The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance

by Trisha Telep

  Or perhaps the one with the long beaky nose and only a few wisps of hair left upon his shiny pate would be a better choice? The less attractive, the better. She was not as likely to love a man she did not find attractive, as she was if she married a man with hair as black as jet, eyes of sparkling blue and a smile that would lighten the darkest room better than any rushlight . . .

  She caught herself in mid-thought.

  What sort of wretch was she, to think such low and unworthy thoughts? How could she calmly sit there and choose a husband solely by his lack of appeal, because if he was unattractive, she would not be overly distressed if he were to . . . to well, to die?

  “—She shall marry Colm mac Connor, Lord of Colmskeep!” Lord Diarmaid finally declared.

  Her heart sank.

  The old man was weeping with joy as he raised his drinking cup in a toast. “Good health, and a long and happy marriage to you both, my children. Aye, and a fertile marriage, too! Give your father a dozen grandbabies to dandle on his knee, Siobhan, Colm, my son! I only wish my Deirdre had lived to see this happy day.” His eyes filled with tears.

  Siobhan and Colm drank deeply from the loving cup, then stood and clasped hands as they received her father’s blessing, and the cheering and good wishes of their guests, who lined up to congratulate them.

  The feasting followed, the serving maids and lads moving between the tables, delivering great portions of juicy beef and wheels of soda bread served upon trenchers, along with venison and roasted capons, duck, fresh salmon taken from the river just that morning, and cheeses.

  Colm fed titbits of the choicest meats to Siobhan from his own trencher, spearing the juicy morsels on his own eating knife, and popping them into her mouth, as was the custom among sweethearts.

  He laughed when, shuddering, she refused a piece of beef that was still raw and bloody, turning her face away from it and grimacing in disgust.

  “Do you not like this juicy morsel, my dove?”

  “Uggh, no. I do not, my lord. I prefer my meat well roasted and unbloodied. Why, I would sooner eat a worm, or a snail than half-cooked meats! The blood turns my belly.”

  Her finicky complaints seemed to amuse him. “Very well. When we are wed, I shall tell our cook that his new mistress wants her worms and snails well cooked.”

  She blushed at his teasing. “Please do, my lord.”

  After the feasting, the fiddlers and pipers took over. The evening was given up to the wild joyous music of pipes and flutes, drums and whistles; to dancing, drinking and storytelling.

  The evening was growing late when Siobhan took up her harp, Lamenter, to play for her betrothed. Seated upon a carved stool, she was beautiful in her purple kirtle, like a bard at the court of an Irish king. The firelight, and the light of the torches and sconces, reflected in her midnight hair and shamrock eyes.

  She chose to play a love song for Colm; a haunting song that matched her mood. Her rippling chords told of two lovers who had been kept from marrying by their respective families, but later died of sorrow. In remembrance of the pair, the families planted two willows near a sacred pool, some distance apart. But within days, the two trees had grown into an arch, entwined in death as they had yearned to be in life.

  There was hardly a dry eye in the hall when her last chord trembled into silence. Tears were flowing freely down Siobhan’s cheeks, glistening in the fire’s flickering golden light.

  Colm watched her, listened to her, and was spellbound. He was already in love with his bewitching future bride. In truth, in but a day, she had ensorcelled him with her beauty, her fiery spirit, and a certain fey quality about her that drew him like a lodestone.

  It was well into the evening, and the rushlights were burning low when Siobhan, yawning and still a little dazed by her unexpected betrothal, bade everyone a good night. Rising from her chair, she staggered off to bed.

  Colm caught her by the upper arm as she passed the shadowed nook where he lay in wait for her.

  She gasped in surprise as he pressed her back against the wall.

  “Well, now. I’ll have a proper goodnight kiss before you’re off to your bed, my love,” he murmured. “After your ballad, sure, I need something sweet to bring a smile t’ my lips. And what could be sweeter than your kisses?”

  He kissed her throat, her ears, her bared shoulders, frowning when she winced and drew away. “What is it? Do my kisses repulse you?”

  “They do not, sir.” Far from it.

  “Then what? Did I hurt you?”

  She shook her head. “Please, it’s nothing really – just a small scratch on my shoulder. I was out gathering herbs this morning. I must have got caught on a branch”

  “Aah. I see it. Aye, it’s a deep one. Here. Let me kiss it,” he whispered. His voice was husky as he pressed his lips to the wound unwittingly made by his arrow.

  “Better?”

  “Much better, my lord,” she said softly.

  Their eyes met, green to blue. They both knew it was not the arrow wound of which they spoke. The air between them was suddenly charged, as if a lightning storm was crackling in the air.

  “Siobhan,” he said thickly. “Darlin’. You’ve bewitched me. I shall go mad with wanting you. We must set a date for our wedding. It cannot come soon enough for me.”

  “Nor me,” she agreed, arching against the warm hard curve of his body.

  His kisses had ignited a bonfire in her belly. His gentle touch made her shiver with pleasure. Her weary head rested upon his shoulder like a lovely flower, drooping on its stem. She wanted nothing more than to spend the night in his arms. To be his bride.

  “Hmm. Your skin tastes like honey, mo muirnin. I crave your sweetness. What say you to the last day of the old year? Can ye wait that long?”

  It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him nay, she would marry him that very day, if that were what he wished. But she caught herself in the nick of time, and pulled free of his arms.

  “Samhain Eve? But . . . that’s only a week away!” Only a week to love him, when they should have had a lifetime? She could not bear it. But to marry him was to condemn him, and so she dare not name a day.

  “A long week it will be, too, until I have ye in my bed. So? What say you to Samhain Eve, my dove?” he persisted.

  “Then you . . . er . . . you have agreed to my lord father’s other conditions?” she asked hesitantly, her mind racing for a way out.

  He laughed. His blue eyes sparkled wickedly in the rushlight. “I have. He’s an old rogue, but I like him well! Fifty fine red cattle he asked for, and fifty he shall get. They’ll be delivered to Glenkilly before the first snows. I’m adding a score of sheep and a fine black bull to sweeten the deal, just so the old divil can’t change his mind about having me for a son-on-law. He was overjoyed, to say the least. Judging by the amount o’ whiskey he was drinking, he’ll be overjoyed for some time.”

  Colm planted an ardent kiss on Siobhan’s mouth that she felt down to her toenails. She could not think straight when he kissed her like that. If he let go of her, she thought she might slither down the wall into a warm gooey puddle at his feet.

  “Is that the condition you meant, love?” he added.

  “Nooo. I . . . I meant the other condition. The condition that tests your . . . your true feelings for me. And your courage, of course. Courage is very important in a husband.”

  “It is?” His dark brows rose. “And what test might that be? Diarmaid said nothing about tests.”

  He was frowning as he looked down at her. He had one palm planted against the wall, beside her head. The other cupped her chin as he tilted her lovely face up to his. She wouldn’t meet his eyes, he noticed. What did the wee minx have to hide? “Siobhan? What test?” he repeated.

  On his lips, even her name sounded sweeter than when others said it. “Shivonne,” he murmured. “Tell me!”

  “It’s not much of a test, not really. Not for a . . . a skilled hunter like you. A huge wolf they’ve named Airgead has been k
illing the shepherds’ late lambs. They are terrified of it. It is twice as big as a wolfhound, according to those who’ve seen it. You must find the wolf and bring back its pelt, to prove that you’ve slain the brute.”

  “And after?” His eyes searched her face. His gaze was intent, his expression stern.

  Siobhan swallowed. Her betrothed was a little intimidating, if truth were told. Despite those laughing blue eyes, that disarming grin, he would not be a good man to cross, she sensed, nor one to lie to.

  “Siobhan?” he repeated. “What then?”

  “And then, I shall name a date for our wedding,” she promised.

  Again, she would not meet his eyes.

  He hooked his finger under her chin and turned her face smartly upwards, forcing her shamrock eyes to meet his. “Do you swear it, my love?”

  She crossed the fingers of both hands so that her lie wouldn’t count as a sin. “I swear.”

  She had not been baptized a Christian but there was no sense in taking chances.

  He nodded. “Good enough, my lady. I shall leave at dawn on the morrow.”

  And with that, Colm gathered her into his arms and kissed her witless.

  Four

  The following morn dawned fine and clear. The sun shone, and everywhere was green and vibrant. It seemed impossible that winter would soon be hard upon them.

  Siobhan ordered food to be prepared for her suitor’s journey. Dried venison, oatcakes, skins of wine and mead. She watched as the provisions were loaded on to the pack ponies.

  Colm’s hounds – great shaggy wolfhounds that wore spiked leather collars – milled excitedly about the courtyard, yelping and fighting their handlers’ restraint.

  The horses, saddled and fresh after a good night’s rest and a few handfuls of grain, were tossing their heads so that bits and bridles jingled.

  Finally, Colm’s huge black horse, Dibh, was led out by its groom. Its master, looking the worse for wear after a night spent out-drinking her father, strode from the hall.

  He swung himself easily into the Spanish saddle of fine red leather, then saluted Siobhan and her father.

  The old chieftain seemed confused.

  “Why are ye leaving so soon, my boy?” the old man demanded, scowling up at Colm through rheumy bloodshot eyes. “You promised me a game of chess, don’t you recall?”

  “You had best ask that question of your daughter, my lord father,” Colm said, casting Siobhan a pointed look. “I’ll be back for you soon, Siobhan,” he murmured, leaning low in the saddle to lift her hand to his lips. “And when I return, ye’ll be mine in every way. My word on it.”

  “I shall be here, my lord. Hurry back to me, for I cannot wait to be your bride!” It was true, at least in part. She could not wait to see him again.

  Aislinn fanned herself with her hand as her mistress’ suitor, his kinsmen and his servants rode forth from Glenkilly keep, hooves clattering against the cobbles.

  “Oh, the way he looked at you, my lady. Why, he fairly gobbled you up with his eyes. I thought I should swoon!”

  “I don’t think ‘gobbling’ was quite what he had in mind,” Siobhan murmured, her own hand flying nervously to her throat. A wicked half-smile played about her lips. Imagining what her betrothed was thinking left her almost as breathless as his kisses.

  “What was it your man said last night?” Lord Diarmaid frowned. “Something about a giant wolf. What wolf did he mean, Siobhan? And what late lambs was he talking about? Is the poor lad tetched in the head, then?”

  “It is nothing to worry about, Father. Truly. I’ve taken care of it. Go and rest, now, dear man. You look tired,” she urged, shepherding him back inside to the comfort of his carved chair and the fireside.

  If truth be told, she was still vexed with her father. He had not told her that he had set her bride price, nor that he was accepting offers for her hand. Instead, she had been the very last to know of his plans for her.

  Still, it was possible the old fellow had forgotten the arrangements he’d made, just as he’d forgotten to tell her about them. Lately, he forgot a great many things, including that her mother was dead. He would spend ages wandering the keep, looking for her, calling her name.

  “Rest, ye say? But, I just got up,” the old fellow grumbled in protest. “Did I not, Siobhan?” Nowadays, he could never be sure.

  After the old man had been settled comfortably before the hearth with his drinking cup – the hollowed skull of one of his enemies, polished and set with precious jewels – in one fist, and a wineskin within easy reach of the other, Aislinn drew Siobhan aside.

  “What are you going to do when Lord Colm returns, my lady? You’ll have to marry him then. You won’t be able to keep putting him off. He won’t let you, not that one.” Aislinn would love to see her mistress given her comeuppance by Colm mac Connor.

  “No,” said Siobhan with a rueful smile. The back of her hand still tingled from his farewell kiss. She shivered. “He won’t.”

  “Then whatever shall ye do?”

  “I don’t know.” Siobhan sighed. “I suppose I must cross that bridge when I come to it.”

  Siobhan fretted and worried about Colm mac Connor for the next three days. She could not sleep a wink for thinking of him! And with every passing moment, she came to love him just a little bit more, although she had known him only a short while.

  She had heard it was possible to fall in love with a man at first sight, but had not believed it – until now. Now, she thought it was quite possible, quite possible indeed.

  She dreamed of Colm, too, when she finally fell into a fitful sleep. Dreamed of how it had felt to lie beneath him in the forest, his weight heavy on her. Of the taste of his mouth, and the scent of his skin. Aye, and she burned for him, ached for him, as she lay in her bed, alone.

  She pretended the soft fur of her coverlet was his passionate embrace, its heavy weight his powerful arms enfolding her. And she wept with longing.

  By the fourth day, she was sick with worry. Had she sent Colm to his death? Would he be attacked by a giant wolf that had not been seen on her father’s lands for at least a half-decade or more? Would he and his party be set upon by murdering brigands, or attacked by a ferocious wild boar? Would they all be killed because of this wild goose – wild wolf – chase she’d invented?

  “It is no use! I cannot just sit here and wait, Aislinn!” she wailed. “I am grown ill with worry for my dearest lord. I must see with my own eyes that he is well.”

  “Hmph. Ye should have thought of that before you sent him away, I’m thinking,” the serving wench muttered.

  “What? What was that?” Siobhan demanded, sharply yanking one of Aislinn’s tawny braids. “Tell me, or I’ll pinch you!”

  “Ouch! Nothing, my lady. Nothing. I was just humming a jig. The one Lord Colm’s cousin, Finn, played at your betrothal, remember?” But then she saw what Siobhan was up to. “Oh, no, mistress! You’re not going to do it again?”

  But she was.

  “On wings of white / Pray, let me fly!” Siobhan chanted softly, her green eyes gleaming in the rushlight. “Mistress of / The azure sky! / By the magic / In my blood / Change me!” As it did whenever Siobhan cast her shape-shifting spells, the air grew very still. It was as if the bower was holding its breath.

  Aislinn held her breath, too.

  The fire on the hearthstone ceased snapping and crackling.

  The shadows on the walls leaped up, became dragons, giants, wizards and other monstrous creatures.

  Aislinn heard tinkling in the distance, like fairy laughter, or the chiming of tiny bells. Sounds that came from the Otherworld.

  The fine hairs rose on the back of her neck as light streamed from Siobhan’s fingertips. Eyes closed now, like a priestess of the Moon, lost in a trance, Siobhan beckoned the light to come to her, to surround her.

  And it came.

  The golden aura slowly expanded, until it limned Siobhan from head to toe.

  A second later, she melted
into the deep shadows and was gone!

  Straightway, Aislinn heard a fierce whirring of wings. Something heavy – something alive – landed on Aislinn’s shoulder. She screamed, and tried to bat it off her with her fists.

  “Stop!” she heard Siobhan’s sharp command in her head. “Stop, Aislinn, else I’ll change you into a mouse and eat you!”

  Aislinn stopped flailing, although the snowy hawk’s sharp talons dug painfully into her flesh.

  She had no fondness for birds. Nor did she like the way this one perched on her shoulder, peering at her right eyeball with its own beady ones as if selecting a tasty morsel for its supper.

  Aislinn jerked her head to one side, as far from the hawk’s beak as she could get. “As you will, my lady. Oh, there’s a bloody mark upon your . . . your wing!”

  “Enough! Carry me outside where I may fly free!”

  The sun was setting in the west when Aislinn went out into the courtyard, carrying the heavy white hawk on her wrist.

  “You must tell everyone I am sick with heartache that my lord has gone. Tell them I have taken to my bed,” Siobhan instructed, “and cannot be comforted.”

  “How long will you be gone?” Aislinn wondered aloud, imagining the merry times she could have with her friends while her mistress was away.

  “As long as it takes. And while I’m gone, you can busy yourself sorting and hanging the herbs we gathered. Take the acorns to the mill for grinding into flour. Oh, and spread fresh rushes in my bower, too. Now, what was that about a red mark on my wing?”

  “Nothing, my lady. Will there be anything else, my lady?” Aislinn asked, tight-lipped. There was a rebellious edge to her tone.

  “No. I don’t think so. Just do whatever needs doing. And there’s to be no gossiping and silliness with those wretched serving wenches while I’m gone!”

  Beady golden eyes looking down her cruel curved beak, Siobhan gave her servant a fierce glare.

  With those parting words, the white hawk rose up on her talons and spread her snowy wings. She flapped, beating the air, nearly putting out Aislinn’s eye as she lifted off from the girl’s wrist.