Free The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance by Misc. Page A

proudly arched necks. Silver bel s hung from every bridle.
    The land itself was bountiful, the trees lush with fruit and flowers blooming on every side.
    Rosamunde thought she saw fruit of gold and silver, and flowers wrought of precious jewels, but Darg did not delay their passage so she could look more closely. Birds sang from every tree, their song blending so beautiful y with the ladies’ tunes that Rosamunde felt they made music together.
    Just passing through the beauty of this realm, even at Darg’s kil ing pace, lightened Rosamunde’s heart. It healed her wounds and made her believe that she might live on, even without love. It made her think of the future with an optimism that she had believed lost.
    It made her wonder where Padraig was.
    It made her wonder how she might get from here to there.
    “Where are we?” she shouted to Darg, who hastened ahead of her, muttering al the while.
    “A foolish mortal you must be, to not know the land of Faerie.” Faerie. Rosamunde was a pragmatic woman, one who had never believed in matters unseen or places to which she could not navigate. Was she dreaming?
    A butterfly lit on her shoulder, its wings fairly dripping with colour, its beauty far beyond that of any earthly insect.
    Rosamunde realized with a start that it was a tiny winged woman. The fairy laughed at her surprise, a sound like tinkling bel s, then darted away, disappearing into the blue of the sky with a glimmer.
    “And why do we not linger in this magical realm?” Rosamunde asked Darg.
    “Late we are, late we must not be! Finvarra waits impatiently.” The spriggan tugged again at the red cord knotted around its waist. It spat in the grass with displeasure, then snatched at Rosamunde. “Hasten, hasten, by the moon’s rise, we must be safely at his side.”
    “Who is Finvarra? And why do we go to him?”
    “Questions, questions, instead of haste! Your queries do the daylight waste! We have far to go without rest: Finvarra wil accept no less.”
    They crossed a bridge; the river running beneath looked to be made of mead. Rosamunde caught a whiff of its honeyed sweetness and saw a cluster of bees hovering at the shore. A beautiful y dressed suitor offered a golden chalice of the liquid to his lady, who flushed, fluttered both wings and lashes, then accepted his tribute.
    “But why do we go to this Finvarra? Who is he and what hold has he over you?” The spriggan spun round abruptly, facing Rosamunde with fury in its eyes. “A match I lost, the price my life. His demand was you as his new wife. High King of Faerie is his task, a man whose patience does not last.” Darg wrestled with the red cord, then released it with disgust. “This bond he knots, it burns me true; ’til you are his, this pain my due.”
    “You traded me to the Faerie King?” Rosamunde demanded, bracing her hands upon her hips.
    “What if I have no desire to be his toy? Or that of any other man, for that matter? I wil not go complacent to his court, no matter what you have promised.”
    “I pledged my word, I swore my life; Finvarra wil have you as his wife!”
    “I think not.” Rosamunde turned her back on her vile captor, having no inclination to make such a submission easier. She surveyed the beautiful countryside and spied a man tending a pair of horses that were drinking mead on the bank. He was handsome, and his gaze was bright upon her.
    His hair was as dark as midnight, and if she narrowed her eyes, he could have been mistaken for Padraig.
    Save that Padraig had neither wings nor pointed ears.
    Perhaps he could aid her in finding Padraig.
    When the Faerie knight smiled, Rosamunde found herself smiling in return. “I wil take my heart’s ease here instead,” she said to Darg and turned her back upon the creature.
    “No!” the spriggan screamed, as once it had screamed before in Rosamunde’s presence. She glanced back warily, then ran when she saw that the spriggan had become a large and menacing black cloud. When