The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance Part 47

"No, no, I must. You see, when I was a little girl, my mother bade me ask a skrying gla.s.s to show me my future husband on our wedding day. The man I saw reflected in the gla.s.s 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 superst.i.tion, 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 gla.s.s was a toy for telling fortunes, something superst.i.tious 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. G.o.d 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 pa.s.s.

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 Nors.e.m.e.n were armed to the teeth as they waded ash.o.r.e. 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 G.o.ds 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!

"Colm was like a . . . a bear a lion swinging his sword to left and to right, and calling upon the One G.o.d to help him. While lesser men ran, he pushed forwards into the heat of the battle.

"One by one, they fell like cornstalks before Colm's sword. He carved a path through their numbers until only three of the Norse devils remained. Olaf the Red was one. Sven the Widow Maker was another. Lief Snorrison was the third. One by one, Colm sent them to dine with the Valkyries in Valhallah!"

He stopped, overcome by the memory, unable to go on. Exhaustion ringed his eyes with dark shadows. His cheeks were hollowed and gaunt.

Siobhan feared he would collapse before he had told her what she must know.

"Bring wine nay, nay, bring whiskey! Quickly! Here, Fergus. Drink. Drink it down, cousin," Siobhan urged when the cup was brought. She pressed her hands over his and gazed earnestly into his eyes. "Is he truly dead? You must tell me everything! Is he truly lost to me, Fergus? Would I not feel it in my heart, somehow, were he gone from me for ever?"

The fiery "water of life" restored Fergus somewhat. He drew a deep breath before he carried on. "Forgive me, my lady, but your lord is dead. We were cheering him on from across the inlet when a berserker hurled his sword into the air like a spear. It hurtled towards Colm, spinning end over end. Its jewelled hilt flashed in the sunlight. The blade pierced my cousin's side. A great gout of blood poured from his mouth. I heard him call your name as he fell, my lady, and then he moved no more. We could only watch, helpless, as those G.o.dless heathens carried his body away," he ended bitterly.

"Blessed Lady, no!" she whispered. "No, no . . ."

"The Vikings called him a hero, my lady. They admired his warrior's skills, you see. His courage. That he was an enemy lord meant nothing to them. They said their skalds storytellers sang Colm mac Connor's praises about their campfires that night, for all that he is Irish. He died a hero's death, my lady. He is was a man to be proud of."

Siobhan swallowed over the choking knot of tears in her throat. If she gave way to her grief, she would not be able to go on. "And what became of his . . . his body?" she whispered. "Where did they take him?"

A great shudder ran through Fergus. He hung his head. "We heard Colm mac Connor was to be given a hero's funeral. One fit for a Viking prince, my lady."

"Then you could not find my lord's body?"

"No, my lady." Fergus hung his head in shame.

After Fergus had left, Siobhan sat and stared into the fire. She felt numb. She felt neither sorrow, nor rage. She felt nothing.

Colm is dead, she kept telling herself, over and over. Just as the skrying gla.s.s had foretold. Fergus had seen Colm take a mortal blow, had seen him fall.

But though she believed Fergus, and knew he would never lie to her, she loved Colm, loved him with all her heart: she would not, could not, believe that she would never see him, touch him, hold him, again.

Surely she would be able to weep, if he was truly gone? Surely she would know, in her heart, if he were no longer of this world?

"What am I to do, Aislinn? What?" she whispered. "How shall I bear this?"

Aislinn's heart went out to her mistress. She was close to tears herself. "Oh, my lady," she murmured, putting her arms around Siobhan's shoulders. "Don't despair. If your lord was truly dead, you would know it." She hesitated. "There is . . . There is a way you could learn the truth."

"There is? What is it?"

"The skrying gla.s.s, mistress."

"No! Never again! That wretched gla.s.s has caused trouble enough!"

"But it could tell you what has befallen your Lord Colm!" Aislinn pleaded. "'Tis the only way."

"I've not seen that wretched gla.s.s since before my mother died. I have no idea where it went."

Her twelfth birthday was the last time Siobhan had seen it.

"It is in the carved chest, my lady. The Lady Deirdre's chest. I saw it only a few days ago."

"Oh?"

Aislinn reddened but for once made no excuses. "It is wrapped in black cloth. Hidden at the bottom of the chest."

"Very well," Siobhan said, deciding. "Bring it to me, Aislinn. And be quick!"

With every pa.s.sing moment, her fear and uncertainty were mounting, spiralling out of control. Her heart said Colm was not dead; that the mirror had been wrong those many years ago. But Fergus had believed otherwise. He had been inconsolable, certain that he had seen his cousin struck a mortal blow. What harm could it do to consult the looking gla.s.s? Besides, what more had she to lose?

Knowing something, anything, was surely better than this endless torture?

Refusing Aislinn's offers of help, she carried the skrying gla.s.s to St Kieran's Tower. There, she propped it against the tower wall.

Standing before the ebony gla.s.s with its frame of tarnished silver, she drew a deep breath and demanded to be shown her husband on this, their wedding day.

'Twas the eve of Samhain.

A night when the impossible seemed possible.

At first, smoke boiled and gathered in the black gla.s.s, swirling and billowing.

When, little by little, the smoke cleared, she saw Glenkilly Bay reflected in the mirror. The sunset sky was streaked with red, gold, orange. Coming night darkened the edges of the western sky like a great pall of black smoke.

And, from out of that glorious sunset sailed a Viking funeral ship, listing like a wounded swan as it sailed into the bay.

Atop the cliffs and headlands, the Samhain bonfires had already been lit; beacons to guide the funeral ship to sh.o.r.e on this All Hallows Eve; a night when both pagans and Christians believed the dead returned to earth.

A sob caught in her throat as Siobhan turned from the gla.s.s to look out of the window and saw the same scene as that reflected in the gla.s.s.

She sped down the tower steps, then climbed the ladder to the ground, ten feet below. She missed her footing in her haste and fell the last two feet, but was up and running towards the sh.o.r.e without missing a step.

It had come to pa.s.s, just as the skrying gla.s.s had foretold so many years ago. This had been her doing, hers alone. She had no one else to blame! She had known what the terrible cost of loving Colm would be from the very start.

By yielding to his wishes, by naming their wedding day, she had also named the day of his death. She was as responsible for it as the berserker who had slain him.

Onwards came the terrible drakkar, sailing onwards with its pall of smoke. A funeral barge fit for a fallen hero; one that showed the high esteem in which even Colm's enemies had held him.

The Vikings had honoured Colm mac Connor with a funeral given to only their bravest warriors; a blazing ship to carry him to the feasting halls of Valhallah.

A few small flames yet licked at the serpentine prow as the dragon ship was drawn closer to sh.o.r.e by the incoming tide.

Against all odds, Colm had come home to her.

She stared at the vessel, willing it to come deeper into the bay, hoping it would become stranded on the rocky sh.o.r.e so that she might see with her own eyes that Fergus was right, that her beloved was truly dead and gone, lost to her for eternity.

But as she gazed out to sea, tears streaming down her pale cheeks, willing the vessel to come closer, she saw the impossible: a movement where no movement should be.

The rays of the setting sun had reflected off a golden wristband as the dead man raised his arm.

A wild sob of joy tore from Siobhan's throat.

He was not dead.

She had seen him move!

And as long as there was yet life inside him, there was also hope . . .

"A water creature / Shall I be," she whispered. "Swimming in / The restless sea / By the magic / In my blood / Change me!"

As always, whenever she shifted shape, the air grew very still. The cries of the gulls ceased. The harsh caws of the crows that hung in the trees black omen birds, harbingers of death fell eerily silent. Even the sound of the waves breaking against the sh.o.r.e was stilled as light began to pour from Siobhan's fingertips.

She beckoned the light, bidding it engulf her, bidding it surround her in its magical golden aura.

"Change me! Change me!" she pleaded urgently.

All at once, Siobhan, the woman, was no more. In her place was now a silkie, a creature half seal, half woman.

She slid off the rocks and dived into the shallows as sleekly as any mermaid, streaking through the lapping waves of the bay towards the dragon ship.

"Follow me!" she called to the fishermen mending their nets. "My lord lives! All of you, help me!"

The fishermen rubbed bleary eyes, unsure of what they were seeing. The light was fading. The rays of the setting sun dazzled their eyes. Was it a sleek brown silkie that begged their help? A magical silkie with the voice of their chieftain's daughter, the Lady Siobhan? Or Siobhan herself?

Quickly, carrying their coracles on their backs, they hurried down to the bay, where they set the small round crafts into the water.

Straightway, they began rowing towards the smouldering drakkar, and its precious cargo.

As they lifted Colm from the vessel into one of the coracles, Siobhan closed her eyes. She offered a heartfelt prayer of thanks to the G.o.ds, both Christian and pagan, that Colm had been returned to her alive.

All that remained now was to summon her healing arts and all the spells and simples in her stores to see that he remained that way.

Siobhan sent a fisherman for a cart to bring Colm home to Glenkilly.

He opened his eyes to find her hovering over him. There were tears in her green eyes, more rolling down her cheeks. He had never seen a sight more beautiful than her face. He smiled and whispered, "Summon a priest, Siobhan, my darling."

"Why, my lord? Not for the . . . the Last Rites?"

"No, my silly love. To hear our wedding vows! Did I not tell ye we should be wed on Samhain Eve? Aye, and so we shall. I shall put an end to your wretched curse, woman, once and for all before it puts an end to me!"

Siobhan and Colm mac Connor were wed in a Christian ceremony in the chapel of St Kieran's Church before midnight that Samhain Eve. The bride wore a gold kirtle. A harvest wreath of wheat, and red and golden leaves crowned her black hair.

That night, as Colm slept a deep and healing sleep, his bride celebrated their union in another, secret ceremony, deep in the woods; a ceremony that had its roots in pagan times. She also gave thanks for her husband's life in a second ceremony that was n.o.body's business but her own.

Magic was, after all, a part of her nature, a part of who she was. Siobhan mac Connor shape-shifter.