The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance

by Trisha Telep

  Up, up, up, Siobhan climbed, a shrill cry of peeeeeewhit! peeeeeewhit! bursting from her hawk’s throat as she soared.

  She rose higher and higher into the streaming orange, red and charcoal sunset until it seemed her snowy feathers were gilded by fire.

  “Fare thee well and good riddance, my lady!” Aislinn muttered. She rudely stuck out her tongue. “Pray, take your time. Don’t hurry back on my account!”

  Five

  Siobhan passed the night in a round stone tower. It rose from a grassy headland that faced seaward. The tall conical tower, called St Kieran’s Tower by the local people, was her favourite place. She went there whenever she wanted to be alone.

  Monks had built the tower over a hundred years ago to keep out the Viking invaders who came to steal their religious treasures. To date, it had served them well. Glenkilly had not been sacked, razed or robbed.

  Ousting a startled barn owl, Siobhan took up her perch with her head tucked under her wing. Exhausted, she quickly fell asleep, only to dream of mice and voles and rabbits.

  She awoke as the sun was rising, lighting a shimmering trough of silver across the glassy grey of St George’s Channel.

  Spreading her wings, she soared up into the pearly pink-and-lemon washed dawn, wheeled once over Glenkilly Bay, where the seals and sea otters were playing, and flew north.

  Below her, she could see fishermen, already hard at work, mending their nets and patching their coracles despite the early hour and the sharp nip in the air. Then, with a shrill cry, she headed deeper into the mountains, beyond which lay the Viking stronghold of Dublin. It was the direction Colm had taken.

  It had been only four days since he rode forth from her father’s keep, yet already she ached for the sight of him.

  I love him, she thought with a sense of wonder. I truly love him – yet my love will prove his undoing!

  Riding the wind, she glided on, wheeling and stooping through the heavens as if she had been born a she-hawk, rather than a mortal woman bound to the earth.

  Never had she enjoyed her shape-shifter’s powers more than she did in that moment. To soar above land and sea, riding the four winds, with the valleys and mountains an ever-changing tapestry of colours and textures far below was a wondrous gift; one that ordinary mortals were not blessed to enjoy.

  The land that was Eire spread out beneath her in green and unending beauty.

  To the east, dense forests of oaks and firs clustered between gently rounded mountains and beautiful little valleys, like Glenkilly. Tiny villages of wattle and daub, or cottages of dark grey stone thatched with straw were scattered between them, as were larger farmhouses, with the flocks and herds that had survived the autumn cull grazing in the pastures.

  Several small monasteries and miniscule churches of grey stone, and ornate stone crosses etched with ancient spiral patterns, showed that the old gods, the pagan gods she followed, such as Lady Moon, and the Tuatha Dé Danaan who lived beneath the ground, were losing their followers, one soul at a time, to the Christian God.

  Was her betrothed a pagan or a Christian?

  She did not know.

  Would he care that she followed the old gods? Or that she possessed powers that came from the Otherworld? Again, she did not know.

  Rivers twisted and turned between the stubbled fields like shining ribbons. Lakes gleamed like looking glasses of polished silver. And, bordering it all, to the east, lay St George’s Channel.

  Once, Siobhan thought she glimpsed dark vessels on the hazy lavender horizon – vessels that looked much like Viking drakkars, or dragon ships. Their dreadful serpent prows reared high above the water, screaming defiance at the evil spirits of storm and sea. Their sails of red-and-white striped wadmal splashed a vivid threat across the horizon.

  But, when she looked again, the ominous vessels had vanished as if they had dropped off the edge of the world.

  She must have imagined them, she decided. Or perhaps what she’d seen had been a small flotilla of merchant vessels, bound for Waterford to the south. After all, it had been many years since the first Vikings had sailed up the east-coast inlets to attack Irish ports, or places with wealthy monasteries, like Glenkilly.

  Those early invaders had stayed, married Irish women, or brought their Norse kinswomen over the sea from Denmark and Norway to marry Irish men. Norse and Irish now lived side by side, in peace and harmony.

  It was not until the next day that she caught sight of Colm and his two cousins, camped by a lake. Of the remainder of his company – horses, hounds and servants – there was no sign.

  She drifted lower and lower, riding upon the air currents, until she found a perch in an oak tree close to Colm’s campfire.

  From her perch, she eavesdropped as Colm talked with his cousins, Fergus and Finn.

  Six

  “The beast is twice the size of Bram,” Colm was saying. Bram was the shaggy wolfhound that followed him more faithfully than his own shadow. “Or bigger.”

  “Aye, and ’tis a she-wolf,” Finn said. “I expected Airgead to be a male, from what the shepherds told us.”

  “A bitch is more deadly,” Fergus observed. “This one has a litter of whelps to feed. That snare about her throat makes hunting no easy task. ’Tis why she’s killing the late lambs. They are easy prey.”

  Colm nodded. The three of them had tracked Airgead, an enormous silver wolf, to a farmer’s pasture less than a half-league from their camp. The wolf had been crouched over the carcass of a dead lamb, its jaws stained crimson with blood.

  Turning to face them, the wolf’s baleful yellow eyes had ignited, glowing like embers, challenging the hunters to draw closer at their own risk. Baring her pointed fangs, she snarled deep in her throat.

  They had fallen back, allowing Airgead to take the dead lamb in her jaws, and flee unharmed towards the mountains with her prize.

  Colm, Fergus and Finn had continued on alone, tracking the huge wolf’s paw prints to a cave in the foothills of the Wicklow mountains. Inside were five cubs. To Colm’s eyes, they had appeared half-starved.

  The hungry whelps had fallen eagerly on the meat their mother provided, growling and yelping as they devoured the lamb’s carcass.

  Before long, each cub’s muzzle was bloodied, each lean belly swollen with food.

  When the exhausted mother had dropped down to the cave floor to rest, Colm and Fergus, watching from a nearby thicket, discovered why the wolf, though a giant, was only skin and bones beneath her silver-and-black pelt.

  A metal snare was wound so tightly about its throat, the beast could hardly breathe, let alone eat. The silver-and-black fur of its mane had been worn away by constant chafing, which had left its throat constricted and raw. In parts, the metal snare was deeply embedded in the wolf’s flesh.

  Unable to hunt or eat her fill, the she-wolf was dying a slow painful death.

  “In the morning, we will bait our trap, then lie in wait. Before day’s end, I’ll have Airgead’s pelt draped over my saddle, and we’ll return to Glenkilly in triumph. And on Samhain Eve, I shall take the lady Siobhan as my bride, as planned,” Colm said with relish. “I— whoa!”

  All three men reached for their daggers at the furious sound of wings flapping, bushes rustling. Colm sprang to his feet. Dagger in hand, he strode across the clearing.

  “Show yourself, rogue, else suffer for it!”

  But instead of the outlaw he expected, Colm saw only the white hawk.

  It had fallen from its perch in the oak tree, and was flopping clumsily around like a wet hen.

  He laughed. Its loud squawks sounded more like a chicken than a hawk. And who had ever heard of a hawk falling from its perch?

  Slipping leather jesses from a pouch at his waist, he harnessed the struggling, screeching hawk by the legs before it could escape him, slipped a hood of soft suede over its head to calm it, then set the hawk upon his gauntleted fist.

  “Nicely done, cousin! You’ve got yourself a fine hawk there.”

  �
�Aye,” Colm agreed, stroking the hawk’s snowy breast. He could feel its heart beating frantically beneath his touch. Was the bloody wound on its right wing the reason it had fallen? Was it injured, was that it?

  In that instant, he could have sworn he heard a faraway tinkling sound, like that of fairy laughter, or chiming bells.

  The fine hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

  First, there had been the white doe with the bright splash of blood on its shoulder that he’d chased and lost.

  That same evening, his betrothed had complained of a bloody scratch on her right shoulder.

  “And now, a hawk, similarly marked on its right wing . . .

  You know, Fergus, what this hawk lacks in intelligence,” he said loudly, “she makes up for in beauty, does she not? A man could ask no more than that from a wife, eh?” He grinned.

  “Peeewhit!” the hawk screeched indignantly.

  Fergus threw back his head and laughed. “She understood ye, cousin.”

  “Aye,” said Colm thoughtfully. “I think she did. Will you sup, my pretty?” he asked, drawing a strip of raw venison from his pack.

  He offered the bloody meat to the hawk.

  But instead of tearing eagerly at the deer meat, the hawk recoiled. She chittered and opened her beak wide, as if she was gagging.

  “Well, I’ll be! Did you ever see a hawk refuse raw meat?” Fergus exclaimed, bushy red brows raised. “Fancy that!”

  “A hawk, no. But a dove—?” Colm grinned. “Aye, I did. Perhaps a well-cooked snail or a roasted worm would be more to my lady-hawk’s liking?”

  “What?”

  “Nothing, cousin,” Colm said, returning Siobhan to her perch. The hawk’s rejection of the bloody meat had confirmed his suspicions. His lovely fey Siobhan was a shape-shifter. The question now was what should he do about it? “Nothing at all.”

  Airgead, crouched in a thicket of trees across the forest clearing, threw back her head to scent the chill night air.

  She had followed the rich scent of the humans back to their lair. She watched them now with hungry golden eyes, licking her chops as they rolled themselves into blankets about the campfire.

  From the forest in the foothills, Airgead could hear her brothers’ full-throated chorus to Lady Moon. Their mournful howls echoed through the amethyst dusk.

  Soon, moonlight would dapple the forest with coins of white and silver, and Airgead would be invisible. Only then, when the moon was at its highest, would she hunt.

  Her babies were hungry.

  Seven

  Siobhan was dozing in her roost when Airgead came, slipping through the moon-dappled shadows like a wraith.

  She could see nothing, thanks to the soft hood over her head that blinded her, but she could hear the stealthy rustling as the she-wolf approached the three men, asleep by the fire.

  Frantic to warn them, Siobhan stretched herself to her fullest height and beat her wings as hard and as fast as she could. She screeched a loud, “Peeeewhit! Peeewhit!”

  Colm heard the frantic hawk as if from a great distance away. Her harsh cries echoed through his dreams.

  He awoke as Airgead leaped on him, going for his throat. Her amber eyes were like twin coals, the burning eyes of a demon. Strings of saliva dripped from her jaws.

  Colm thrust his forearm into her mouth, forcing her still powerful jaws apart. He flung the wolf over, on to her back, and would have leaped after her if Fergus had not rapped her across the skull with his club.

  The beast fell with only a yelp.

  Fergus quickly drew his dagger. Crouching down, he grasped the wolf’s muzzle, and jerked its head back. He would have slit its throat, had Colm not stopped him.

  “Wait! She has done no wrong. It is in her blood, a part of her very nature. If her whelps are to live, then so must she. Remove the snare, then run her off with a brand from the fire. She will not seek out such easy prey when she is healed.”

  Siobhan gasped, astounded by Colm’s compassion.

  In that moment, the spell was broken.

  “My lady! Where did you come from?” Fergus asked, slack-jawed to see her over Colm’s shoulder. He looked astonished. The Lady Siobhan had appeared from nowhere! “And where did the hawk go?”

  “Those questions are ones we shall leave for the morrow, cousin,” Colm cut in smoothly. “My lady? You must be cold?”

  “I am, yes. Just a little.”

  He removed his tartan mantle, and draped it around Siobhan’s shoulders. She was shivering, for the night was chill and her thin white kirtle was no thicker than an under-chemise. She smiled gratefully. “Thank you.”

  “And hungry, too, I’m thinking?”

  She eyed him askance, remembering the bloody venison, and gave a delicate shudder. “Not at all.”

  He smiled.

  “Remember the shepherd’s hut we passed yesterday?” Colm asked Fergus. “I will take my lady there, that she may pass the night in comfort. Meet us there at dawn, with the others. I would be back in Glenkilly by sunset tomorrow.”

  “Dawn it shall be. Goodnight, my lady. Colm.”

  Fergus continued to stare after them long after they had walked away.

  Eight

  The shepherd’s tumbledown cottage was a poor place of spiders, cobwebs and mice, but better than sleeping outside in the frosty air. Siobhan was glad that it was too dark for her to see much of anything, for mice and spiders might not be her only companions. The only light was the full moon’s light that spilled through the ruined walls. The only sound was the solemn hooting of hunting owls, and the rustling of the trees in the night wind.

  While Colm lit a fire of twigs, she took his mantle and spread it across the dirt floor, before kneeling on it.

  The fire started, Colm followed her down to the floor. Finding both her hands in the darkness, he took them in his own. He drew her cold hands to his lips, kissed each one, then drew her against his chest and cradled her in his arms. His body warmed her.

  “Love me,” she whispered. “Take me, my lord!”

  “When we are wed, then shall you be mine, and not before. Sleep, my sweet.”

  “Colm? Do you know . . . what I am? What I can do?” Perhaps she could use her gift to frighten him off, make him think twice about marrying her. He would be safe then.

  “I think I do, aye.”

  “And you still want me for your bride?”

  “More than anything. It is in your blood, this magic you have, this power. It is your nature, a part of who you are. To love you is to love all of you. And I do.”

  Hearing his simple declaration of love, tears filled her eyes. “There is something else I must tell you, my love.”

  “You need not tell me any—”

  “No, no, I must. You see, when I was a little girl, my mother bade me ask a skrying glass to show me my future husband on our wedding day. The man I saw reflected in the glass was dead,” she finished, her voice catching. “And that man was you. I could not bear to lose you! But if I name a date for our wedding, you will die on that day, I know it! I am cursed.”

  “’Tis but superstition, and that is all it is, my love,” he murmured, stroking her hair. “We shall be wed on Samhain Eve, and there’s an end to it. Sleep now.”

  “But my lord—”

  “Sleep.”

  Long after Colm had fallen asleep, Siobhan lay awake, staring at the tiny glimmer of light given off by the smoky fire.

  Her head cradled on his chest, she listened to the steady beat of his heart beneath her ear, wanting more than anything to believe he was right.

  The skrying glass was a toy for telling fortunes, something superstitious young girls played with and giggled over then just as soon forgot, was it not?

  But if that were so, then why could she not put it out of her mind?

  Why this terrible dread in her heart?

  They had almost reached Glenkilly when some of Colm’s kinsmen met them, coming in the other direction.

  “What do you
here, Liam?” Colm demanded as a stocky fair-haired man reined in his horse alongside his own.

  “Viking ships have been spotted in the channel, sir. We believe they are bound for Waterford and Colmskeep. We came straightway to warn you. An attack is imminent.”

  “I must leave at once,” Colm told Siobhan urgently, lifting her down from Dibh’s back. “My servants will see you safely home to Glenkilly. Finn, stay with my lady. Defend her with your life, if needs be.”

  “I will, cousin. God be with you and with Colmskeep!”

  “Keep me in your heart, Siobhan, my love, as I will keep you in mine. Until I return—” With one last lingering kiss, Colm took his leave.

  A moment later, he was gone

  Nine

  Two days came and went. Two long days in which Siobhan heard nothing from Colm, although some travellers on their way to Dublin in the north reported heavy fighting to the south, in the area of Colmskeep.

  And then, on the third day, the thing she had dreaded finally came to pass.

  Fergus clattered into the keep yard on a lathered horse. He appeared bruised and dishevelled as he toppled to the ground.

  She ordered the servants to bring him into the hall. Her hands trembled as she hurried to meet him. Her belly churned in fear. The very first words from his mouth did nothing to still her dread and terror.

  “I bear grave news, my lady. In truth, I would sooner suffer torture, than tell it.” Fergus appeared exhausted and close to dropping as he bowed before her. There were tears in his eyes, trails in the dirt and smoke that blackened his face.

  “Tell me anyway, good Fergus. I would hear it from your lips, and no other’s,” she whispered. Her face was ashen, her green eyes dull with fear. She could hear the thud of her heart in her ears, like the slow beating of a drum.

  “After we left you on the Glenkilly road, we rode south, my lady. By the time we reached Waterford, the Vikings had already sailed up the inlet to Colmskeep. There were thirty-five men to each drakkar, six dragon ships in all, by my count. They outnumbered us two to one. The Norsemen were armed to the teeth as they waded ashore. Swords. Two-headed axes. Daggers. Clubs. You name it,” he said bitterly. “The berserkers came first, whirling their swords over their heads as they do. They were screaming curses, calling on their pagan gods to bring them victory. ‘Odiiin!’ those barbarians roared. ‘By Thor’s mighty hammer!’” Fergus shuddered. “Their war cries still echo in my head. ’Twas enough to make even the bravest man tremble in fear – but not your lord, my lady. Not our Colm!