The Absinthe Earl

by Sharon Lynn Fisher

  More curse than blessing, though Manannán meant it as a gift. My ancestress’s voice was soft and mournful in my ear. I understood that she was referring to this power of parting the waters. Every time she used it—every time I used it—she was reminded.

  “Your memory?” the earl asked. “Or Cliona’s?”

  I squeezed his hand. “Her death.”

  I eyed Billy Millstone, who stood behind Edward, half turned away from us and as wretched as ever. I wished him far away. This grief was too raw, too private, to share with an enemy.

  “It is fading,” I assured Edward. “Let us go.”

  The waters of the Boyne had returned to their normal peaceful course, and Edward and I turned to take stock of our new surroundings. His hand pressed the small of my back, and the warmth and concern in that gesture seeped into me, dulling the edges of a now shared sorrow.

  Directly behind us, a manor house on a hill dominated the landscape. Most artists’ renderings of fairy palaces depicted them as light and airy confections. But this was a blocky medieval structure, with heavy wooden beams, and plaster that had aged to a buttery yellow. Stables and other outbuildings surrounded the dwelling, but beyond the grounds in every direction stretched acres of dense oak forest. I saw no sign of a stone structure like the ruin at Newgrange, but then, there would be no need for a tomb in the land of immortals.

  The forest and the manor house were not the only ways that this Faery version of Brú na Bóinne departed from the modern-day site. Something about the very atmosphere was different here. There was a golden glow, a saturation of color … I could only liken it to the quality of light on an autumn afternoon when warm sunshine has gently dried an early rain. Everything my eyes fell on had that richness imparted by slanting afternoon sunlight, and yet the light here was directionless. In the sky, which was a beautiful duck-egg bluish green, I saw no sun. The air was clean and crisp, neither warm nor cool. The gentlest of breezes caressed my cheek, carrying the scent of wild rose and rich, dark earth. Even a hint of the sea.

  “What shall we find inside, do you think?” I asked the earl.

  He shook his head. “I hardly know what to expect. But Diarmuid considers this his home, and its inhabitants his family.”

  The earl directed Billy to precede us as we walked toward the manor. The redcap looked by turns angry and frightened, and as we walked, he carried on a muttered conversation with himself.

  When we were within a few yards of one of the outbuildings, several figures strode out to meet us. As they drew closer, the redcap began to snivel and growl.

  “Wispy sylvans,” he spat. “Bloodless sprites.”

  “Hail, Diarmuid,” called a lofty, slender woman whose medieval dress of sage and gold included an armored bodice. “And Cliona,” she continued, dipping her head respectfully.

  “The master and mistress are within,” said one of her companions. “They have been expecting you.”

  The other two of the welcoming party were male. All were tall and regal. The complexion of their angled faces was dark and flawless, their hair straight and raven black, and the pointed tips of their ears protruded between gleaming locks. Their dark irises blended with their pupils, lending their gazes an unsettling bottomless quality.

  “You speak of Angus and Caer?” asked Edward. “They knew we were coming?”

  She studied him a moment before replying, “They knew that you would seek them. And they are aware of your mortal … encumbrances.”

  The earl frowned, and he opened his mouth to reply. I diverted him as politely as I could. “May we know who you are?” I asked them.

  The woman offered a chill but, I believed, genuine smile. “I am Ash. We are the people of the forest, and we serve the king and queen at Brú na Bóinne, who protect it.”

  “Woodland fairies,” grumbled Billy.

  “Your companion must remain without,” said one of the men, flaring his nostrils. “He exudes an unwholesome odor.”

  I glanced at Billy, who glared malice from under his frowsy eyebrows. “I fear that he will flee if we don’t keep him close,” I replied.

  “He will not escape us, lady,” replied Ash. “If you wish, you may claim him when you depart.” Though her smile remained fixed, her expression made it clear she did not know why we would choose to do such a thing.

  I bowed my head. “We thank you.”

  Billy began to protest, but the woman gestured sharply with her spear, and he stalked off in the direction she indicated, the others following in his wake. I began almost to pity him. Billy had been sent to harm the Irish and would happily have killed Edward and me. But was he not bound by a blood oath? He had also, wittingly or not, been the source of very useful information.

  The Tuatha de Danaan were no true friends of the Irish people—at least, according to lore—and I knew I must remember that. They had, in fact, been foes once and seemed to be bound together now only because their bloodlines had at some point become intermingled. And because the Danaan’s most accomplished and revered warrior had fallen in love with an Irishwoman and made her one of them.

  “Are you ready?” the earl asked.

  I nodded. “I wish I did not look like …” I broke off, glancing down in dismay at my stained dressing gown and muddied bare feet. I was not sure what I looked like, but it was neither genteel nor dignified.

  The earl laughed. “You are beautiful as always, while I am a half-naked savage. But they must take us as we are.”

  My eyes fluttered down to his chest, which was mostly revealed by the deep V of his nightshirt. Dark hair traced the curve of his breast and the sheer wall of his stomach. I knew that it was silky to the touch and that the flesh beneath it was warm.

  I felt the heat of his gaze on my face, and he reached for my hand. I gasped quietly as he drew me forward, splaying my fingers across his chest. I shivered as he leaned over me, dipping his head. I lifted my chin, and his lips brushed mine. Another small, helpless sound escaped my throat, and the pressure of his lips increased while the distance between our bodies closed. I felt the taut muscles of his torso against my breasts as his arm hooked around my waist, pulling me close.

  His lips trailed across my cheek, and I whispered, “Edward.”

  “Yes,” he softly confirmed.

  He released me then but took my hand and led me to the manor’s entrance as my heart slowly returned to its normal rhythm.

  An impish face wrought from metal had been fixed to the great oak door. It held a knocker in its mouth, and Edward lifted and let it fall. A moment later, a tall, lithe woman opened the door. Her hair was white and glossy like cream and hung in a sheet to her waist. Her complexion was so fair that I could see a tracery of silver veins beneath her skin. I had assumed her to be corporeal like Billy and the woodland fairies—until she shifted slightly in the doorway and I noticed that I could see through her to the corridor beyond.

  I felt another throb of sorrow that I knew was not my own, and along with it came a new and startling understanding.

  Ours was a winter love that never enjoyed its springtime.

  In the time of Diarmuid and Cliona’s love, they had never possessed mortal bodies. They had craved carnal passion but never experienced it. What they shared had been more like a blending of spiritual energy, or a mingling of souls. Suddenly, I understood the desperate quality of their desire. What torture it must be, finding themselves once again in physical bodies yet unable to reach for each other without our acquiescence.

  “Welcome to you both.” The woman’s kind voice roused me from these thoughts. She smiled, gray eyes brightening, and opened the door wider, inviting us inside. “We are well known to each other,” she said, her voice light and pure as a songbird’s. “But perhaps you do not recognize me?” She studied Edward’s face.

  “You are Caer, my foster mother,” he said in a gentle tone, returning her smile.<
br />
  Caer was Danaan royalty—Angus’s shape-shifting queen.

  The lady bowed her head. “So I am. It pleases me that you remember. Come inside. Your chamber stands in readiness. You and your lady may refresh yourselves if you like.”

  “We are grateful,” replied Edward.

  “Your foster father and I and the others will await you in the hall.”

  Fostering was a common practice in the time of the Tuatha De Danaan and, indeed, in ancient Ireland in general. Rival kings or chieftains would send their sons to be reared by each other as a gesture of their intention to keep peace between them, much as a daughter might be given in marriage to a rival. The only story told in the lore about Diarmuid’s true father was an account of how he had inadvertently played a part in Diarmuid’s death. But the love between Diarmuid and his foster father, Angus, was well established.

  Caer stepped back and gestured to a passage that led left from the entryway, and we stepped inside.

  “Thank you, lady,” I said, wondering what she had meant by “the others.”

  “Of course, child.” As she turned from us, I noted that the skirt of her gown was constructed of long white feathers, their tips whispering around her ankles as she walked. According to legend, the wife of Angus could take the form of a swan.

  The house of Angus and Caer was immaculate. Our movement along the passage disturbed neither dust mote nor cobweb. Light spilled into the dwelling through the large windows of the open chambers we passed, burnishing the honey-colored beams of floor and ceiling. The rich tapestries that covered the plaster walls depicted scenes from Tuatha De Danaan legends. I studied them as we walked, stopping suddenly as my gaze fell on an image of a woman and child in a coracle. An enormous wave curved menacingly over the small figures, causing a stir of panic in my belly. The wind whipped the woman’s silvery hair back from her face. I touched the face of the bundled infant in her arms—if I believed all I had been told this day, the babe was my ancestress.

  By the grace of Manannán, whispered Cliona, and I could feel the warmth of her gratitude.

  Where is he now? I wondered. Like the battle crow, Manannán was an ancient and powerful Celtic deity. Were we destined to cross paths with him too?

  Manannán no longer leaves his own kingdom, was the mournful reply, and by this I knew she meant the sea.

  Edward had walked on, gazing into each doorway as he passed. But he stopped now, saying, “here.”

  I followed him into a high-ceilinged chamber with a heavy oak bed, a desk and chair, a sitting area, and two large cases filled with books. An impressive collection of weapons covered one wall, among them a single empty mounting bracket. There were more tapestries, three depicting battles and one of a man and a woman in a state of partial undress, locked in an embrace at the center of a woodland scene. The man had a head of dark curls, and the woman had flowing red hair. I did not know who she was—the legendary Diarmuid had taken various lovers—but I wondered whether she might be Gráinne, his most famous conquest.

  And the mother of his children, I was reminded. Which made her an ancestress of Edward. The flicker of longing I felt reminded me of Cliona’s reference to “the fire of making,” and a passion that burned “without issue.” Her lack of a physical body had also prevented her from bearing Diarmuid a child.

  At the opposite end of the chamber, I saw a gleaming copper tub resting on the floor near a dormant fireplace. Steam rose from its surface. Beside it stretched an enormous wolf-skin rug. The windows had been thrown open, allowing in the fresh, naturally perfumed air.

  Edward came to stand beside me, and I asked, “Do you find yourself at home here?”

  Edward

  Dirt smudged her cheek, and much of her hair had pulled loose from its pins. She had retied the belt of the dressing gown multiple times, but it stubbornly gaped to reveal the curves of her breasts, and the lovely hollow in between.

  “I do,” I replied. “And I don’t.”

  She nodded, and her gaze returned to the tub.

  “Please,” I said, “I insist that you have the first bath.”

  Turning from her, I drew Great Fury from its sheath and placed it in the empty bracket. I had intended to give her what privacy I could, for I would not leave her alone in this strange place, however comfortable my ancestor might feel here. But I found myself turning in time to see the soiled dressing gown slip from her shoulders. I held my breath as she bent to grasp the edge of the tub and then stepped over the side.

  Her figure had been worthy of worship before she was a fairy queen. She gave a guileless sigh of pleasure at the water’s embrace, and I felt a surge of raw lust, like nothing I’d experienced even in my hot-blooded youth.

  I am heartily ashamed to claim kinship with you, said the impatient voice in my head. I turned from the bathing beauty, blocking my ancestor’s fevered gaze as I focused on the implements of battle mounted on the adjacent wall. Why do you hesitate, fool?

  “Because I am a gentleman,” I grumbled in reply, “and I respect the lady. Two things you cannot understand.”

  “Edward?” the lady in question called out. “Is anything wrong?”

  “Not at all,” I replied as steadily as I could. “I am wondering whether you ought to have a proper weapon.” I touched the hilt of a slender sword with a blade crafted of white metal, and its history came into my mind. Diarmuid had won it in a fight with the champion of a clan of invading huldre—elves from Scandinavia. “This is a shieldmaiden’s sword, light and strong. Though I imagine you have never wielded such a weapon.”

  “Only once,” came the faint reply.

  In response, my mind produced an image of her standing before me, threatening me with the very sword I had taken from the ruin. Her eyes were wide, her brow furrowed in dismay.

  “In fending off the brute,” I said quietly.

  There was no immediate reply, and from the sounds of displaced water, I knew that she had risen.

  “No doubt he could have taken it from me had he truly wished,” she said at last.

  I had to acknowledge the truth of that. Raising my hand, I ran my thumb across the edge of the blade.

  “Have a care, my lord,” she said. “Ancient swords of power are often said to possess uncommon and dangerous qualities.”

  I dropped my hand and turned. She stood on the rug, wrapped in a bath sheet.

  “Right you are,” I replied, hardly aware of what I was saying as I noted the way the thin white cloth clung to her wet figure.

  “Please,” she said, indicating the tub. “The water is still warm, though not nearly so clear as it was before, I’m afraid.”

  I stepped forward as she had bidden, and our shoulders brushed lightly as she moved away. The contact robbed me of breath.

  “With your permission,” she began, “I shall see if your ancestor possessed any clothing that might be made to serve a lady.”

  “Of course. Consider anything of mine, or his, to be at your disposal.”

  When she turned to pursue her search, I shucked off my trousers and sank into the tub, occupying myself with the business of washing.

  A few minutes later, she said, “It appears that Diarmuid shared this chamber with one of his ladies.” Glancing up, I found her kneeling beside a trunk. She produced a green gown and laid it across the foot of the bed. How she maintained her characteristic poise and calm under such circumstances was beyond me.

  She stroked the silver needlework embellishing the gown’s bodice. I was no expert in ladies’ fashion, but it was obvious even to me that the gown had been crafted for another age. Both skirt and sleeves were voluminous and trailing.

  With her back to me, she let drop the bath sheet, and my breath stopped. Her silver waves swung free, the thick, damp ends coming to rest just above her hips. My eyes traced the softly flowing lines of her body, and my mouth watered.
r />   She lifted the gown above her head and let it fall over her, pushing her arms through the sleeves. Turning her head, she glanced over her shoulder. The laces hung loosely at the open back of the gown.

  “I fear I shall never manage this on my own, my lord.”

  I swallowed, then dunked myself once more under the water. Stepping out of the tub, I dried quickly and then wrapped the bath sheet about my waist. Water sluiced down my back and chest as I crossed the room.

  After glancing again toward the out-of-reach laces, she raised her eyes to mine. Her lips curved in a small self-conscious smile, and my heart stumbled.

  As I took hold of the lace ends, my fingers trembled. I could just see the top of the outward curve of flesh below the small of her back, and try as I might, I could not will my fingers to tighten the laces that would restrict my view.

  “I …” Clearing my throat and clenching my jaw, I did finally tug the gown closed.

  She had lifted her damp hair away from her back, and I found myself staring at the well between her shoulder blades. This sweet indentation of flesh drew me closer, against any possibility of resistance, and soon I had pressed my lips to the spot. I closed my eyes as the ocean roared in my ears.

  Releasing the lace ends, I slipped my hands into the back of her dress. I worked the laces loose again by sliding my fingers down and around her waist. Drawing her backward, I tucked her rounded backside against me, and she gave a little gasp of surprise.

  Her head came back to press my shoulder, and I breathed hot, dark lust into her pale and delicate ear.

  My ancestor had gone silent, but I felt his presence. He had goaded me mercilessly, but now that he was so close to fulfilling his ancient desire, I knew that he feared to break the spell.

  But there was no need for words. He was ravenous, and his feverish hunger had robbed me of gentler passions and even gentlemanly consideration. I’d made a pact with the lady to keep my distance, and now I had wantonly broken it.

  “Tell me to stop,” I murmured, either daring or begging her (even I wasn’t sure which) to do something that I could not.