The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance

by Trisha Telep

  “Padraig!” Rosamunde said, locking her arms around his neck. “She means to make you spurn me. Be not deceived.”

  Padraig guessed the test he would face a heartbeat before it began.

  “They will turn me to an ancient crone

  A woman wrought of sinew and bone.

  A cold, rotted body from the grave

  Hold fast, my love, you must be brave.”

  In his embrace, Rosamunde turned to a hag, appearing to have endured a thousand years of hardship. Her skin was wrinkled like ancient leather, her eyes yellow and her teeth missing.

  She cackled at him, this apparition, and looked fit to devour him. Padraig could see the bones of her skull beneath the loose flesh of her face, he could smell the fetid stench of decay, and he felt the clutch of her skeletal fingers on his neck. Everything within him was repulsed and his urge was to cast her aside with all speed.

  Padraig told himself it was but a spell and held fast.

  “Next I’ll be a writhing snake

  With a toxic bite your life to take.

  I will be as slipp’ry as an adder

  My release lies solely in your power.”

  Rosamunde changed then to an enormous snake, green and slippery in Padraig’s grasp. The snake bared its fangs and malice lit its eyes as it reared back to strike. He had no doubt its bite was poisonous, but he did not release it.

  There were, after all, no snakes in Ireland. Padraig knew that this, too, was but a fey trick.

  He heard Una’s song, realized it was growing in volume, and knew there would be worse to come. Three tests there would be, he guessed as much, and they would become more fierce. He held fast to the writhing green snake and hoped he could keep hold of Rosamunde. The horse ran, outdistancing the shouting host at its heels.

  The snake twisted in his grip, as elusive as a fish, but Padraig held tightly. The water of the lake drew ever more near and he wondered what the horse would do. He thought to direct it around the body of water, then Rosamunde changed shape again.

  “And last I will become a flame,

  As hot and fierce as ever came.

  A Beltane fire, orange and hot

  My love, my love, release me not.”

  In the blink of an eye, Rosamunde became a fire in his embrace. The brilliant light of the flames nearly blinded Padraig and surprise almost loosened his grip.

  He cried out and tightened his grasp upon her. The fire burned his skin, the flames licking at his flesh. He closed his eyes to the sight of his own body burning, to the smell of his destruction. He held fast to the column of flame, even as he feared he could not have the strength to endure against the fey.

  Padraig thought of the way Rosamunde’s hair looked in the sunlight.

  He recalled her bold stance on the ship as they sailed to adventure. He remembered the light in her eyes when they had first met. He thought of her determination, even when the spriggan Darg had stolen her charts and trapped the ship in a calm.

  He recalled her pride in her nieces and her joy in seeing them well wed. He thought of her passion and her pride and he fortified himself with the truth of why he loved this woman with all his heart. Padraig squeezed his eyes shut as the pain built to a crescendo.

  He could not lose his love.

  He recited the paternoster, on impulse, recalling his mother’s counsel. Tears stung his cheeks as he said the familiar prayer. Our Father . . .

  The horse halted abruptly, reared, then it ducked its head. Padraig was thrown over its neck and gasped aloud when he landed in the lake with a splash.

  He sank low, still holding fast to Rosamunde, and the cold dark water of the lake embraced them. He felt the flame in his arms turn to a woman again.

  A naked woman.

  A naked woman he loved more than life itself.

  And Padraig knew he had triumphed. They broke the surface together, Rosamunde’s smile enough to light Padraig’s nights forevermore.

  When they might have spoken each to the other, a man cleared his throat at close proximity.

  Finvarra stood on the shore, holding the bridle of the stamping black stallion. “And so the contest goes to you,” the High King of the Faerie said. He stroked the horse’s nose with affection and the beast nuzzled him. Finvarra smiled and his eyes glinted. “I shall take this horse into my care, seeing as it was once stolen from us and is rightfully returned.”

  Padraig understood why the horse had not been startled by the fey, why it had been so at ease joining the host. Recognition was possibly why it had been allowed to join the company in the first place.

  He understood then why it had thrown him and saved Rosamunde. Padraig fancied that the horse had intended to reward him for bringing it back to Finvarra.

  “You are a man of more cunning than most.” Finvarra smiled. “I should have liked to have played chess with you.”

  “With respect, my lord, I have little to my name and nothing I would choose to lose.” Padraig kept his arm around Rosamunde, noting how the King’s gaze flicked between the two of them.

  “Should his devotion falter,” Finvarra said to Rosamunde, “you are always welcome at my court.”

  “I thank you, my lord, and thank you also for your hospitality,” Rosamunde said with a bow.

  “You and your fellows will always find welcome at our home,” Padraig added with a bow of his own.

  Finvarra smiled, his gaze trailing to his wife, who remained upon her steed and at a distance. “It is no crime to covet a beauteous gem,” he said softly, “but a rare triumph to possess one. I salute you, Padraig. May your love never be tarnished.”

  With that Finvarra turned and led the prancing horse back to the company. Padraig felt the chill of the night air on his wet skin as he stood with Rosamunde fast at his side, but he could not tear his gaze away from the departing company. He doubted he would ever see them again. They rode forth, passing over the hills like a vision, leaving only the echo of their silvery laughter behind.

  And Rosamunde.

  “Thank you,” she said, smiling up at him.

  “You are welcome. I am glad to see you hale again.” Padraig stared down at her, knowing his desire but afraid to speak of it too soon.

  Rosamunde, as was typical of her, showed no such restraint. She twined her arms around his neck, sliding her fingers into his hair. “I am sorry, Padraig, that I erred so badly. I love you. I think I have always loved you, but I wish I had seen the truth of it sooner.”

  Padraig bent to touch his lips to hers, his heart swelling that his dream should be his own. “I know that I have always loved you,” he murmured against her mouth.

  Rosamunde laughed. “Then I shall have to spend the rest of our lives atoning for my error.”

  “I do not think it will be so onerous.”

  “Nor do I!”

  Padraig laughed at the prospect, then he sobered. Rosamunde’s eyes were the richest green, filled with a conviction that stole his breath away. “Marry me, Rosamunde. Marry me and seal our bond for all to see. I have little to offer you but myself.”

  “Your ship.”

  “Your ship, and the contents yours as well. I have only myself.”

  “And it is more than enough. I will wed you, Padraig Deane, and I will honour your love every day and night of my life.”

  It was everything he had ever wanted, and yet more.

  Rosamunde’s kiss sent a welcome heat through Padraig, a heat that her presence would never fail to kindle. Padraig knew that whatever he had suffered had been worthwhile, for he had gained his heart’s desire.

  When he lifted his head, her eyes were sparkling and her cheeks were flushed. She glanced about herself and shivered. “Tell me, though, that we can sail to warmer climes.”

  “I thought Sicily,” Padraig said, smiling as pleasure lit her expression. “With the morning tide. All is prepared.”

  Rosamunde laughed. “A man of confidence, and one in pursuit of my own heart.”

  “I thought I p
ossessed that prize already,” he teased, loving the sound of her answering laughter.

  “You do, you do.” Then Rosamunde raised a hand to his cheek, as solemn as he had ever seen her. Her voice dropped to a fervent whisper. “Oh, Padraig, never doubt that I am yours.” A tear glistened in her eye, a tear that he knew was rare for this bold woman. “I may have been late to see the truth, but I shall never forget it now.”

  “I shall never let you forget it,” he retorted then winked. Rosamunde smiled and he swung her into his arms then strode from the lake. He had an idea of how they might warm themselves before the walk back to town.

  One glance at his lady told him that their thoughts were as one. Yet again, they would challenge convention. Yet again they would follow their hearts. But from this day forth, they would do so together.

  It was as close to heaven as Padraig Deane ever expected to be.

  Padraig gained his lady’s heart,

  She vowed they’d never be apart.

  Rosamunde was a pirate queen

  With hair red gold and eyes of green.

  Her lover true did hold her fast,

  Showed all the fey his love would last.

  They ne’er forgot those of Faerie,

  And lived out their days most happily.

  Oracle

  Margo Maguire

  One

  The Isle of Coruain – 938 AD

  Ana Mac Lochlainn came awake suddenly, her heart pounding, her mouth dry. She felt confused by the sights and sounds of destruction that were so real, so horrifying.

  She opened her eyes and had trouble discerning her surroundings. At length, her vision cleared, and she saw that she was still in the Oracle’s cave, sitting comfortably on the Seer’s divan where she’d lain no more than a quarter-hour before.

  “What is it, lass?” asked the màistreàs, the prime Oracle, the Seer to whom Ana would soon make her Oracle’s vows. She had felt ready to make the commitment – to hold her virginity sacred, and keep a vigilant watch over her people, the magical Druzai – for weeks, but the màistreàs had said it was not yet time.

  “The vision . . .” said Ana. “It was more vivid than any I’ve ever had.”

  The old Oracle nodded. “I’ve had inklings of it, myself. What did you see?”

  “The people,” she looked up at the old woman, “Our Druids, a king . . .” She shook her head in confusion. She was drawn to this king, to this human whose rugged features were more compelling than that of any Druzai she’d ever met. “They are under attack.”

  The old Oracle frowned. “By what? Could you see?”

  Ana swallowed. “Not enough.” But what she had seen was horrifying. Dark, malicious creatures – little demon ollphéists – near Lough Gur, creating discord and aggression among the clans of southern Ireland. The màistreàs would never believe it, for the Druzai chieftain had banished those destructive beings from the Tuath lands ages ago. And yet there had clearly been ollphéists in Ana’s vision.

  And they were being directed by some stronger power.

  “I must go.” She started for the entrance of the Oracle’s cave, but the màistreàs reached for her arm, restraining her.

  “’Tis too dangerous, my lady. There is much that a Druzai princess can do from the safety of our shores. Besides, you know very well ’tis forbidden for Druzai to intrude upon the Tuath.”

  “No. The vision . . . I am part of it.” She touched a hand to her head. She did not know what would be required of her, but she’d never felt so strongly about any of her visions. The King – Rohrke Ó Scannláin – compelled her in a way that was entirely unfamiliar. Her heart clenched in her chest at the thought of his peril. “I must go.”

  The Oracle frowned fiercely. “’Tis against Druzai law. We removed ourselves from Tuath centuries ago, when—”

  “Aye. I know our history. Druzai magic makes it far too tempting for one of us to try to enslave the Tuath, in spite of all the protections we’ve taught the Druids.”

  “They are merely wise men, my lady.”

  True, yet some were more than merely wise. Druzai had mingled with Tuath, giving some humans magical abilities.

  Ana had to go to Ireland, to Ballygur near the sacred Lough Gur. She had to do what she could to find and destroy the creature that guided the vicious ollphéists.

  And yet she knew that her cousins, the Druzai high chieftain and his brother, would object to her intervening in earthly affairs – which made it imperative that she act quickly and quietly before Merrick and Brogan learned what she was up to. They would forbid her to leave their enchanted isle, perhaps thinking they could manage the disastrous happenings in Ireland themselves.

  But Ana had seen the visions. She knew it was her destiny to go.

  “But your vows, my lady,” said the Oracle.

  Ana pulled on her cloak and started for the entrance of the Oracle’s cave. “My commitment will have to wait, Màistreàs. There is trouble in the earthly lands.”

  Two

  Lough Gur, Ireland – 322 AD

  Rohrke Ó Scannláin paced through the tall grass near Lough Gur where the standing stones would draw everyone in the kingdom on the morrow for the summer solstice festivities. It would be the perfect opportunity for Teague Ó Fionn’s men to execute their attack.

  The situation was grave. Rohrke did not know if he could risk offending Áine, the sun goddess, by suspending her midsummer celebration. There was more than a fair chance that the Scannláin crops would fail, and the cattle would be barren in the coming season. And yet he could not allow the festival to go forward, not with Teague threatening their borders.

  Rohrke needed a powerful ally. And he would have one as soon as he wed the daughter of King Maitias Mac Murchada.

  He should never have hesitated with the marriage. Sláine Mac Murchada was a comely lass in possession of a generous dowry, and Rohrke should have wed her the day Maitias made his offer.

  And yet naught burned between them when their eyes met. No shock of awareness sizzled through Rohrke when he looked upon Sláine’s lithe form. She would never be the woman of his heart. Not that such a thing was crucial in a royal marriage. But he’d hoped to wed a woman he could look upon as something other than a sister.

  Rohrke’s Druid, Sedric, had advised him to marry Sláine anyway. Her father’s alliance was far too important to cast aside such an offer.

  Rohrke scratched the back of his neck. His clan had ruled this fine corner of Ireland for centuries, and there was no better land to be found in all the country. ’Twas no wonder Teague wanted it. But he would never have it.

  Teague Ó Fionn’s aggression was entirely unforeseen. Only a year ago, Rohrke had allied with him against the King of Uisnech, together defeating him soundly. Rohrke did not know what had happened to ruin their friendship. This antagonism of Teague’s felt very strange. He could think of no reason for it.

  Rohrke felt the air cooling, and saw that Áine had nearly made her journey across the sky, and would soon lie down to sleep in the west. In the meantime, a mist formed over the grass and tall shadows fell on the land, turning Rohrke towards home – the village of Ballygur.

  The wind arose suddenly, and he felt the chill of night skittering down the back of his neck. A moment later, a wizened old woman touched his sleeve, causing him to jump.

  “What are you about, crone?” he barked.

  “Lost my way,” she croaked.

  Rohrke jabbed his fingers through his hair. His agitation did no one any good. He needed to get back to the village and begin preparations for war. “Where are you going?” he asked the old woman.

  “To Clynabroga.”

  She lost her footing, and when he took her arm to steady her, he felt an odd sensation rush through his hand and up his arm. He released her abruptly. No doubt ’twas merely due to his nerves over Teague. “Ach, woman. Clynabroga is a fair day’s walk.” He looked at her bent body. “Two, maybe three days for the likes o’ you.”

  “Which
direction?” she asked, as though he would allow an old woman to begin such a long walk at that hour. Alone.

  “You’ll come with me.” He turned to glance north-east, in the direction of Clynabroga. “I’ll find someone to take you there on the morrow.”

  But when he looked back to her, she was gone. He searched in every direction, but she’d disappeared in the mist. Rohrke muttered a small curse and took to the trail back to Ballygur. There was naught he could do about the woman now, but he hoped no one would find her corpse on the morrow. Not only would it bother his conscience for the rest of his life, it would be the worst omen possible. He needed only favourable portents as he embarked on war with Teague Ó Fionn.

  “Ah! There you are,” said Geileis Riaghan, approaching him on the footpath. She was a dark-haired, dark-eyed beauty who’d appeared with her servant, Peadar, in Ballygur a few weeks before. Rohrke wondered about her, but every time he started to ask questions about who she was and from whence she’d come, he lost track of his thoughts. But not this time. He was determined to keep his wits about him as they talked.

  She took his arm and walked beside him. He felt potent and mighty when she stood alongside him, and he knew anything was possible. “Did you see an old woman walking this way?”

  “Old woman?” Geileis laughed. “Who would be out at this time of night? Surely Áine does not walk these hills at twilight.”

  Rohrke masked his surprise. The thought of Áine had not come to him, but in times of old, the goddess had been known to show herself as an old woman at Lough Gur or Cnoc Áine. He hoped the crone was not the deity he would have to bed in order to become Munster’s legitimate high king.

  “Teague’s men are gathering beyond the lake,” said Geileis, and Rohrke forgot about the old lady.

  “How do you know?”

  “Peadar saw them when he went out to hunt.”

  Then war was truly imminent. His men must commence sharpening their spears and arrows right away, and he needed to order everyone to stay inside Ballygur’s walls. Áine would just have to understand the unusual circumstances this year.