The Ballad of Rosamunde

by Claire Delacroix

  He had not been pleased to have a woman answer his summons, however. Although she knew nothing of him, Rosamunde was well accustomed to his perspective. He had addressed her man first, assuming him to be the leader, but Eugene had been quick to step back and gesture to Rosamunde.

  The bishop’s lips had tightened, and Rosamunde had been certain of his intent to cheat her.

  They had met in a cell that had been used by a solitary monk centuries past, the cone-shaped dwelling of fitted stones perched on the coast. The remote setting had been convenient both for Rosamunde’s ship and had provided the discretion necessary for such a purchase.

  It was also dangerous, a treacherous facet of her trade.

  It had been a windy night, with storm clouds rolling from the western horizon. The flame had danced wildly above the bishop’s lantern, even inside the cell. That man had been swathed in a great dark cloak, its hood drawn to disguise his features, and accompanied by a pair of men.

  They stood silently behind their lord, one at his left and one at his right. They wore no livery and their expressions were impassive. Rosamunde did not doubt that they were instructed to forget whatsoever they saw on this night. Whichever relic the bishop chose would be ‘discovered’ in the crypt of the church shortly.

  One man had eyes of brilliant blue and a steady gaze. He watched Rosamunde openly, which surprised her. She strove to ignore him.

  “I expected Gawain Lammergeier!” the bishop complained.

  Rosamunde smiled. “My father surrendered the family trade to me some years past. He sails forth no longer.”

  “Have you not a brother?”

  “My brother chose the family holding as his legacy.”

  The bishop snorted in disapproval of the situation. It was clear that he did not want to trade with her, but at the same time, he wanted a relic. His pale hands moved with agitation beneath the hems of his sleeves.

  “Perhaps you would like to see what I have brought,” she said, knowing he would be tempted. She had brought the best of her current inventory, after all.

  First there had been an embroidered blue cloth, purported to have been worn by the Virgin. It had the muck of authenticity about it, but its appearance did not inspire devotion. The bishop made some cursory remark in praise of it.

  There had been a broken crown of thorns, one possessing the best provenance of any Rosamunde had seen in recent years. It was likely still a fake. Rosamunde had seen too many crowns of thorns to have faith in any of them. The bishop stroked it, admired it, considered it seriously.

  “How many crowns of thorns can there be, my lord?” asked the man with the blue eyes. “There is said to be one in Paris and another in Palestine.”

  “Is this the genuine one?” the bishop demanded.

  Rosamunde shrugged. “Who can say?”

  The bishop drummed his fingers. “There must be no question of authenticity, and I cannot imagine how the crown of thorns might have made its way this far.”

  Finally, there was a coil of dark hair. Clearly old, it was still lustrous and long, braided neatly. There was a faint scent of perfume to it, although Rosamunde suspected that this had been enhanced over the years. Best of all, it was encased in a jeweled reliquary of masterful craftsmanship, adorned with images of Jesus treating Lazarus. That reliquary was within a wooden box of no apparent distinction.

  Although the bishop grimaced at the sight of the wooden box, his eyes lit when the reliquary was revealed. “What is that?”

  “It is said to be the hair of Mary, the daughter of Lazarus.” Rosamunde opened the reliquary and the bishop took a deep, delighted breath. “She who anointed Jesus with perfume when he came to her father’s house and washed his feet with her hair.”

  The bishop pretended to be torn, but Rosamunde knew which he would choose. And choose the hair, he did. They negotiated the price, then he gestured to the man behind him.

  The other man, the one with the compelling blue gaze, watched Rosamunde steadily throughout the whole transaction. She sensed that he also knew the bishop intended to cheat her. She locked her hands behind her back, giving Eugene a silent and hidden signal.

  The exchange was made, the coin counted and deposited in Rosamunde’s purse, the relic and its reliquary surrendered to the bishop’s man. Complements and formalities were exchanged. They parted, Rosamunde’s intuition warning her all the while. Eugene was at her back as they left the cell, both of them scanning the land to the left and right as they returned to the dingy.

  Rosamunde was glad to see her ship, still moored where she had left it. The light at the stern had been lit, the one with the red filter, so she knew that the ship had not been assaulted in her absence. There was no sound of pursuit.

  Perhaps her intuition had been wrong.

  She emitted a high whistle, a signal to Thomas waiting in the dingy out of sight. She and Eugene broke into a run, anxious to be away.

  Rosamunde was not prepared to find Thomas dead, bleeding in the bottom of the boat.

  She was not prepared to have two other men assault her in the darkness, to be leapt upon and beaten. It happened quickly, upon turf she did not know. The purse was ripped from her belt, Eugene was stabbed, the other two relics fell to the ground.

  Her blade was snatched, she was struck across the face and fell to her knees. A man seized her from behind. The other attacker lunged toward her, his blade flashing, and Rosamunde feared she was done.

  She certainly was not expecting the blue-eyed man to leap out of the shadows behind her attacker.

  “Oi!” he shouted and the attacker spun in surprise.

  The blue-eyed man sliced him from gullet to groin and kicked his carcass into the sea. The one holding Rosamunde released her and ran. The bishop’s man pursued him, stabbed him until he moved no more, then returned to Rosamunde.

  She meet the determination in his gaze as he handed her the fully laden purse that had been stolen from her.

  “I sicken of his thievery,” he said softly, his voice as steady as his gaze. Rosamunde checked Eugene and was glad to find that he yet breathed. The blue-eyed man helped her move him to the dingy, Eugene wincing as he was rolled into the boat. Thomas, unfortunately, was beyond aid. Rosamunde would see him buried at sea, which would have been his choice.

  She looked up at the man who had saved her. “I thank you for your aid.”

  “You are most welcome.” He glanced inland, then back at her and smiled, a quick conspiratorial smile. “I fear I have lost my employ this night. Have you need of another man on your ship?”

  Rosamunde found herself liking this man a great deal. “I always have need of men with stout hearts and quick blades.” The bishop’s henchmen did not move, a sign of this man’s effectiveness. “Have you a name?”

  “Padraig Deane.”

  Rosamunde shook his hand, liking the heat of his skin, the firmness of his grip. It was not in her nature to remain on land, and she always yearned to be back at sea. But this man made her think about lingering.

  “Welcome, Padraig. There is no better compliment than knowing a man can be trusted with one’s own life.” She saw him smile, glimpsed his flush, then they gathered the relics and the fallen men. She watched the moonlight play on his muscles as he rowed them all back to the ship. He was determined, stalwart, unafraid to do what he believed to be right.

  And Rosamunde wondered how she had failed to see the full merit of Padraig in all the years he had served her.

  What lifted the scales from her eyes now?

  *

  Part Two

  Padraig wandered the streets of Galway, paying no attention to his course until he reached the gate in the Norman wall. He glanced back toward the harbor, then ahead to the hills cloaked in starlight and shadow. He chose to pass through the gate and walk out of town, knowing that the way was not without risk. He was but half-Irish, half of town and half of country, though there were those who would have little interest in the details.

  He did not car
e about his fate as much as he once had.

  And he had no taste for human company on this night. He should love it here, the place where he had been raised, but instead he felt at home only upon the sea.

  Rosamunde had been the same way.

  He walked as the moon rose ever higher in the sky. He walked as the church bells sounded far behind him. He walked as the stars glinted overhead.

  He heard the rustle of small animals in the underbrush and the tinkle of running water. He felt the ale loosen its hold upon his body and grief well in his heart.

  He paused in the middle of the road, hours after his departure, and cast a glance back toward the sleeping town. His feet ached and he knew he should turn back.

  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 dr
eam, 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.