The Ballad of Rosamunde
by
Claire Delacroix
Trapped in the realm of Faerie, Rosamunde can only be released by true love - but the man she loved is dead. Padraig yearns to be more than a friend to Rosamunde…if he declares his love and takes a chance on the future, can he win her heart forever?
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This short story was originally published as part of the anthology,
THE MAMMOTH BOOK OF IRISH ROMANCE.
It was edited due to space constraints in that volume.
The entire text appears in this digital edition.
This story is linked to the Jewels of Kinfairlie trilogy and comes after those three books. Think of it as Jewels of Kinfairlie 3.5.
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The Ballad of Rosamunde
by Claire Delacroix
Smashwords Edition.
Copyright 2009 Claire Delacroix, Inc.
All rights reserved.
Without limiting the rights under copyright preserved above, no part of this book may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright holder and the publisher of this book.
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
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The Ballad of
Rosamunde
Table of Contents
Cover Copy
Copyright Page
Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Dear Reader…
An Excerpt from THE RENEGADE’S HEART
Contest
About the Author
Connect Online
More Books by the Author
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The Ballad of
Rosamunde
by Claire Delacroix
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Part One
Galway, Ireland - April 1422
The hour was late and the tavern was crowded. Padraig sat near the hearth, watching the firelight play over the faces of the men gathered there. The ale launched a warm hum within him, the closest he was ever like to be to the heat of the Mediterranean sun again.
He should have gone south, as Rosamunde had bidden him to do. He should have sold her ship and its contents, as she had instructed him. Galway was as far as he had managed to sail from Kinfairlie - and he had only come this far because his crew had compelled him to leave the site of disaster.
Where Rosamunde had been lost forever.
Instead he had returned here, to the site of his upbringing, to his mother’s grave and the tavern run by his sister and her husband. It had an allure for him, with the bustling port and the cobbled streets, the high gates and the memories, but he would trade it in a heartbeat for a voyage over the seas with Rosamunde.
Perhaps Galway would have to do.
Padraig enjoyed music, always had, and song was the only solace he found in the absence of Rosamunde’s company. He found his foot tapping and his cares lifting as a local man sang of adventure.
“A song!” cried Declan, the keeper, when one rollicking tune came to an end. “Who else has a song?”
“Padraig!” shouted his sister. She was a pretty woman, albeit one who tolerated no nonsense. Padraig suspected there were those more afraid of her than her husband. Much like their mother in that. “Sing the sad one you began the other night,” she entreated.
“There are others of better voice,” Padraig protested.
The company roared a protest in unison, and so he acquiesced. Padraig sipped his ale, then pushed to his feet to sing the ballad of his own composition.
“Rosamunde was a pirate queen
With hair red gold and eyes of green.
A trade in relics did she pursue,
Plus perfume and silks of every hue.
Her ship’s hoard was a rich treasury,
Of prizes gathered on every sea.
But the fairest gem in all the hold
Was Rosamunde, beauteous and bold.
Her blade was quick, her foresight sharp,
She conquered hearts in every port.”
“Ah!” sighed the older man across the table from Padraig. “There be a woman worth the loss of one’s heart.”
The company nodded approval and leaned closer for the next verse. Even his sister stopped serving, leaning against the largest keg in the tavern, smiling as she watched Padraig.
“Trade in relics, both false and true
Her family trade she did pursue.
No man cheated her and told of it,
For Rosamunde allowed no debt.
She vanquished foes on every sea
But lost her heart to a man esteemed.
Surrender was not her nature true
But bow to his desires, she did do.
She left the sea to become his bride,
But in her lover’s home, Rosamunde died.
The man she loved was not her worth…”
Padraig faltered. His compatriots in the tavern waited expectantly, but he could not think of a suitable rhyme. He remembered the sight of Ravensmuir’s cliffs and caverns collapsing to rubble, the dust rising, his men holding him captive so that he couldn’t dive into the disaster in search of Rosamunde. He put down his tankard with dissatisfaction, singing the last line again softly. It made no difference. He had composed a hundred rhymes, if not a thousand, but this particular tale caught in his throat like none other.
“Her absence was to all a dearth,” his sister suggested.
Her husband snorted. “You’ve no music in your veins, woman, that much is for certain.”
“The son she bore him died at birth,” the old man across the table suggested.
Padraig shook his head and frowned. “There was no child.”
“There could be,” the old man insisted. “’Tis only a tale, after all.” The others laughed.
But this was not only a tale. It was the truth. Rosamunde had existed, she had been a pirate queen, she had sailed far and wide in the buying and selling of religious relics, she had been both beauteous and bold.
And she had been lost forever, thanks to the faithlessness of the man to whom she had surrendered everything.
Padraig mourned that truth every day and night of his life.
He cursed Tynan Lammergeier, the man who had cost him the company of Rosamunde, and he hated that they two might be together forever in some afterlife. It was wrong that a man who had not been able to accept Rosamunde for her true nature should win her company for all eternity.
Because Padraig had loved her truly.
His mother had warned him that he was his father’s son, that he would be smitten once and his heart lost forever. It had shocked him all the same to find her counsel true.
But he had held his tongue. He had spoken of friendship in his parting with Rosamunde, not the fullness of his heart.
Now he would never have the chance to remedy his error. It had been almost six months since Rosamunde had gone into the caverns beneath Ravensmuir, Tynan’s ancestral keep on the coast of Scotland, six months since those caves had collapsed and
Rosamunde had been lost forever, and still Padraig’s wound was raw.
He doubted it would ever heal.
He knew he’d never meet the like of her again.
Padraig sat down and drank deeply of his ale. “Let another sing,” he said. “I am too besotted to compose the verse.”
“Another tale!” shouted the keeper. “Come, Liam, sing that one of the Faerie host.” The company stamped their feet and applauded, as Liam was clearly a local favorite, and Padraig saw a lanky man rise to his feet on the far side of the room.
He, however, had lost his taste for tales. He abandoned the rest of his ale, left a coin on the board, and headed for the door.
“We will miss your custom this evening,” his sister said softly as he passed her. Her dark eyes shone brightly in the shadowed tavern, and he knew that she saw more of his heart than any other. She never asked for details, though, simply offered him a place to stay.
“A man should be valued for more than the volume of ale he can drink,” Padraig replied, blaming himself for what he had become. His sister flushed as if he had chided her and turned away. Padraig raised a hand toward her, not having wanted to share his anguish, but she bustled away to serve another patron.
He could do nothing right.
Not without Rosamunde.
Was her loss to be the shadow over all his days and nights?
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Far beneath the hills to the north of Galway, Finvarra, High King of the Daoine Sidhe, templed his fingers together and considered the chess board. It was a beautiful chess board, with pieces of alabaster and obsidian, the board itself wrought of agate and ebony with fine enamel work around the perimeter. When he touched a piece, it came to life, moving across the board at his unspoken will. His entire fey court gathered around the game, watching with bright eyes.
Finvarra was tall and slim, finely wrought even for the fey, who were uncommonly handsome. His eyes were as dark as a midnight sky, his long hair the deep blue black of the sea in darkness, his skin as fair as moonlight, his tread as light as wind in the grass. He was possessed of both kindness and resolve, and ruled the fey well.
His hall at Knockma was under the hill, and as lavish a court as could be found. The ladies wore glistening gowns of finest silk, their gossamer wings painted with a thousand colors. The courtiers were armed in silver finery, their manners both fierce and gallant, their eyes glinting with humor. The horses of Finvarra’s court were spirited and fleet of foot, gleaming and beauteous in their rich trappings hung with silver bells. He had steeds of every color, red stallions and white mares, black stallions and mahogany mares with ivory socks. Each and every one was caparisoned in finery to show its hue and strength to advantage. The mead was sweet and golden in Finvarra’s hall, and the cups at the board filled themselves with more when no one was looking.
But all the fairy court was silent, clustered around their king’s favored chessboard. They watched, knowing that more than victory at a game hung in the balance.
As usual.
Finvarra did not care for low stakes.
Finvarra played to win.
The spriggan, Darg, sat opposite the king and fidgeted. Recently of Scotland, the small thieving fairy had traveled to Ireland in the hold of the ship of Padraig Deane, a blue-eyed and handsome pirate possessed of a broken heart. Caught trespassing in Finvarra’s sid, a crime punishable by death, the spriggan played for its life.
Finvarra, in truth, tired of the game. The spoils were not so remarkable and the spriggan was a mediocre opponent. The splendor of the board, indeed, he felt was wasted upon the rough little creature. Certainly, his skill was.
Then Finvarra heard the distant lilt of human song.
“Rosamunde was a pirate queen
With hair red gold and eyes of green…”
As was common with Finvarra, the mention of a beauteous mortal woman piqued his interest. He turned his head to listen, just as the spriggan interrupted with a hiss.
“A laughing trickster Rosamunde did be, but she did not have the best of me.”
“You knew this mortal?”
Darg raised a fist. “Stole from me! That she dared, but I did steal her from her laird. She would be dead but for me; now she owes me her fealty.” The spriggan cackled, then moved a pawn with care. It was a poor choice. “Not dead but enchanted she doth be, while I choose what my vengeance shall be.”
Intrigued, Finvarra snapped his fingers and his wife, Una, brought his silver mirror to his hand. She knew him well. She caressed his hand as she passed the mirror to him, but Finvarra ignored her gesture of affection.
He didn’t imagine her sniff of displeasure, but Una’s pleasure was not his current concern. Not when there was a beauteous woman to be possessed. He murmured to the mirror and its surface swirled before his eyes, the image of this Rosamunde appearing so suddenly that Finvarra caught his breath.
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 straigh
tened 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.
The Ballad of Rosamunde Page 1
