The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance (9 page)

“You are fair pleased with yourself tonight,” his sister said as she set an ale before him. She smiled and propped her hands on her hips to regard him. “A conquest was it then?” Padraig laughed for the first time in a long time. “Naught but a dream, but ’twas a fine one.”

“I wager it must have been,” she said, her smile teasing. “You dreamed then of a lady?”

“None other than the Faerie Queen,” Padraig agreed amiably. “And she gave to me a token.” His sister sobered. “Did she then?” Her wariness reminded Padraig of their mother.

“A ring with the power to make a man invisible to others.” Padraig chuckled at the whimsy of it al , then reached into his pocket to show her the stone. He thought she would be amused by the evidence of his drunken dream, but when he pul ed the gift from his pocket, it had become a golden ring again.

Padraig stared at it on his palm and blinked in wonder. “But a moment ago, it was a stone,” he whispered.

His sister caught her breath and took a step back. “A Faerie gem.” She crossed herself quickly.

“Mind your step, Padraig. A man does not easily elude the favour of the Faerie Queen.” Padraig barely heard her warning. He knew al the tales of the fey, courtesy of his mother. He simply could not believe that the ring had changed twice.

But then, if it
was
fey, the charm upon it would hold for the night and not the day. He stood and, leaving his ale, looked out of the door of the tavern. Sure enough, the sun had set completely and twilight, that time so potent for the fey, had fal en.

He gazed at the circle of gold. What if his dream had been true? What if this ring truly did have the power Una had stated? What if he could reclaim Rosamunde from the realm of the fey?

What if his dream of that kiss had answered his question – what was Rosamunde’s honest desire? Did she wish for him as wel as for freedom?

But before he dared to enter the Faerie mound, before he dared to abduct a women destined for the High King of Faerie’s bed, Padraig would be sure of the ring’s powers.

He left a coin for the ale, having no taste for it any longer. He strode out into the streets of Galway, slipped down an al eyway, then donned the ring.

To his astonishment, when he stepped back into the crowded thoroughfare, a man walked right into him, frowning at the obstacle he could feel but not see.

Padraig spent an hour testing the ring’s abilities, but it was clear that no human eye could discern his presence.

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 fil ed 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 hal .

Una, no smal beauty 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 vigour that was astounding, seeming never to tire. The bounty of food on display was enticing, al manner of sweets and confections offered for the pleasure of the company. The mead smel ed 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 final y she felt unobserved.

It would not last, but she would savour 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 made 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 humour touch his tone. “I know not how long ’twil 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 hal , endeavouring 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 endeavour 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 wil 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 wil 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 wil come for you.” Rosamunde felt the burn of his lips against her nape. She did not doubt that Padraig would face a chal enge in gaining her freedom. 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 swal owed 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 capture his love lost,

But Una ensured too high a cost.

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, ful y 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 got 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 stal ion, a high-stepping black horse with a proud gait. Its mane was long and dark, its eyes lit with a fire that made Padraig 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 hawthorn tree.

He declared his intent to sail with the morning tide, had his ship provisioned for the journey, and kissed his sister goodbye. He cleared space in the hold to create a stable for the horse, for he had no inclination to leave it behind.

He paid his debts and tried to sleep, that he might be at his best when night fel .

When the darkness slipped over the land, when the Beltane fires were lit in the hil s, 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 on to 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 ardour 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 stil , 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 hawthorn that grew to one side of the stone circle.

His stal ion snorted and tossed his head, then Padraig heard the clarion cal 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, fil ed 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 hal beneath that he had visited the night before and his grip tightened on the reins.

Golden light spil ed from the hidden court into the night’s darkness and the Faerie host rode forth. Music accompanied them, the tinkle of ten thousand silver bel s mounted on a thousand harnesses. Their steeds pranced with pride, confident of their splendour and beauty. The Beltane fires on the adjacent hil s burned higher as if in tribute, their flames stretching to the stars.