next he would check it among the fey. He borrowed a horse and rode like a madman to the stone circle where he had heard Una sing the night before.

Thus Rosamunde's lover true Did meet the Faerie Queen.

Thus he gained the magical ring That let him pa.s.s unseen.

And so it was that he did choose To witness his lady's plight.

He held his breath and donned the ring At the Faerie sid that night.

He saw his lady Rosamunde All garbed in white and gold.

Her hair was braided thick with jewels, A star was on her brow.

Her girdle was of finest silk, Her shoes of purple leather.

So radiant was her countenance He'd never seen her measure.

Rosamunde was displeased.

To be sure, the court was fine enough, and the hospitality was generous. She had been a.s.signed some two-dozen ladies in waiting who cared more for the careful plaiting of her hair than she ever could have done. She liked the splendid fabrics, the jewels and the evident wealth.

She did not like that she had been unable to escape Darg, much less the creature's hoot of triumph when Finvarra had removed the red cord. The spriggan had disappeared so quickly that it might not have ever been.

She did not miss the vile creature.

Finvarra was a handsome man, confident in his appeal. His eyes were strange, or at least they did not seem to match his countenance. He looked to have seen no more than thirty summers, his body young and strong, his face unlined and handsome. But his eyes . . . his eyes were filled with the shadows of experience. There was the memory of sadness there, of joy, of triumph and defeat. Had it been her choice to meet him, had she met him when both were unenc.u.mbered, Rosamunde might have been intrigued by the Faerie King.

As it was, she saw that his fascination with her was no more than l.u.s.t. She would be a conquest, a mistress, a frippery to be tossed aside when he became bored with her charms.

Rosamunde had never been so little and had no desire to be as much now.

Indeed, his interest reminded her of Tynan's supposed love, and she would spurn it as she had failed to spurn it previously. If nothing else, Rosamunde would learn from her error.

Then there was the matter of Finvarra's wife, Una, who had retreated to the far side of the hall. Una, no small beauty herself, had gathered her ladies about her and they cl.u.s.tered there, whispering and pointing.

Finvarra ignored his wife so deliberately that Rosamunde guessed she was but a p.a.w.n in some ongoing match between King and wife.

It was far less than what she wanted of her life.

She had tried to escape, without success. These maidens purportedly a.s.signed to ensure her pleasure were also charged with keeping her captive. Their hearing was sharp, their sight sharper, their vigil complete.

Rosamunde folded her arms across her chest, smiled thinly and refused to partic.i.p.ate in the festivities. If Finvarra's interest waned, perhaps she would be cast out of the realm sooner.

It seemed an unlikely prospect, given the gleam in his eye when he glanced her way, but Rosamunde had precious few options.

She disliked this role of a woman pampered. She disliked having no choice over her direction, having no ability to shape her own fate. It was utterly at odds with the way she had led her life, and Rosamunde fairly itched to return to what she knew.

First, somehow, she had to escape this court.

The music was intoxicating, so loud and sweet and melodious. The fey danced with a vigour that was astounding, seeming never to tire. The bounty of food on display was enticing, all manner of sweets and confections offered for the pleasure of the company. The mead smelled wonderful indeed, but Rosamunde feared the loss of her wits should she drink it. She simply stood and watched, and the hours drew long.

It was hours later when the faeries began a vivacious dance. It was clear that Rosamunde's maidens were captivated by the music, their eyes dancing and their toes tapping. Rosamunde encouraged them, one after the other, to take the floor, until finally she felt un.o.bserved.

It would not last, but she would savour the interval.

No sooner was she alone than a man's hands closed over her shoulders. He stood close behind her, whoever he was, his breath in her hair and his chest at her back. Rosamunde jumped, then felt her eyes widen at a familiar murmur.

"At your back, as always," Padraig said. The feel of his breath on her neck made her tingle. "Say nothing, but listen."

Rosamunde felt her heart skip and feared her maidens would hear its tumult. She tried to quiet her response, but she felt the strength of Padraig's fingers on her shoulders, the warmth of him against her back. She glanced down but could not see his hands.

"An enchantment," he murmured and she heard the familiar humour touch his tone. "I know not how long 'twill last."

Rosamunde's mouth went dry. She didn't doubt that Padraig would be at risk if they realized there was an intruder in their midst. She scanned the hall, endeavouring to be casual in the survey, and realized that none could see Padraig. None even guessed his presence.

Then Rosamunde felt Una's gaze land upon her and saw the woman smile slightly.

Could Una see him?

Or was she simply gladdened that Rosamunde did not enjoy the celebrations?