The Ballad of Rosamunde (2 page)

Then his blood quickened.

Una, always able to read his response, spun
on her heel. She strode from the hall, her ladies scurrying after
her like so many sparrows. Finvarra was oblivious to his wife’s
mood.

This Rosamunde was not just beautiful, but
there was a set to her chin that hinted at a spirited nature.

Finvarra had to know more. He touched the
queen, his favored piece, sliding his finger up her carved back.
She strolled across the board in perfect understanding of his
intent, halted on the desired spot and tucked her hands into her
sleeves meekly.

If only all queens might be so biddable.

“Check,” he murmured with a smile.

“No! I shall not die, not by your whim!” The
spriggan erupted from its place in fury, jumping across the board
and kicking pieces left and right. “I demand we play the game
again!”

Finvarra shook his head.

The spriggan scattered the pieces onto the
earthen floor, then lunged at Finvarra. There was no contest
between them, the spriggan being only as tall as the king’s golden
chalice. Finvarra struck the ill-tempered creature with the back of
his hand, sending it sprawling across the floor.

The elegantly-attired fey stepped away from
the spriggan, whispering at its poor manners. It hissed at all of
them, then made to run. Two elfin knights seized it, holding
tightly while it bit and struggled.

“I have no interest in your life,” Finvarra
said with soft authority. The spriggan froze, staring at him in
confusion. It was a crafty creature and Finvarra deliberately
stated his terms so that there could be no deception. “I would
trade your life for a specific treasure in your possession.”

Darg’s eyes narrowed into hostile slits. “No
gem do I see fit to spare…”

“The woman,” Finvarra decreed, interrupting
what would likely be an impolite diatribe. “I trade your life for
that of your captive, Rosamunde.”

The spriggan regarded him warily. “I fear
you make a jest of me, and would be freed ‘fore I agree.”

Finvarra rose and clapped his hands. “There
is no jest. When Rosamunde graces my court, you shall be free to
leave.” He reached forward and snatched at the spriggan, holding it
so surely in his grip that it paled. He lowered his face to its
sharp features, glaring into its eyes. Darg squirmed. “Deceive me,
though, and I will have your life as well as the woman.”

Darg’s eyes gleamed and Finvarra knew the
creature would willingly deceive him. He beckoned to his armorer,
who produced a fine red thread at his master’s bidding. Finvarra
knotted that thread securely around the spriggan’s waist. It
appeared to be made of silk but was strong beyond measure and it
held the spriggan to Finvarra’s command. The small fairy struggled
and fought against the bond, grimacing where it touched the
skin.

“It burns, it does, the knot too tight,”
Darg snarled. “You cheat when I would do what’s right!”

“Only I can unbind this thread, and I will
only do so when you have fulfilled our bargain.”

Darg continued to pluck at the thread, its
displeasure clear. It cast a glance over the company, then its lips
tightened. It straightened and addressed him with surprising
hauteur. “As you command, so shall it be. You shall see that Darg
lives honestly.”

Finvarra smothered a laugh. He didn’t doubt
that the creature would try to break both cord and vow, but he knew
such efforts were doomed to failure. “Tomorrow sunset,” he decreed.
“I would have her by my side for the Beltane ride two nights
hence.”

The spriggan grimaced at the time
constraint, but before it could argue, Finvarra made a dismissive
gesture. “It is enough time. Should it not be…” He raised a brow
and the thread bound around the spriggan’s waist tightened an
increment. Darg screamed, swore agreement, then scampered across
the court, muttering. Three elven knights followed it at a discrete
distance, ensuring that it left the hall upon its mission.

Finvarra eyed the path Una had taken, heard
the distant sound of her sobs, and decided to remain in his hall a
bit longer. He clapped and called for music, for he was feeling as
celebratory as Una was not.

After all, soon he would have a new prize to
savor.

*

Rosamunde dreamed.

If she had been asked, she would have said
that her expectation was to dream of Tynan through all eternity.
But her dream took her farther into the past, to an abbey on the
coast of Ireland.

She had been summoned there by the bishop,
anxious to increase the revenue of his remote diocese with the
acquisition of a holy relic. Pilgrims brought coin, and the
faithful had already made their journey to Compostela. Many did not
have the inclination - or the funds - to travel to the Holy Land
itself. This bishop saw opportunity, as did many of his ilk.

He had not been pleased to have a woman
answer his summons, however. Although she knew nothing of him,
Rosamunde was well accustomed to his perspective. He had addressed
her man first, assuming him to be the leader, but Eugene had been
quick to step back and gesture to Rosamunde.

The bishop’s lips had tightened, and
Rosamunde had been certain of his intent to cheat her.

They had met in a cell that had been used by
a solitary monk centuries past, the cone-shaped dwelling of fitted
stones perched on the coast. The remote setting had been convenient
both for Rosamunde’s ship and had provided the discretion necessary
for such a purchase.

It was also dangerous, a treacherous facet
of her trade.

It had been a windy night, with storm clouds
rolling from the western horizon. The flame had danced wildly above
the bishop’s lantern, even inside the cell. That man had been
swathed in a great dark cloak, its hood drawn to disguise his
features, and accompanied by a pair of men.

They stood silently behind their lord, one
at his left and one at his right. They wore no livery and their
expressions were impassive. Rosamunde did not doubt that they were
instructed to forget whatsoever they saw on this night. Whichever
relic the bishop chose would be ‘discovered’ in the crypt of the
church shortly.

One man had eyes of brilliant blue and a
steady gaze. He watched Rosamunde openly, which surprised her. She
strove to ignore him.

“I expected Gawain Lammergeier!” the bishop
complained.

Rosamunde smiled. “My father surrendered the
family trade to me some years past. He sails forth no longer.”

“Have you not a brother?”

“My brother chose the family holding as his
legacy.”

The bishop snorted in disapproval of the
situation. It was clear that he did not want to trade with her, but
at the same time, he wanted a relic. His pale hands moved with
agitation beneath the hems of his sleeves.

“Perhaps you would like to see what I have
brought,” she said, knowing he would be tempted. She had brought
the best of her current inventory, after all.

First there had been an embroidered blue
cloth, purported to have been worn by the Virgin. It had the muck
of authenticity about it, but its appearance did not inspire
devotion. The bishop made some cursory remark in praise of it.

There had been a broken crown of thorns, one
possessing the best provenance of any Rosamunde had seen in recent
years. It was likely still a fake. Rosamunde had seen too many
crowns of thorns to have faith in any of them. The bishop stroked
it, admired it, considered it seriously.

“How many crowns of thorns can there be, my
lord?” asked the man with the blue eyes. “There is said to be one
in Paris and another in Palestine.”

“Is this the genuine one?” the bishop
demanded.

Rosamunde shrugged. “Who can say?”

The bishop drummed his fingers. “There must
be no question of authenticity, and I cannot imagine how the crown
of thorns might have made its way this far.”

Finally, there was a coil of dark hair.
Clearly old, it was still lustrous and long, braided neatly. There
was a faint scent of perfume to it, although Rosamunde suspected
that this had been enhanced over the years. Best of all, it was
encased in a jeweled reliquary of masterful craftsmanship, adorned
with images of Jesus treating Lazarus. That reliquary was within a
wooden box of no apparent distinction.

Although the bishop grimaced at the sight of
the wooden box, his eyes lit when the reliquary was revealed. “What
is that?”

“It is said to be the hair of Mary, the
daughter of Lazarus.” Rosamunde opened the reliquary and the bishop
took a deep, delighted breath. “She who anointed Jesus with perfume
when he came to her father’s house and washed his feet with her
hair.”

The bishop pretended to be torn, but
Rosamunde knew which he would choose. And choose the hair, he did.
They negotiated the price, then he gestured to the man behind
him.

The other man, the one with the compelling
blue gaze, watched Rosamunde steadily throughout the whole
transaction. She sensed that he also knew the bishop intended to
cheat her. She locked her hands behind her back, giving Eugene a
silent and hidden signal.

The exchange was made, the coin counted and
deposited in Rosamunde’s purse, the relic and its reliquary
surrendered to the bishop’s man. Complements and formalities were
exchanged. They parted, Rosamunde’s intuition warning her all the
while. Eugene was at her back as they left the cell, both of them
scanning the land to the left and right as they returned to the
dingy.

Rosamunde was glad to see her ship, still
moored where she had left it. The light at the stern had been lit,
the one with the red filter, so she knew that the ship had not been
assaulted in her absence. There was no sound of pursuit.

Perhaps her intuition had been wrong.

She emitted a high whistle, a signal to
Thomas waiting in the dingy out of sight. She and Eugene broke into
a run, anxious to be away.

Rosamunde was not prepared to find Thomas
dead, bleeding in the bottom of the boat.

She was not prepared to have two other men
assault her in the darkness, to be leapt upon and beaten. It
happened quickly, upon turf she did not know. The purse was ripped
from her belt, Eugene was stabbed, the other two relics fell to the
ground.

Her blade was snatched, she was struck
across the face and fell to her knees. A man seized her from
behind. The other attacker lunged toward her, his blade flashing,
and Rosamunde feared she was done.

She certainly was not expecting the
blue-eyed man to leap out of the shadows behind her attacker.

“Oi!” he shouted and the attacker spun in
surprise.

The blue-eyed man sliced him from gullet to
groin and kicked his carcass into the sea. The one holding
Rosamunde released her and ran. The bishop’s man pursued him,
stabbed him until he moved no more, then returned to Rosamunde.

She meet the determination in his gaze as he
handed her the fully laden purse that had been stolen from her.

“I sicken of his thievery,” he said softly,
his voice as steady as his gaze. Rosamunde checked Eugene and was
glad to find that he yet breathed. The blue-eyed man helped her
move him to the dingy, Eugene wincing as he was rolled into the
boat. Thomas, unfortunately, was beyond aid. Rosamunde would see
him buried at sea, which would have been his choice.

She looked up at the man who had saved her.
“I thank you for your aid.”

“You are most welcome.” He glanced inland,
then back at her and smiled, a quick conspiratorial smile. “I fear
I have lost my employ this night. Have you need of another man on
your ship?”

Rosamunde found herself liking this man a
great deal. “I always have need of men with stout hearts and quick
blades.” The bishop’s henchmen did not move, a sign of this man’s
effectiveness. “Have you a name?”

“Padraig Deane.”

Rosamunde shook his hand, liking the heat of
his skin, the firmness of his grip. It was not in her nature to
remain on land, and she always yearned to be back at sea. But this
man made her think about lingering.

“Welcome, Padraig. There is no better
compliment than knowing a man can be trusted with one’s own life.”
She saw him smile, glimpsed his flush, then they gathered the
relics and the fallen men. She watched the moonlight play on his
muscles as he rowed them all back to the ship. He was determined,
stalwart, unafraid to do what he believed to be right.

And Rosamunde wondered how she had failed to
see the full merit of Padraig in all the years he had served
her.

What lifted the scales from her eyes
now?

*

Part
Two

Padraig wandered the streets of Galway,
paying no attention to his course until he reached the gate in the
Norman wall. He glanced back toward the harbor, then ahead to the
hills cloaked in starlight and shadow. He chose to pass through the
gate and walk out of town, knowing that the way was not without
risk. He was but half-Irish, half of town and half of country,
though there were those who would have little interest in the
details.

He did not care about his fate as much as he
once had.

And he had no taste for human company on
this night. He should love it here, the place where he had been
raised, but instead he felt at home only upon the sea.

Rosamunde had been the same way.

He walked as the moon rose ever higher in
the sky. He walked as the church bells sounded far behind him. He
walked as the stars glinted overhead.

He heard the rustle of small animals in the
underbrush and the tinkle of running water. He felt the ale loosen
its hold upon his body and grief well in his heart.

He paused in the middle of the road, hours
after his departure, and cast a glance back toward the sleeping
town. His feet ached and he knew he should turn back.