The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance

by Trisha Telep

  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 shining 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 sí and shivered. 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 blustery night such as this, but Anya knew it was not. The bean sí 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 sídhe “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 worship their ancient gods 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 sí’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 reassure 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 passed from the womb directly to heaven.

  As she wept over the dead infant, the air over the cradle began to shiver with translucent blues and reds.

  Recognizing that ethereal shimmer, 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 shimmer 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 apron, 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 sí 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 passage 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 passage 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 gods were worshipped, 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 sí’s cry, seen the worried face of the lass inside as she sat beside her dying queen. All was not well here.

  The lass 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 passed but the gods 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 titles. 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, François, 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.

  “Jewellery, please,” she told the maids eagerly arranging the red and gold striped train of her best gown. She might eschew fur, but her people produced the finest linens in the world.

  “The queen’s jewellery?” one maid asked hesitantly.

  “It was my mother’s,” Anya agreed. “Let us impress the High Court with our elegance so they do not think us weak barbarians.”

  By the time she’d been fastened into torque and bracelets of gold delicately wrought to fit slender throat and limbs, Anya was anxious to meet the knight sent to honour her nephew. Anxious – and afraid.

  She bent to kiss the infant nursing at the breast of a wet nurse. None would believe her tale of the child’s birth even should she relate it, so she had not spoken of what she’d seen. Straightening her mantle, she proceeded down the four flights of stairs to the castle’s great hall. Conscious that this would be her first appearance as the O’Brion leader, she held her head high and her shoulders straight, determined to make her ancestors proud.

  Surely the whole army had turned out to meet the newcomer! The hall was packed with men milling about, pounding each other on the back, elbowing each other to silence as she entered. Her father and brother would have been right there with them, pounding and shouting.

  She swallowed hard as the room silenced. Breeda held the train of her striped gown from the flagstone floor. No rushes rotted under the toes of the O’Brion ladies these days. The silence continued as Anya climbed to the dais where her father, and later, her brother, had sat at the head table. Two ornately carved, high-backed chairs faced the hall, with the enormous hearth at their backs.

  Garvan, as her brother’s best friend and chief warrior, dropped to one knee and held his blade across his chest, declaring his fealty to the O’Brions, if not necessarily to her. Behind him, all the other men did the same. Except one.

  Taller than any other man in the hall, wider of shoulder, an auburn-haired stranger in fur-lined mantle stood in the shadows of the hearth, watching her as if she were some new form of animal, not quite cat or dog. Anya wished she’d worn her hair up so she might look older and more commanding, but she’d been in a hurry – to meet this disrespectful oaf?

  Instead of wearing his sword belted at his side, she could see he wore his weapon hung over his back like an uncivilized churl, despite all his finery. And his clothing was very grand, indeed, although not as fine as the form that wore it.

  Realizing she stared, Anya settled into Maeve’s slightly smaller chair and beckoned the newcomer to approach the dais. She spoke three languages. She hoped he spoke at least one of them.

  He stepped from the shadows of the hearth into the light of the candlelit iron chandelier and made his bow, not quite so courtly a one as Garvan’s, but fair enough. When he straightened, the light fell full on his face, and Anya inhaled with shock.

  His jaw was scarred in the same manner as the vision she’d seen last night over the cradle. His stature was as broad and tall as she remembered. What meant this? Was he a ghost? Or a portent?

  She had the urge to reach out and touch him, to test his reality, but that would cause others to wonder if she’d lost her mind. Her grip tightened on the gilded chair arms. She wore a short sword in her girdle, and her father’s spear leaned against his chair. Her dream world clashed with reality. She was trained to face threats with weapon in hand, but she had seen this man weep for the child.

  Deciding she did not act from a position of strength, she waited silently, as taught, learning all she could before showing her hand.

  “Your name?” she asked in the language of her father’s Irish ancestors.

  The handsome stranger hesitated at her question, as if considering how much truth to offer. Then bowing his head with respect, he replied, “Finn mac Connell, my lady.”

  He spoke the old language and used the old name of mac Connell, son of Connell. Connells were once legendary gods and kings to whom the O’Brions had sworn fealty. These days, simmering enmity separated their descendants.

  “I see,” she said coolly, although her thoughts raced ahead of her to dire situations that might require that the King place an enemy in her father’s stronghold. Or did the stranger lie? “Did His Majesty send a message with you?”

  Again, the hesitation, as if he pondered every word before speaking it. She did not trust a man who could not speak from the heart. And she could not trust a man who had appeared in a vision, like one of the elusive, ever mischievous, Good Neighbours.

  “His Majesty wishes to show his friendship for the new King of the O’Brions, and to offer his protection. I am at your service, my lady,” he finally replied with bold authority.

  In this, she believed him. The vision had watched over the babe with tende
rness. For all she knew, the next king of the O’Brions was fae born, since he was most certainly not Maeve’s. It did not matter. The child was all that stood between her clan and destruction. He needed all the protection she could summon.

  She must see the boy christened immediately.

  “Garvan.” She turned to the captain of her small army. “Have we a place for the King’s man?”

  Garvan stepped forwards eagerly. Before he could say aye, the stranger had placed himself between Anya and her knight quicker than she could think.

  She wrapped her fingers around the dirk in her belt and regarded his broad back. Did he think her so helpless that she could not stop him? Or did showing her his back mean he trusted her?

  “My place is to serve the boy,” Finn declared firmly. “I will guard him with my life, but I will not guard him from the bottom of a mountain of stones. My place is beside him.”

  Garvan’s hand went to his sword hilt. Finn merely crossed his massive arms and stood like the mountain of stones he scorned. There would be violence if Anya did not interfere. Did she side with her brother’s friend or a stranger?

  Garvan’s men had not been able to protect her father or her brother. What chance did an infant have in their care? She had no reason not trust the vision who had wept over an infant. Yet.

  “Pax,” Anya said softly, rising from her chair. “We have a funeral and a christening for which to prepare. If the High King sees fit to send his man here, let the mac Connell take his place on the landing. For now, the babe stays with his wet nurse in the women’s quarters, with me.”

  Calling for the priest, she swept past the roomful of towering soldiers, aware that the largest of them all followed her to the stairwell.

  The haughty wench hadn’t even introduced herself, Finn recalled in amusement, watching the O’Brion princess carry his son down a chapel aisle to the waiting priest. He’d learned her name, of course, but name and title were unimportant in comparison to the woman who wore them. Before he left, he needed to know she could defend and care for the boy.