Free The Ballad of Rosamunde by Claire Delacroix Page A

selling of religious relics,
she had been both beauteous and bold.
    And she had been lost forever, thanks to the
faithlessness of the man to whom she had surrendered
everything.
    Padraig mourned that truth every day and
night of his life.
    He cursed Tynan Lammergeier, the man who had
cost him the company of Rosamunde, and he hated that they two might
be together forever in some afterlife. It was wrong that a man who
had not been able to accept Rosamunde for her true nature should
win her company for all eternity.
    Because Padraig had loved her truly.
    His mother had warned him that he was his
father’s son, that he would be smitten once and his heart lost
forever. It had shocked him all the same to find her counsel
true.
    But he had held his tongue. He had spoken of
friendship in his parting with Rosamunde, not the fullness of his
heart.
    Now he would never have the chance to remedy
his error. It had been almost six months since Rosamunde had gone
into the caverns beneath Ravensmuir, Tynan’s ancestral keep on the
coast of Scotland, six months since those caves had collapsed and
Rosamunde had been lost forever, and still Padraig’s wound was
raw.
    He doubted it would ever heal.
    He knew he’d never meet the like of her
again.
    Padraig sat down and drank deeply of his
ale. “Let another sing,” he said. “I am too besotted to compose the
verse.”
    “Another tale!” shouted the keeper. “Come,
Liam, sing that one of the Faerie host.” The company stamped their
feet and applauded, as Liam was clearly a local favorite, and
Padraig saw a lanky man rise to his feet on the far side of the
room.
    He, however, had lost his taste for tales.
He abandoned the rest of his ale, left a coin on the board, and
headed for the door.
    “We will miss your custom this evening,” his
sister said softly as he passed her. Her dark eyes shone brightly
in the shadowed tavern, and he knew that she saw more of his heart
than any other. She never asked for details, though, simply offered
him a place to stay.
    “A man should be valued for more than the
volume of ale he can drink,” Padraig replied, blaming himself for
what he had become. His sister flushed as if he had chided her and
turned away. Padraig raised a hand toward her, not having wanted to
share his anguish, but she bustled away to serve another
patron.
    He could do nothing right.
    Not without Rosamunde.
    Was her loss to be the shadow over all his
days and nights?

    *

    Far beneath the hills to the north of
Galway, Finvarra, High King of the Daoine Sidhe , templed his
fingers together and considered the chess board. It was a beautiful
chess board, with pieces of alabaster and obsidian, the board
itself wrought of agate and ebony with fine enamel work around the
perimeter. When he touched a piece, it came to life, moving across
the board at his unspoken will. His entire fey court gathered
around the game, watching with bright eyes.
    Finvarra was tall and slim, finely wrought
even for the fey, who were uncommonly handsome. His eyes were as
dark as a midnight sky, his long hair the deep blue black of the
sea in darkness, his skin as fair as moonlight, his tread as light
as wind in the grass. He was possessed of both kindness and
resolve, and ruled the fey well.
    His hall at Knockma was under the hill, and
as lavish a court as could be found. The ladies wore glistening
gowns of finest silk, their gossamer wings painted with a thousand
colors. The courtiers were armed in silver finery, their manners
both fierce and gallant, their eyes glinting with humor. The horses
of Finvarra’s court were spirited and fleet of foot, gleaming and
beauteous in their rich trappings hung with silver bells. He had
steeds of every color, red stallions and white mares, black
stallions and mahogany mares with ivory socks. Each and every one
was caparisoned in finery to show its hue and strength to
advantage. The mead was sweet and golden in Finvarra’s hall, and
the cups at the board filled themselves