The Ballad of Rosamunde (5 page)

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 capture 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.