The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance

by Trisha Telep

He cursed Tynan Lammergeier, the man who had cost him the company of Rosamunde, and he hated that they two might be together forever in some afterlife. It was wrong that a man who had not been able to accept Rosamunde for her true nature should win her company for all eternity.

  Because Padraig had loved her truly. His mother had warned him that he would be smitten once and his heart lost forever.

  But he had held his tongue. He had spoken of friendship in his parting with Rosamunde, not the fullness of his heart.

  Now he would never have the chance to remedy his error. It had been almost six months since Rosamunde had gone into the caverns beneath Ravensmuir, Tynan’s ancestral keep on the coast of Scotland, six months since those caves had collapsed and Rosamunde had been lost forever, and still Padraig’s wound was raw.

  He doubted it would ever heal.

  He knew he’d never meet the like of her again.

  Padraig sat down and drank deeply of his ale. “Let another sing,” he said. “I am too besotted to compose the verse.”

  “Another tale!” shouted the keeper. “Come, Liam, sing that one of the Faerie host.” The company stamped their feet and applauded, as Liam was clearly a local favourite, and Padraig saw a lanky man rise to his feet on the far side of the room.

  He, however, had lost his taste for tales. He abandoned the rest of his ale, left a coin on the board, and headed for the door.

  “We will miss your custom this evening,” his sister said softly as he passed her. Her dark eyes shone brightly in the shadowed tavern, and he doubted that she missed any detail.

  “A man should be valued for more than the volume of ale he can drink,” Padraig replied, blaming himself for what he had become. His sister flushed and turned away as if he had chided her.

  He could do nothing right.

  Not without Rosamunde.

  Was her loss to be the shadow over all his days and nights?

  Far beneath the hills to the north of Galway, Finvarra, High King of the Daoine Sidhe, templed his fingers together and considered the chessboard. It was a beautiful chessboard, with pieces of alabaster and obsidian, the board itself fashioned of agate and ebony with fine enamel work around the perimeter. When he touched a piece, it came to life, moving across the board at his unspoken will. His entire fey court gathered around the game, watching with bright eyes.

  Finvarra was tall and slim, finely wrought even for the fey, who were uncommonly handsome. His eyes were as dark as a midnight sky, his long hair the deep blue black of the sea in darkness, his skin as fair as moonlight, his tread as light as wind in the grass. He was possessed of both kindness and resolve, and ruled the fey well.

  His hall at Knockma was under the hill, and as lavish a court as could be found. The ladies wore glistening gowns of finest silk, their gossamer wings painted with a thousand colours. The courtiers were armed in silver finery, their manners both fierce and gallant, their eyes glinting with humour. The horses of Finvarra’s court were spirited and fleet of foot, gleaming and beauteous in their rich trappings hung with silver bells. He had steeds of every colour: red stallions and white mares, black stallions and mahogany mares with ivory socks. Each and every one was caparisoned in finery to show its hue and strength to advantage. The mead was sweet and golden in Finvarra’s hall, and the cups at the board filled themselves with more when no one was looking.

  But all the fairy court was silent, clustered around their king’s favoured chessboard. They watched, knowing that more than victory at a game hung in the balance.

  As usual.

  Finvarra did not care for low stakes.

  Finvarra played to win.

  The spriggan, Darg, sat opposite the King and fidgeted. Recently of Scotland, the small thieving fairy had travelled to Ireland in the hold of the ship of Padraig Deane, a blue-eyed and handsome pirate possessed of a broken heart. Caught trespassing in Finvarra’s sid, a crime punishable by death, the spriggan played for its life.

  Finvarra, in truth, tired of the game. The spoils were not so remarkable and the spriggan was a mediocre opponent. The splendour of the board, indeed, he felt was wasted upon the rough little creature. Certainly, his skill was.

  Then Finvarra heard the distant lilt of human song.

  “Rosamunde was a pirate queen

  With hair red gold and eyes of green . . .”

  As was common with Finvarra, the mention of a beauteous mortal woman piqued his interest. He turned his head to listen, just as the spriggan interrupted with a hiss.

  “A laughing trickster Rosamunde did be, but she did not have the best of me.”

  “You knew this mortal?”

  Darg raised a fist. “Stole from me! That she dared, but I did steal her from her laird. She would be dead but for me; now she owes me her fealty.” The spriggan cackled then moved a pawn with care. It was a poor choice. “Not dead but enchanted she doth be, while I choose what my vengeance shall be.”

  Intrigued, Finvarra snapped his fingers and his wife, Una, brought his silver mirror to his hand. She knew him well. She caressed his hand as she passed the mirror to him, but Finvarra ignored her gesture of affection.

  He didn’t imagine her sniff of displeasure, but Una’s pleasure was not his current concern. Not when there was a beauteous woman to be possessed. He murmured to the mirror and its surface swirled before his eyes, the image of this Rosamunde appearing so suddenly that Finvarra caught his breath.

  Then his blood quickened.

  Una, always able to read his response, spun on her heel. She strode from the hall, her ladies scurrying after her like so many sparrows. Finvarra was oblivious to his wife’s mood.

  This Rosamunde was not just beautiful but spirited.

  Finvarra had to know more. He touched the queen, his favoured piece, sliding his finger up her carved back. She strolled across the board in perfect understanding of his intent, halted on the desired spot and tucked her hands into her sleeves meekly.

  If only all queens might be so biddable.

  “Check,” he murmured with a smile.

  “No! I shall not die, not by your whim!” The spriggan erupted from its place in fury, jumping across the board and kicking pieces left and right. “I demand we play the game again!”

  Finvarra shook his head.

  The spriggan scattered the pieces onto the earthen floor, then lunged at Finvarra. There was no contest between them, the spriggan being only as tall as the King’s golden chalice. Finvarra struck the ill-tempered creature with the back of his hand, sending it sprawling across the floor.

  The elegantly attired fey stepped away from the spriggan, whispering at its poor manners. It hissed at all of them, then made to run. Two elfin knights seized it, holding tightly while it bit and struggled.

  “I have no interest in your life,” Finvarra said with soft authority. The spriggan froze, staring at him in confusion. It was a crafty creature and Finvarra deliberately stated his terms so that there could be no deception. “I would trade your life for a specific treasure in your possession.”

  Darg’s eyes narrowed into hostile slits. “No gem do I see fit to spare—”

  “The woman,” Finvarra decreed, interrupting what would likely be an impolite diatribe. “I trade your life for that of your captive, Rosamunde.”

  The spriggan regarded him warily. “I fear you make a jest of me, and would be freed ’fore I agree.”

  Finvarra rose and clapped his hands. “There is no jest. When Rosamunde graces my court, you shall be free to leave.” He reached forwards and snatched at the spriggan, holding it so surely in his grip that it paled. He lowered his face to its sharp features, glaring into its eyes. Darg squirmed. “Deceive me, though, and I will have your life as well as the woman.”

  Darg’s eyes gleamed and Finvarra knew the creature would willingly deceive him. He beckoned to his armourer, who produced a fine red thread at his master’s bidding. Finvarra knotted that thread securely around the spriggan’s waist. It appeared to be made of silk but was strong
beyond measure and it held the spriggan to Finvarra’s command. The small fairy struggled and fought against the bond, grimacing where it touched the skin.

  “It burns, it does, the knot too tight,” Darg snarled. “You cheat when I would do what’s right!”

  “Only I can unbind this thread, and I will only do so when you have fulfilled our bargain.”

  Darg continued to pluck at the thread, its displeasure clear. It cast a glance over the company, then its lips tightened. It straightened and addressed Finvarra with surprising hauteur. “As you command, so shall it be. You shall see that Darg lives honestly.”

  Finvarra smothered a laugh. He didn’t doubt that the creature would try to break both cord and vow, but he knew such efforts were doomed to failure. “Tomorrow sunset,” he decreed. “I would have her by my side for the Beltane ride two nights hence.”

  The spriggan grimaced at the time constraint, but before it could argue, Finvarra made a dismissive gesture. “It is enough time. Should it not be . . .” He raised a brow and the thread bound around the spriggan’s waist tightened an increment. Darg screamed, swore agreement, then scampered across the court, muttering. Three elven knights followed it at a discreet distance, ensuring that it left the hall upon its mission.

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

  After all, 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 all 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 brilliant 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 gullet 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 full merit of Padraig in all 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 wall. He glanced back towards the harbour, then ahead to the hills 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 bells sounded far behind him. He walked as the stars glinted overhead.

  He heard the rustle of small animals in the underbrush and the tinkle of running water. He felt the ale loosen its hold upon his body and grief well 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 beautifully 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 hill covered with grass. A circle of large stones surrounded the crest of the hill, 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 hill. 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 all 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 falling 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 tall 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 will of its own, and lights glinted around the perimeter of the stone circle. He remembered will-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 small 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 well 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 all 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 fallen 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 recalled the deceitful spriggan well, and its determination to have vengeance upon Rosamunde.

  Una watched him carefully. “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 well. It was possible that Una spoke the truth.

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

  “My lady! A man who steals from the Faerie king will not live to tell the tale of it!”

  Una smiled. “With my aid, you will not be detected.” She pressed a golden ring into his hand. “Wear this and you shall pass unseen in any company.”

  The ring was cold, as cold as the tomb. Even having it in his hand filled 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.