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 pass 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 assigned 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 unencumbered, Rosamunde might have been intrigued by the Faerie King.
As it was, she saw that his fascination with her was no more than lust. 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 in herself, had gathered her ladies about her and they clustered there, whispering and pointing.
Finvarra ignored his wife so deliberately that Rosamunde guessed she was but a pawn 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 assigned 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 participate 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 vigor 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 unobserved.
It would not last, but she would savor 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 making 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 humor 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, endeavoring 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?
“I do not know how much you know,” Padraig said in quick whisper. “You are in the sid of the High King of the Faeries, Finvarra, and he means to make you his mistress.”
Rosamunde nodded ever so slightly.
“Choose, Rosamunde, choose whether you would remain in this place or whether you would have me aid your escape.” Padraig’s voice dropped low and his grip tightened slightly. “I am not without my own expectation, you should be warned. I should have confessed my love for you years ago. I would love you. I would be with you. I would endeavor to make you happy.”
Indeed, the man could not fail at that task. Rosamunde closed her eyes, overcome with joy at his words.
“My right hand if you would stay here,” he murmured. “My left, if you would be mine.”
Without hesitation, Rosamunde raised her hand, as if to straighten her hair, and brushed her fingertips across Padraig’s left hand. She felt him catch his breath.
Una’s smile broadened, turning smug, then she plucked a sweet from a proffered tray. The Faerie queen’s eyes gleamed and Rosamunde feared her deception.
“Eat nothing,” Padraig warned. “Drink nothing. If you consume so much as one morsel, you will be captive here forever.”
Rosamunde touched his fingertips to indicate her understanding. She was fiercely glad that she had not taken a bite since her arrival.
“Tomorrow night, the fey will ride out in procession for Beltane. You must go with the company. You must ride as close to the perimeter of the group as you can. I will come for you.”
And Rosamunde would somehow learn the terms of release before then. She did not doubt that Padraig would face a challenge in gaining her freedom.
Rosamunde felt the burn of his lips against her nape. She closed her eyes, wanting to turn into his embrace, her chest tight with the gift of his presence.
Then Padraig was gone, like a shadow swallowed by the night.
And there was only the glitter of Una’s knowing gaze locked upon her.
What treachery had the Faerie queen planned?
*
“And so the pair did plot their scheme;
So did they plan to keep their dream.
But the ring’s charm did not hide all:
Una saw the mortal in her hall.
The Faerie queen had no good intent;
Loyalty to her spouse had been spent.
None could have joy while she did not;
And so Una schemed her own plot.
Padraig might capt
ure his love lost,
But Una ensured too high a cost.”
*
Part Three
It was Beltane, and Padraig was enough of his mother’s son to know that anything was possible on this night of nights.
On this night and on Samhain, the fey were at their most potent.
He made his preparations, fully aware of that.
He bought the horse that he had borrowed and the ostler was pleased to be rid of the beast, given that it had gone missing the night before. Padraig had the steed for a better price than he might have otherwise. He prepared it with care, ensuring that there was no iron in its harness, less the fey realize it was not one of theirs.
It was a fine stallion, a high-stepping black horse with a proud gait. Its mane was long and dark, its eyes lit with a fire that made him wonder whether it knew more of the fey than he. It was said that the Faeries bred the best horses, and there was majesty in this one’s lineage.
It had not even shied at the sid, but waited calmly for him at the hawthorne tree.
He declared his intent to sail with the morning tide, and had his ship provisioned for the journey. His sister extended her hospitality again, but Padraig knew they were too different for him to remain in their home. Her husband was not so unhappy to see a reputed pirate leave. Padraig cleared space in the hold of the ship to create a stable for the horse, for he had no inclination to simply leave it behind.
He tried to sleep, that he might be at his best when night fell. When the darkness slipped over the land, when the Beltane fires were lit in the hills, Padraig walked his horse to the old Norman gate. His heart in his mouth, he mounted and rode out into the night, slipping the ring onto his finger when he left the road.
*
“His steed was proud, as black as night
He donned the ring, was lost to sight.
The steed ran on, proud and bold,
His hooves thundered on the road.
The lover knew he faced his test;
Without his lady, he’d know no rest.
Lit by the fires on ev’ry hill,
The heat of his ardor knew no chill.
Padraig rode for his lady heart,
Would the fey queen keep them apart?”
*
Padraig reached the stone circle, but found only silence within it. The wind was still, the ground dark. He feared he had come too late, that the host had already ridden out - or that perhaps they had guessed his intent and chosen to forgo tradition to keep the prize of Rosamunde.
There was much he would forgo to keep her by his side.
Then the wind rustled in the branches of the hawthorne that grew to one side of the stone circle. His stallion snorted and tossed his head, then Padraig heard the clarion call of a distant trumpet.
The single note was clear, as clear as a mountain stream, as lovely as a summer morning. The sound melted his heart, dissolved his inhibitions, filled his veins with starlight and resolve.
The earth in the middle of the mound cracked; it gaped wide. A portal opened in the ground, one wide enough for four horses to ride abreast. Padraig glimpsed the hall beneath that he had visited the night before and his grip tightened on the reins.
Golden light spilled from the hidden court into the night’s darkness and the Faerie host rode forth. Music accompanied them, the tinkle of ten thousand silver bells mounted on a thousand harnesses. Their steeds pranced with pride, confident of their splendor and beauty. The Beltane fires on the adjacent hills burned higher as if in tribute, their flames stretching to the stars.
And the fey laughed.
Padraig stared in awe at their magnificent display.
*
“Then lo, he saw the Faerie host,
Their company more beautiful than most.
He saw the silver and the gold;
He saw the Faerie knights so bold;
He saw the maidens garbed so fine;
He heard the music, saw the wine.
The will ‘o wisp danced on the hill
Fey light glimmering and never still
The stars seemed to have come to earth
As the Faerie host rode in mirth.
And so it was he glimpsed his lady,
On the left of the King of Faerie.”
*
There were horses in the company without riders, or perhaps their riders were too small to be seen. Padraig would have eased his steed to join the company, but the beast seemed to know his expectation - it marched alongside, as if it had done as much a dozen times before.
The Faerie host flowed over the hills, eased down to the valley and ascended the next hill. Small Faeries darted toward the occasional cottage, claiming whatever gifts had been left for them. They shared the milk and ale with their fellows, lapped the porridge and cast gold coins in their wake. Each Beltane fire they passed snapped and crackled in acknowledgement of their passage, and Finvarra laughed at the sight. His wife, riding on his right, smiled but there was no joy in her eyes.
Neither was there joy in the steady gaze of Rosamunde.
Padraig eased his horse closer to the royalty, stroking its neck to encourage it to pass between the other beasts. The stallion needed little encouragement, and Padraig considered the possibility that horses felt a natural attraction to the Faerie King.
Just as the Beltane flames acknowledged his presence.
Padraig did not know how long they rode, nor how far. He thought solely of getting closer to Rosamunde without attracting attention, and he made consistent progress in that goal. They crossed a vale and ascended another hill. When they reached the top, the shining dark water of Lough Carrib was visible, gleaming at the foot of the hills. There were more stars on this night than he had ever seen and the moon rose high in pearly splendor.
When they began to descend the hill, Padraig’s horse eased so close that he could touch the hem of Rosamunde’s dress.
It was time.
*
“He spurred his horse, he galloped near
He seized the lady he loved so dear.
He stole her from the Faerie host
Claimed she Finvarra desired most.
The fey did scream, the horse did run,
Finvarra shouted ‘twould not be done.
‘Hold fast, hold fast,’ Rosamunde cried
‘For she would steal you from my side.’
And so he held with all his might
Even as Una unleashed her spite.”
*
The company jostled for position as they began the descent. The fey were celebratory, and less disciplined than when they had first left the hill. Their laughter was louder and their songs more merry.
Padraig lunged through the company with purpose. He dug his heels into the stallion’s side, and the horse leapt with power. Padraig snatched Rosamunde from her steed, his arm locked around her waist, and placed her on the saddle before him.
Then he fled.
As the stallion raced down the hill, the golden ring upon Padraig’s finger cracked in half. It fell from his hand and was trampled beneath the horses’ hooves, leaving him revealed to the fey.
“Impostor!” they cried. “Thief!”
“Fetch my mistress!” bellowed Finvarra.
Padraig gave the horse his heels. The steed raced down the hill ahead of the Faerie host, running so quickly that the ground was a blur beneath their feet.
“Faster,” Rosamunde urged, glancing back. “Faster!”
Padraig heard Una’s song rise sweetly in the distance, but did not trust her ode.
“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 not 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 Ballad of Rosamunde Page 4