The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance (28 page)

“Keep it wel ,” Alanna said from his kitchen table. “And wield it wel .”

“There are so many Shifters,” Nial replied. “I can’t be everywhere in the world waiting to see if a Shifter is in danger of losing his soul.”

“Then you wil make more. We wil forge enough swords so that every Shifter clan wil have one, and then your work wil be done. You aren’t the best Shifter sword maker alive for nothing.”

“I’m so glad you believe in me, love.”

Alanna rose from the table, stepped into his arms and kissed his lips. Piers and Marcus snickered.

“We’l do it together,” Alanna said. “Every piece, every hammer stroke, we’l forge them together.”

“Sounds like bliss, it does. Or a lot of bloody work.”

“But worth it?”

“Aye, lass.” Nial sank into her warmth, took her mouth in a long kiss, ignoring his sons’ gleeful laughter. Laughter meant love, and he’d take it. “’Twil be wel worth it.”
Daughter of the Sea

Kathleen Givens

Western Shore, Ancient Ireland – 375 AD

When they were children, Muirin and Conlan, they played together, chasing through the forest, swimming in the crystal waters of the sea that formed the western edge of her father’s lands, climbing over the rocks that jutted out into the water and protected the hidden beach beneath her home. They roamed the nearby hil s, explored every cave, and climbed every tree. Together. And never tired of each other’s company.

Her hair was dark. “Ebony” he cal ed it. His was fair, the colour of oats at harvest time. “Golden,” she said, letting the silken strands slide through her fingers. His eyes were green, the colour of the leaves of the sacred oak tree. Hers were the blue of the deep sea and as ful of mystery. He was of the earth, she told him. She was of the water, he would say.

She was a princess, the beloved only daughter of the King of the western shore. He was the son of a woodcutter who served her father. As the years passed they became aware of the differences in their lives, but disregarded them.

When they were grown, they pledged their troth by moonlight. On a summer night, beneath the spreading limbs of the ancient oak tree that crowned the cliff above the sea, with only wild creatures as witness, they agreed to marry. And kissed, a deep, sweet kiss that held the promise of passion to come. Then again, and again, parting to look into each other’s eyes and talk of the future. They swore to be together forever. And perhaps they would have been. Had her father not remarried.

The new Queen was much younger than her husband and wanted to change almost everything about his life. She changed his home, tel ing the King it was for the better when she removed everything that had ever belonged to Muirin’s mother. She sent most of those who had faithful y served the King for decades away, some without the coin they had earned, and replaced them with her own people. She pushed him to negotiate for more lands with nearby kings, suggesting that he threaten war, which he had never waged. She sent him to talk to the High King, instructing him to demand more territory, more power. When he travel ed, she turned her attention to his daughter.

Her stepmother was horrified when she learned of the freedom Muirin had been given. Even more horrified when she discovered Muirin’s friendship with Conlan. “Daughter of the sea” her stepmother would cal her derisively, for Muirin loved to spend her time near the water. As her stepmother exerted more and more influence over her life, Muirin sought refuge there more often.

She was no longer al owed to roam as she pleased. She could not leap atop her horse and ride headlong along the strand. She was to walk her horse sedately on the roads, riding palfrey instead of astride. She had always been a good student, read several languages, and wrote a fine hand, but now her schooling was increased, another language to learn, another passage to copy for the Queen.

Her hours were fil ed, but she did nothing with them. When her father travel ed, Muirin was asked to attend her stepmother each day, to sit at the side of the room while the Queen spoke to the King’s people, dispensing harsh rulings and unfair verdicts, tel ing the people that Muirin was in agreement with her decisions, and that there would be no recourse. Muirin would shake her head to let them know she did not agree at al , but she could not change the Queen’s edicts.

Her only escape was in the early evening, when the Queen would receive her friends and dismiss Muirin with a wave of her hand. Muirin would rush to the sea then, to sit and pray for her father’s quick return.

Most evenings Conlan would find her there, perched on a rock high above the waves, her knees pul ed up against her chest, her arms wrapped around her legs, staring over the water with a forlorn expression. He would tease her, make funny faces, or tel her absurd stories until he got her to smile again.

Until one day.

That evening, when he saw her wiping away the tears on her cheeks, he watched her for a moment, his heart ful of love for her, and sorrow for her sorrow. He knew what she would tel him.

He’d heard it in the vil age. Her father was not visiting the High King. He was searching for a husband for Muirin.

It was Muirin’s stepmother who was behind it, of course. Few doubted that it was the older woman’s jealously that had prompted the suggestion, for Muirin had blossomed into a rare beauty.

The King had left some time ago without revealing his purpose, off to visit al the other kingdoms in the west of Ireland. He would travel from Donegal to Dingle, from Sligo to Kinsale, searching for a man who would be the perfect match for his daughter.

Her husband must be tal , Conlan had heard. And strong. A warrior, a hero the likes of which no one had seen since the days of Cuchulainn. And handsome – a man who would give Muirin daughters as beautiful as she. He must come from a royal family, and have great wealth, for the King wanted his daughter to be protected and have the finest of things.

Conlan feared he would lose Muirin to another, and his heart was sore. He was not a prince. He had no riches to share. He thought of al he might do to win her, the things he might say to convince her father to let them marry as they had planned. He could not change his heritage, could not change his father from a woodcutter to a king, but Conlan was already tal . And strong. And a fine warrior, for had he not defeated every chal enger at the King’s last gathering? He could work hard to acquire coin. He was most wil ing to do so every day of his life if it meant that Muirin would share those years with him.

She turned to see him then, holding out her arms, and he ran to pul her into his embrace.

“Oh, Conlan!” she cried. “They mean to tear us apart!”

“I know, I know,” he said, wrapping his arms tighter around her. “I could not bear to see you with another. I would rather lie under the ground than lose you.”

“Do not say such a thing!” she said, looking up into his eyes. “Never say such a thing, my love. I could not bear it if anything happened to you. There is only one thing we can do.”

“Anything, Muirin! I wil do anything you ask.”

“Marry me. This night. Here, under the very oak where we pledged our troth. Then make love to me, again and again. If I am already wed, I cannot marry another.” He smoothed back the hair from her face. “I am not a prince. I have no wealth, only my own hands to earn our way. I cannot give you what your father wants you to have.”

“My father wants me to be happy, I know he does. It is only her doing that has him off looking for a husband for me. The man I want is here, before me. Please, Conlan! We are promised to each other. Do not tel me now that you regret that!”

“Never.” He kissed her forehead. Then her cheek, then her mouth, showing her with his kisses how ful of love for her his heart was.

She pul ed back from him with a bril iant smile. “Then go now, love. Meet me this night, when the moon wil be ful . And we wil become one.”

“And face the future together.”

She nodded, her face radiant. “And face the future together.” They parted then, throwing looks at each other over their shoulders as they walked away, he to his father’s smal whitewashed cottage, she to her father’s shining castle on the hil .

She told only one person: her nurse. Who told only one person: the cook. Who told only one person: the groom. Who told the Queen.

The hours until moonrise passed slowly for Muirin, but pass they did. She attended her stepmother at the evening meal, careful not to say anything that would arouse the older woman’s suspicions.

When, soon after the meal, Muirin claimed to be weary and said she would find her bed, her stepmother gave her a smile and wished her a good night. Muirin hid her surprise at her stepmother’s warm tone and wil ingness to let her go, but was pleased to make her escape so easily.

She was at the door when her stepmother cal ed to her. “Your father has written to me,” she said. “He has met with the King of the north, who has agreed to marry you to his only son. The contract is being signed as we speak.”

Muirin nodded, hiding her horror at this news, but ever more determined to wed Conlan that very night. She brushed her hair until it shone, then bundled its length into a fine net caught at the nape of her neck. She had chosen her clothing careful y, a gown of sea blue silk, a froth of white lace, like the crest of a wave. She wore the golden necklace her mother had given her, a dolphin hanging from the golden links. She took one last look at herself in her mirror, pinched her cheeks to make them rosy, then threw her finest mantle – a cape made of swan feathers – over her shoulders, and hurried from her room.

She left the castle easily, finding the postern gate left open and no guard there to question her.

She reached the cliff above the sea just as the moon was reaching its zenith. Conlan was already there under the mighty oak, his tal form in shadow.

He was not alone. The Queen stood nearby, draped in a long dark cloak, her face pale. In her hand was a switch, which she tapped against her leg as Muirin slowed her steps, then joined them.

“Muirin,” her stepmother said, her voice smooth and emotionless, “what mean you by stealing from the castle in the dark of the night?”

“It is not dark, madam. The moon has lit my way.”

“Have you come to swim?”

“No, madam. I have come but to enjoy the moonlight on the sea.”

“Liar! You have come to steal away with the woodcutter’s son!”

“No, madam, we do not plan to leave!”

“You would stay here then, with him? Your father is even now finding you a husband, you ungrateful girl!”

“I want no husband but Conlan.”

“You mean to defy me? You?” She raised her switch as though to strike Muirin.

“No!” Conlan shouted, rushing forwards from the dark, his arm outstretched.

Before he could reach her, the stepmother whirled to face him. “You would strike me, son of the earth?”

“Do not harm her!” he roared.

“She must be punished!”

“You wil not harm her!” Conlan raised his arm.

“Then let it be you who suffers.” Muirin’s stepmother raised the switch and pointed it at him, her voice rising into the air. “I cal upon thee, forces of darkness, to give me strength. Strike him down, he who would harm your priestess, he who would defy me!”

There was a strike of lightning from a sky that had been clear a moment before, a great swirl of wind that brought the sudden smel of sulphur.

“Strike him down, oh forces of darkness!” the stepmother cal ed again, raising her arms high, her cloak spreading behind her like wings. “Make him pay for daring to defy me! Root him to the ground!”

Lightning split the sky again, and a roar of wind blew leaves and branches and dirt into the air.

Muirin put her hands over her eyes. There was a clap of thunder so loud that it deafened her. And then silence.

She looked up, but saw only darkness. The moonlight was gone, the sky a black dome above her. Nothing seemed to move, nothing to even breathe. And then, dimly, the sound of the sea came to her, a soft murmur.

“Conlan?” she whispered, reaching for him.

Her hands found only air and she stepped forwards in the dark, then again, reaching for him.

“Conlan?” Again there was only silence, and she grew fearful. “Are you hurt? Conlan, speak to me!”

Her hands found the trunk of the giant oak, and she stretched her arms around its width, laying her head on its bark.

“Conlan?” There was only silence.

Muirin spent the remainder of the night under the tree, waking at dawn, surprised that she had slept at al . Night was receding and while the light was stil dim, it was enough for her to see that it was not the ancient oak under which she had slept, but a much younger tree, a slender oak tree with leaves the colour of Conlan’s eyes. And there, a handful of paces away, the ancient oak.

She stared at both trees. Two. For al the years of her life, there had only been one tree here on this cliff. She jumped to her feet, staring at the two trees.

“Muirin.” The voice was soft, feminine.

Muirin whirled around to find the owner of the voice. The cliff was empty but for her and the two trees. Far below her, in the cobalt water of the western sea, three dolphins swam in spirals, and above her, perched in the highest branches of the ancient oak, three ravens watched.

“No,” said the voice. “It is not they who speak to you, child.”

“Who are you?” Muirin asked in a smal voice.

“I am here, child, in the wind, in the air. You cannot see me, but I am with you.”

“Mother?”

There was the sound of soft laughter. “No, although I knew her as wel . A fine woman who did not deserve to die so young. Nor did you deserve to lose her, or your father to fal under the spel of the enchantress you cal your stepmother.”