The Ballad of Rosamunde (3 page)

Padraig just made to do so when he heard a
woman singing, singing more beautifully than ever he had heard
anyone singing. It could have been an angel he heard, and he was
drawn to the sound.

He could not hear the words, and hastened
closer.

“
Una was the Faerie queen

Fairest woman ever seen

Wed centuries to her king

Love meant more to her than his ring.”

The ground rose ahead of Padraig in a mound,
a low hill covered with grass. A circle of large stones surrounded
the crest of the hill, like a crown upon it, and a hawthorne tree
grew outside the circle of stones.

The hair prickled on the back of his neck
for he had learned at his mother’s knee to be cautious in the
presence of the fey. If nothing else, this was the kind of place
they favored.

He could barely discern the silhouette of a
woman atop the hill. She was sitting on a stone in the midst of the
circle, combing her long hair, and he knew she was the one who
sang. Two women sat at her feet, one with a lyre the like of which
Padraig had never seen, the other humming along with her lady. They
were all lovely, ethereal in the moonlight.

Her voice had a lovely lilt and Padraig
wished to hear more of her song. He walked closer, trying to move
silently as he didn’t want to startle the women.

To his astonishment, as soon as he stepped
within the circle of stones, the lady with the comb turned to
confront him. She smiled, her hand falling to her lap as she sang
directly to him.

With proximity, he could see more than her
silhouette. Her hair was golden, as bright as sunlight, her eyes as
blue as a southern sea. Padraig walked closer, awed by her
loveliness.

“
But Finvarra had an appetite,

For mortal women, both dark and light.

He vowed he’d have the pirate queen,

Held captive by the spriggan’s greed.

One glimpse of the fair Rosamunde

Had left him filled with lust and love.

And so his wife did come to dread

Her spouse taking Rosamunde to his bed.”

Padraig blinked. Surely she could not be
singing of his Rosamunde?

The woman stood up, revealing that she was
tall and slender. She wore a dress that was fitted to her curves
and swept to her ankles, one as blue as her eyes and rich with
golden embroidery. There were gems encrusting the hem and cuffs of
the gown, and it seemed to Padraig that her slippers were made of
silk the color of moonlight.

Or perhaps she was wrought of moonlight. She
seemed insubstantial as she walked toward him, both of this world
and not. Was he dreaming? The hem of her skirt seemed to dance with
a will of its own, and lights glinted around the perimeter of the
stone circle. He remembered will ‘o the wisp, the fabled lights of
the fey, and knew that he had strayed into their enchanted
realm.

Only when the woman was directly before him
did he see the numerous small courtiers holding the hem. They could
not have stood as high as his knee, not a one of them, and were
dressed in green livery. Their faces were sharp, their eyes narrow,
and their hair caught with twigs.

Padraig remembered her own words and knew
whom he encountered.

The Faerie queen, Una.

“Greetings, Padraig, sailor of the many
seas,” she said, her voice as melodious in speech as in song.

“Greetings, beauteous queen.” Padraig bowed
deeply, knowing well the price of insulting one of the fey.

“Perhaps you have guessed that I have
summoned you here. I heard your song and knew that our goals could
be as one.”

“Heard my song?” Padraig glanced over his
shoulder, unable to glimpse the lights of the town. “But that was
miles away. You could not possibly have heard…”

Una laid a fingertip across his lips to
silence him. Her touch was as cold as ice, as smooth as silken
velvet.

She smiled. “She is not dead, your
Rosamunde.” Her lips tightened and she averted her gaze. “And now
my husband, casting his glance over all of Faerie, with aid of his
treacherous mirror, has glimpsed the slumbering Rosamunde. He means
to make her his own on Beltane.”

“I mean no offense, my lady, but Rosamunde
is dead,” Padraig spoke with care. He knew of the fey inclination
to trick mortals. “I saw the fallen rock, I tried to retrieve her
from the destroyed caverns. She cannot have survived.”

Una smiled. “The spriggan Darg took her
captive when she might have died.”

“Darg!” Padraig exclaimed. He recalled the
deceitful spriggan well, and its determination to have vengeance
upon Rosamunde.

Una watched him carefully. “You know this
creature.”

“Indeed, I do, my lady, although I believed
the spriggan to be yet at Ravensmuir.”

Una’s smile faded. “No. It came in your
ship.”

Padraig frowned. There had been items
disappear on their last voyage, including the ale that he knew the
spriggan liked so well. It was possible that Una spoke the
truth.

“It trespassed in our
sid
. It has
wagered with my husband and lost, so it will bring Rosamunde to him
tomorrow. You must steal her from him.”

“My lady! A man who steals from the Faerie
king will not live to tell the tale of it!”

Una smiled. “With my aid, you will not be
detected.” She pressed a golden ring into his hand. “Wear this and
you shall pass unseen in any company.”

The ring was cold, as cold as the tomb. Even
having it in his hand filled Padraig with dread. He was not afraid
to risk his life for Rosamunde, not even of inciting the wrath of
the fey king, but there was one more thing he needed to know.

“With respect, my lady, I would be certain
of the desire of Rosamunde. It seems to me that it would be most
fine to live at the Faerie court. She might not wish to leave.”

Una laughed but not because of his
compliment. “You must have heard the old riddle, the one with truth
at its heart.”

“Which is that, my lady?”

Her eyes glinted with humor. “What gift is
it that a woman wishes most from a man?”

Padraig shrugged, not knowing the answer.
Riches? Comfort? Love? There were so many possible answers that he
could not choose. He suspected the answer depended upon the
woman.

Una leaned closer. “To have her own way.”
Her eyes shone with brilliant light as her courtiers giggled around
her hem. “I suspect you are a worthy lover, Padraig Deane, and in
tribute to your love, I give you a gift.”

“You have already been too kind…”

Before Padraig could finish, the Faerie
queen framed his face in her hands. She leaned closer, her cold
breath caressing his skin, then she kissed him full on the lips. He
tasted death and loss, a chill that shook him to his marrow.

And Padraig swooned.

*

Rosamunde dreamed of another day in her
past.

The sky was pink, a sure sign of trouble in
the morning, and the dark clouds racing overhead made no better
forecast. All the same, Rosamunde’s heart leapt at the familiar
cliffs that rose before her, the cliffs surmounted by the keep she
knew as well as the lines of her own hand.

Ravensmuir.

Governed by Tynan, stern but fair, the man
who had taken her to his bed, the man who had vowed subsequently to
never to wed her. The man who had chosen this pile of stones over
Rosamunde.

Twice.

In her dream, she was certain she would
relive that last encounter, that final fatal rejection, that she
would see him again.

But she did not. She dreamed again of
Padraig, of their final parting.

Rosamunde stood on the deck of her ship,
staring up as the land rose closer, her heart pounding with
trepidation that Tynan would see her approach, that he would meet
her in the caverns below the keep. She was in the moment of
approach, felt her own hope and anticipation, yet at the same time,
knew what had happened subsequently in those caverns. She felt the
twinge of dread that she had felt that morning and knew it had been
a warning. Although Tynan had apologized to her, he had once again
chosen his holding over her.

And he had died.

Had she not died, as well?

Padraig came to stand beside her on the
deck, but this time when Rosamunde turned to her most trusted
friend, she saw him with clear eyes. He was tall and hale, was
Padraig, experience tempering his expression and his choices. His
dark hair was touched with silver at the temples, she noted, and
there were lines from laughter etched around his eyes. His tan made
his eyes look more vividly blue, and she was struck by his
vitality.

By his masculinity.

With the clarity of hindsight, she saw what
she had missed day after day in his company. Padraig was of an age
with her, and they had shared a thousand adventures. He was
unafraid of her truth, much less of her temper. He was quick to
laughter, he was clever, he dared to challenge her when he believed
her to be wrong. He was deeply loyal and she had always been able
to rely upon him.

Her heart began to pound at the magnitude of
her error, at her own blind folly.

“I will go into the caverns alone,” she
said, feeling the words she had once uttered as they crossed her
tongue in this dream. Her quest had been the retrieval of a silver
ring, once given to her by Tynan, demanded by the spriggan Darg as
the price of its assistance, but returned by her to Tynan after his
rejection. It had not been hers to take, but on this day, she had
returned to steal it to ensure the future of her niece.

“I will accompany you,” Padraig said,
determination in his tone. They shared this resolve to protect
those they loved, Rosamunde realized, this ability to stride into
the shadows so others would not be compelled to do so.

She and Padraig had walked the periphery of
society together, daring all as they challenged convention.

At each other’s backs.

While Tynan had upheld convention. He had
found Rosamunde useful, he had accepted her favors abed, but he had
never respected her or intended to honor her. It was no surprise in
hindsight to realize that Tynan could never have loved her in
truth.

“No, not this time,” she argued in her
dream, just as she had argued on that fateful morning.

She saw Padraig for what he was. She saw the
ardor in his eyes. She saw his fear for her. She saw his valor and
his loyalty, and she guessed the secret of his heart.

And Rosamunde regretted that she had
surrendered her love to the wrong man.

She had suspected as much on that day. The
ghost of the realization had teased at her thoughts, urged her to
choose otherwise, made her words tumble forth with uncharacteristic
haste. “Take the ship,” she told him, in this dream as she had
then. “See me ashore, then take the ship and sail south to
Sicily.”

It had been their jest, all those years,
that they would one day sell everything and live out their lives in
Sicily. They had both preferred the sun’s sultry heat there to the
chill of the north.

“But what of the contents?” Padraig’s
displeasure was clear.

“Sell them, sell them wherever you can fetch
a fair price for them, and keep the proceeds for your own.”

“But…”

“I owe you no less for all your years of
faithful service.” It was a facile lie and they both had known it,
even then.

“But the ship?”

“Sell it as well, or keep it for your own. I
do not care, Padraig.” Rosamunde uttered that heartfelt sigh,
acknowledging the shadow of dread that touched her heart. “I have
had wealth and I have had love. Love is better.”

It was a lie. She had never had Tynan’s
love. She had had the illusion of his love, and had been seduced by
that. She had had no more than the physical expression of his love,
and that was a paltry offering.

On the other hand, Rosamunde saw in her
dream that Padraig’s love had been before her, awaiting her
invitation, for years.

“You will fare well enough,” she said in her
dream, and the declaration of her gift of foresight struck her as
ironic. “I have seen it and we know that whatsoever I see will be
true.”

“What do you see for yourself?” Padraig
asked softly, his survey of her so searching that Rosamunde could
scarce hold his gaze. He frowned and looked away. “I always said
that you saw farther than most, but could not see what was before
your own eyes.”

There was a truth in his claim that she had
missed on that red-stained morning. She declared her destiny to be
at Ravensmuir, seeing in her dream how the notion displeased
Padraig.

How could she have missed such an
offering?

How could she have overlooked the affection
of one who knew her better than she knew herself? She had been a
fool and lost her life because of it. If only she had another
chance, she would seize the opportunity Padraig offered.

“Farewell, Padraig,” she heard herself say.
“May the wind always fill your sails when you have need of it.”

And Padraig embraced her, catching her
close. She could feel the muscled strength of him, the resolve of
him, the power he oft held in check. In her dream, she closed her
eyes and savored what she had lost through her own folly.

His voice was husky when he spoke. “We have
fought back to back a hundred times, Rosamunde, and always I will
consider you to be my friend.” His blue eyes filled with heat as he
regarded her. “You have been my only friend, but a friend of such
merit that I had need of no other.”

“No soul ever had a friend more loyal than I
found in you,” she said, her heart aching at her own folly.

“I did,” Padraig said, his words fierce. His
gaze bored into hers, then he turned away, staring at the cliffs of
Ravensmuir. “I did,” he added softly.

And in her dream, Rosamunde did what she
should have done on that day. She reached out. She touched
Padraig’s shoulder. She saw his surprise when he turned toward her.
Then she caught him close, hearing the thunder of her pulse in her
own ears, and kissed him.