The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance Part 44

"Forgive me. I mean you no harm, my lady. Be still!"

"Just as you meant that poor creature no harm, I suppose?" she said caustically, sitting up and glowering at him. "I pity those you do intend harm, sir!"

He scowled, shooting her a dark look. "I did not intend to shoot the doe, my lady. But I shall find her, and put her out of her misery, my word on it. No living thing shall suffer needlessly by my hand."

"I'm touched, sir. But you should have thought of that before you released your arrow! The doe fled in that direction," she told him through gritted teeth, waving a hand towards the west. "Poor wee creature."

"I shall go after her straight way," he murmured. Sheathing his dagger, he retrieved his bow from the gra.s.s. He hesitated. "If your father owns this forest, then you must be the Lady Siobhan, aye?"

She said nothing.

"Shall I see you tonight at Glenkilly keep?"

She smiled sweetly. "Not if I see you first."

He grinned. "Ye don't mean that, Siobhan, my darlin'. You'll seek me out. All the maids love me," he boasted with a roguish wink.

"Not this maid!" Siobhan gritted, uncomfortably shifting position. She grimaced. "Now, then. Weren't you going after that poor doe when you flattened me like an oatcake?"

"I was, aye. I am," he amended. His eyes twinkled. His smile was merry.

He was laughing at her, the brute!

His grin, his eyes, the very size of him, with those broad shoulders and those muscular horseman's legs, made her feel weak. Vulnerable. Excited.

"Then be on your way, my lord-?"

"Colm," he supplied, starting off in the direction she'd indicated. He looked back at her, over his shoulder, adding, "I am Colm mac Connor of Colmskeep, County Waterford. Nephew to the High King and the man you're going to marry, mo muirnin!"

Three.

"Shall I comb your hair for you, my lady?" Aislinn offered later that same evening.

The sooner her mistress was dressed and gone to join her father and their many guests at table, the sooner Aislinn could get away to join her own friends the other serving girls in gossip and flirting with the stable boys and the grooms.

"Aye. Please do," Siobhan said thankfully. Her right arm ached. She had dreaded the thought of combing out her own hair. It was so long and thick.

Surprised by her unusually gracious tone, Aislinn took up a comb and began ridding her mistress' hair of tangles, one curly lock at a time. She was surprised to find pieces of leaves and even a strand of moss caught within the inky mane.

With all the tangles gone, Aislinn pinned Siobhan's hair back behind her ears, with carved ivory combs set with amethysts and pearls. The jewels caught the rushlights and sparkled prettily, a lovely foil for the rich amethyst kirtle she was wearing.

It was her mistress' finest garment. The long, fitted sleeves ended in deep points at the wrists, but left her creamy shoulders bare. A girdle of tablet-braided silver and purple silk spanned her slender hips, its free ends finished with ta.s.sels.

Looking over Siobhan's shoulder at her mistress' beautiful reflection in the mirror, Aislinn smiled.

"'Tis lovely you're looking this even', mistress," she said with a sly half-smile on her dimpled face. "Might our special visitors have anything to do with that?"

"Special visitors? I don't know what you're talking about," Siobhan lied. "My father told me there would be guests at supper tonight, so I dressed in my finest. I always try to look my best when we have guests at Glenkilly."

"Aah. Lord Diarmaid didn't tell you, then?"

"Didn't tell me what?"

"That these guests are special suitors for your hand? Didn't he tell ye he'd named a bride price for ye, mistress? Fifty head of cattle, he's asked for. Fifty! Oh, my lady, aren't you excited? The daughter of the High King of Eire could command no higher price from a suitor! Everyone says lords and princes have come from all over Eire t' make offers for your hand, my lady. Aye, and mayhap from foreign parts, too."

"My father did what?" Siobhan echoed in a faint whisper. The colour had drained from her face.

"He offered . . . he offered your hand in marriage, for a bride price of fifty cows, my lady. Everyone says that-"

"I don't care what everyone says! Everyone says I should box your ears, but that doesn't mean I shall, does it?" Siobhan snapped, but her voice broke. "Or that I won't! Oh, be off with you, you wretched girl! Leave me be."

Seeing her mistress' shock, the pain and tears that sprang into her green eyes, Aislinn felt a sharp twinge of remorse.

She should not have told Siobhan in such a cruel blunt way about the bride price Lord Diarmaid had offered. She'd known Siobhan knew nothing of her father's plans, but had taken spiteful pleasure in telling her anyway. Still, what was done was done. It could not be unsaid.

"Forgive me, Lady Siobhan," she said with one last flick of her comb. "Truly, I did not mean to cause you any- Oh! My poor lady, you're hurt!" Aislinn exclaimed suddenly, apologies forgotten. "Whatever have ye done to yourself?"

Blood was trickling down the pale curve of her mistress' right shoulder. Finding a linen kerchief, Aislinn dabbed at the red angry wound. It was long, but not very deep, just as if an arrow had creased it.

An arrow?

"Blessed Saint Patrick! The hunter, he shot you, didn't he, my lady? When you shifted shape?"

Siobhan nodded glumly. "He did, aye. Oh, Aislinn, when his arrow creased my shoulder, the pain broke the spell! It was agony! Is it still bleeding?" She bit her lip as she craned her neck to look over her shoulder, trying to see the wound for herself. It stung like fire.

"Not any more. Be still, my lady, or it will start up again. Did he- Did the hunter say anything to you?"

"Who?"

"You know very well who, mistress! The handsome one! Colm mac Connor!"

"Oh. Him. Yes, yes, he did. Alas, for all his fine looks, he's a . . . a coa.r.s.e unmannered lout! A clumsy lummox. Aye, and I told him so, right to his face!"

"Aaah. So you liked him," Aislinn said with another of her infuriating smiles. "Did ye not?"

"Aye, I did, d.a.m.n his black heart," Siobhan admitted with a ferocious scowl. But there was a certain look in her green eyes, for all that. "He's a handsome devil, sure he is."

"Aaaah," Aislinn p.r.o.nounced again, looking even more pleased. "And what did he say to you, mistress, that has you so riled up? Will ye tell your Aislinn, hmm?" Cook and the other serving wenches would be open-mouthed when they heard about this turn of events. As the harbinger of such juicy gossip, she would be the centre of attention!

"He said that- He said that he was the man I was going to-"

"-aye, aye, going to what?"

"-to marry!"

"To marry? Did he now, the bold wretch! The rogue!"

Aislinn's spirits soared. She had heard much of County Waterford, which lay to the south of Glenkilly at the mouth of a bay. She would love to live near such a bustling port. It would be exciting, what with all the ships, the comings and goings, the trading, the merchants, and such. Who knew? She might be wed herself, if Siobhan were to wed the nephew of the High King.

"And would you accept his suit, my lady?" she asked eagerly. "Do you think you could love him?" She held her breath as she awaited Siobhan's answer.

"I think I could, aye," her mistress confessed tearfully. Her lower lip wobbled.

"Then why do ye look so glum? It will be wonderful, if this Lord Colm makes an offer for your hand, will it not?"

"He can't! I could never marry him, no matter how much I might love him!"

"Why ever not? You said yourself that you could come to love him, given time?" Aislinn said, thoroughly confused. She saw her dreams of a fine husband and a Waterford cottage sliding out of reach.

"Exactly. And I can never marry him because I might come to love him!"

"My poor love." The serving wench pressed her palm to Siobhan's brow. "The wound has given you a fever, that's why your wits are so addled. You're making no sense, my poor lady!"

"Nothing has addled my wits. 'Tis the curse put upon me! Don't you remember what the skrying mirror foretold on my twelfth birthday? That my husband would die on our wedding day! Don't ye see, Aislinn? If I marry Colm mac Connor, he's as good as dead!"

That evening, in the hall of Glenkilly, Lord Diarmaid told the gathering that he had chosen a husband for the Lady Siobhan from among the many suitors who had flocked to his hall. Her prospective husbands had come from as near as County Waterford, and as far away as Gaul and Britain.

The gathering held its breath. The future bride felt sick to her belly as she awaited her father's announcement.

"My beautiful Siobhan received more than a hundred offers for her hand. One hundred of the finest men! After but only after much thought, I have chosen the young man she shall wed from among them. Her husband shall be-"

An expectant hush fell over the gathering. All eyes were fixed on the Lord of Glenkilly. The only sounds were that of the spit, squeaking as it turned, roasting the juicy side of beef that would soon be carved for the celebration feast.

Siobhan peeked nervously under her lashes at the motley a.s.sortment of men ranged along wooden benches pulled up to the long trestle tables.

There was a fat fellow who'd come all the way from Gaul sitting across from her. He had a swarthy complexion, and a huge hairy mole on his chin that rose every time he smiled at her, which was often. She frowned. She wouldn't be too upset if he were to be chosen. After all, she would only be his bride for a day, at most.

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 t.i.tbits 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 b.l.o.o.d.y, 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 pa.s.sed 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.