The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance

Penelope Neri The Skrying Glass

The Village of Glenkilly, southeast Ireland — 853

«Siobhan! It’s your turn! Come!»

«I don’t want to. I’m frightened!»

«Frightened, mo muirnin? There’s nothing to be frightened of! What could go wrong on your lucky day? ’Tis but a mirror, after all,» her mother soothed, stroking Siobhan’s tangle of black curls.

«Aye, a mirror that shows the future where my face should be, Mother! I’m thinking ’tis better not to know what lies ahead,» she added with a wisdom that belied her years.

«Oh, very well then. Ask it a question instead. What would you see?» Deirdre thought for a few seconds. «I know! Bade it show us your wedding day!» She smiled. «And your future husband. Wouldn’t that be fun?»

Knowing her mother would not give up until she took part in her fortune-telling games, Siobhan rolled her eyes and sighed. «Very well, Mother.»

Taking her seat, Siobhan gazed deeply into the skrying glass. Her lovely face was grave, her expression intent, her brow furrowed.

The large oval looking glass was framed in silver. The precious metal had been exquisitely cast with crescent and full moons, stars, and all the constellations of the heavens, including the sign of Scorpio; the lucky star under which Siobhan had been born twelve years ago that very day. However, the polished silver oval that should have reflected her face was instead as black as a raven’s wing.

At first, Siobhan saw nothing in its inky depths, although she stared, unblinking, for what seemed an eternity.

She was about to give up when her mother motioned her to try again.

«You must ask it your question aloud, daughter. Bid the glass reveal your future husband on your wedding day!»

Siobhan nodded. «Very well. Show me, mirror!» she commanded. «Show me my husband on our wedding day!»

She stared into the mirror’s ebony depths. Did the future even hold a husband for her? she wondered. Perhaps not. Perhaps she was destined to die a young and tragic death, like one of the martyred Christian saints the monks at the monastery had told her about?

But then, a grey mist began to boil and gather within the mirror’s dark depths, like billowing smoke.

Little by little, the silvery fog cleared, revealing a tableau of figures and an unfamiliar place.

Her mother’s watching maids gasped.

Siobhan saw three tall men in the looking glass. They stood around a low couch on which sprawled a fourth man. He was bare-chested, deathly pale and very still. Siobhan could not make out his features, but his terrible battle wounds were plain to see.

The gorge rose up her throat. It was all she could do to keep from retching.

«A Druid healer has been summoned, min jarl,» murmured one of the men. «He will be here before sunset.»

«Too late for this brave warrior,» said a second man. «He is already dead. By Odin, three of our finest fell like trees before his sword! He will feast in Valhalla this night!»

The little tableau began to blur and dissolve. The three men slowly disappeared. The fourth image — that of the dead man — lingered for a heartbeat more, then he too, vanished.

Blackness returned to the looking glass.

Siobhan jumped to her feet. Horror and sorrow contorted her lovely face. «No!» she cried. «No! It cannot be!»

«Siobhan! What is it? Mo muirnin, sweetheart! What did you see?» Deirdre cried. «Was it your bridegroom? Tell me!»

Siobhan did not answer. Rather, she fled her mother’s bower.

The Lady Deirdre and her serving women stared after her, wondering what great tragedy the skrying glass had foretold for their chieftain’s daughter.

It was on that day, the day of her twelfth birthday, that Siobhan vowed she would never wed.

The looking glass had shown her that she was cursed. She’d surely become a widow before she was ever a bride.

Never, in all her eighteen summers, had Siobhan seen a man more handsome than this one. The look of him made her heart beat so wildly ’twas a wonder it did not soar from her breast like a frightened bird.

For the first time since her twelfth birthday, Siobhan wondered what it might be like to take a husband.

Her companion gasped. «Oh, mistress, will ye look at that one!»

«Shush, Aislinn! He’ll hear you!» her mistress hissed. «Besides, I’m not blind, girl! I see him well enough!»

From their perch in the ancient oak, where they had climbed when they heard the hunters coming, Siobhan and Aislinn held their breaths as the man and his party — hounds, horses and all — halted directly beneath them.

Clad in tunics and tartan mantles, and shod with boots of fur, the hunters blended well with the forest greenery. The ornate buckles and shoulder pins of Irish red gold that fastened their cloaks said these were the sons of chieftains.

«Nay, that’s where you’re wrong, Finn. I have heard old Diarmaid boasts but the one treasure,» a man with wild red hair, bushy brows and a merry grin was saying.

«Aye? And what is it?» asked the handsome fellow. He was smiling, his teeth white and even against a wind-browned face and curling black hair. His deep blue eyes twinkled. «A hundred head of cattle? A magnificent red bull? Or is it fine torcs and gold wristbands the old miser’s hoarding?»

«You’re not even close, Colm. Old Diarmaid’s daughter is his treasure. A lovely maid she is, too, they say. It is said the Lady Siobhan’s beauty could make the stones weep.»

«Weep, is it? Ha! I’ve yet to meet a maid whose beauty made me weep. Mind you, I’ve met many an ugly one that had me sobbing into my beer!» His companions laughed. «Enough of your blarney, Fergus. Hand over a bit o’ that mutton, and leave the maids to me. I’m the one who’s wanting a bride, after all!»

Siobhan’s cheeks burned.

«Did you hear that? They were talking about you, mistress!» Aislinn squeaked. «Why, the cheeky devils!»

«Aye,» Siobhan agreed, annoyed. She disliked being discussed by a band of rogues like this as if she was no more than a joint of beef. She was more than her looks, after all. Why, she was better educated than most men in Eire, thanks to the Christian monks at St Kieran’s monastery. The holy fathers had not quite persuaded her to become a Christian, but they had taught her Latin, and how to illuminate their Christian manuscripts with coloured inks and pens. She could sew, weave and play her harp. She excelled at chess, and could dance, hunt, ride horses, and run her father’s household. Even better, she had another skill: a supernatural power that even her father knew nothing about. She had the ability to shape-shift to any form she chose, a magical power she’d inherited from her mother’s bloodline. Such things were best not spoken of, however, for they came not from this world, but the Other.

She scowled, scrunching her face up so that furrows appeared in her brow. She had a mind to show this Lord whatever-his-name-was that she was more than a pretty face! Aye, and so she would!

«Wait here until they leave,» she told her servant crisply, «then take the baskets home. I shall see you anon.» The baskets were filled with the medicinal herbs and plants they had gathered for Siobhan’s healing potions.

«Why? What are you going to do, my lady?» Aislinn asked, suspicious. She was familiar with her mistress’ unusual talent. She also knew that Siobhan’s changing spells rarely worked exactly as her mistress intended.

«Nothing that you need to know about,» Siobhan came back pertly. «Now, hush.»

She closed her green eyes and began to chant the spell: «Fleet of foot, / Yet white as snow / Let this hind / Escape the bow. / By the magic / In my blood / Change me!»

The leaves ceased their whispering.

The air grew very still, as if the forest was holding its breath.

Aislinn held her breath, too.

Within a heartbeat, there was a faint tinkling sound, like fairy laughter, or the silvery chiming of tiny bells.

The fine hairs rose on the back of Aislinn’s neck as light began to stream from Siobhan’s fingertips in a shimmering aura. Siobhan beckoned the light to come to her.

The aura slowly expanded, until it limned Siobhan from her head to her toes.

In another heartbeat, Siobhan dissolved into the sunshine that dappled the leaves, and was gone! The branch beside Aislinn was empty.

Aislinn cursed under her breath, and made the horned sign against evil for protection. Unlike her pagan mistress, she had been properly baptized by a Christian priest.

Almost immediately, Aislinn saw a delicate white doe appear across the forest clearing. She held her breath. It was Siobhan in magical form.

The doe took an elegant step or two, emerging from between two leafy green thickets. Its dainty white head was lifted to the wind. Its velvety nose twitched. Catching the hunters’ scent, the doe turned, and was gone with a parting flirt of her tail.

«Whoa! Did you see that? A fine white doe, it was!» exclaimed Fergus. He took up his bow, swung his quiver of arrows over his shoulder and looped his hunting horn over his belt. «The little beauty’s mine.»

«Not so fast, cousin. You took the stag, remember? This one’s mine,» Colm said firmly. «Eat! Drink! I’ll see you later, at old Diarmaid’s hall.»

«Take your time, Colm,» Fergus said generously. «By the time you get there, I’ll be betrothed to his lovely daughter, not you. Fifty head of cattle, cousin! That’s all he’s after askin’. Why, by all accounts, the Lady Siobhan would be cheap at five times such a bride price! Imagine the sons she’ll give me!»

Still perched in the boughs of the oak tree, Aislinn groaned. She did not want to be nearby when Siobhan found out that her father was marrying her off for fifty cows.

The doe was swifter than Colm expected. She ran like the very wind, nipping and tucking in and out of bushes, springing and turning this way and that, soaring over hollows and ridges, darting between firs and oaks, ashes and birches until Colm was dizzy. He began to doubt he’d ever overtake her.

Why, it was as if the fleeing hind was a mythical creature. A magical doe that could escape a mortal hunter’s pursuit.

Pausing to catch his breath, Colm leaned up against a tree to nock an arrow against his bowstring before he raced on. The challenge to overtake the doe drew him onwards, not the thought of the kill: the tantalizing flag of the doe’s white scut, its small twinkling hooves. The little beast tested his hunter’s skills!

The doe fairly flew before him now, leaping over the tussocks of thick turf, a white streak that nimbly leaped over rocks and deep drifts of russet and gold leaves. It was as if she fled a snarling pack of hounds, instead of a lone and badly winded hunter.

After a half-league at such a pace, he found himself short of breath, weary and wishing for his horse — or even his favourite wolfhounds — to help run the doe to ground.

He was thirsty too, his throat as parched and dry as a bit of old leather. Although it was a crisp autumn day, with the chill bite of winter on the wind, sweat rolled down his back. More seeped into his deerskin boots.

And then, just when he was about to give up, he tripped over a gnarled tree root that snaked across his path and went flying.

With a startled grunt, he landed heavily on his belly. The bow flew from his grip. The arrow sang through the air towards the doe.

With bated breath, he watched its flight; heard the animal’s shrill scream of pain, abruptly cut short.

The white doe plunged between some gorse bushes and vanished — but not before Colm had seen the bright splash of blood that stained its right front leg.

He set his jaw, his expression hard but resigned. He had injured the pretty doe. It was now his responsibility to put her out of her misery. No creature would suffer a slow agonizing death for his misdeeds, intentional or otherwise.

He got to his feet. He drew his dagger from the scabbard at his waist and thrust his way into the gorse bushes in pursuit of the hind — only to trip flat on his face a second time.

He landed across a young woman, hidden in the bushes.

A young woman who was, moreover, the loveliest maid he had ever seen. Her dark-lashed eyes were as green as shamrocks, and her skin was clotted cream.

But at the moment, those shamrock eyes were consigning him to the devil.

«Well, now! And who might you be?» Colm exclaimed, pushing himself up on to his elbows, to look down at her.

She had long curling black hair, and lips like wild strawberries. A mouth made for a man’s kisses.

His body stirred appreciatively.

«Who am I? I might ask you the same question, sir,» she shot back, «since you’re poaching in my father’s forest! Get off me, ye great lummox!» She thrust her palms full force against his chest. She tried, in vain, to slam one or both of her knees into his groin.

He propped himself up, on his elbows, keenly aware that his body was far from indifferent to her charms, despite her efforts to geld him.

«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 grass. 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!»

«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 tassels.

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 coarse 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, damn 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 pronounced 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 assortment 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 titbits 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 bloody, 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 passed 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.

His kisses had ignited a bonfire in her belly. His gentle touch made her shiver with pleasure. Her weary head rested upon his shoulder like a lovely flower, drooping on its stem. She wanted nothing more than to spend the night in his arms. To be his bride.

«Hmm. Your skin tastes like honey, mo muirnin. I crave your sweetness. What say you to the last day of the old year? Can ye wait that long?»

It was on the tip of her tongue to tell him nay, she would marry him that very day, if that were what he wished. But she caught herself in the nick of time, and pulled free of his arms.

«Samhain Eve? But. that’s only a week away!» Only a week to love him, when they should have had a lifetime? She could not bear it. But to marry him was to condemn him, and so she dare not name a day.

«A long week it will be, too, until I have ye in my bed. So? What say you to Samhain Eve, my dove?» he persisted.

«Then you. er. you have agreed to my lord father’s other conditions?» she asked hesitantly, her mind racing for a way out.

He laughed. His blue eyes sparkled wickedly in the rushlight. «I have. He’s an old rogue, but I like him well! Fifty fine red cattle he asked for, and fifty he shall get. They’ll be delivered to Glenkilly before the first snows. I’m adding a score of sheep and a fine black bull to sweeten the deal, just so the old divil can’t change his mind about having me for a son-on-law. He was overjoyed, to say the least. Judging by the amount o’ whiskey he was drinking, he’ll be overjoyed for some time.»

Colm planted an ardent kiss on Siobhan’s mouth that she felt down to her toenails. She could not think straight when he kissed her like that. If he let go of her, she thought she might slither down the wall into a warm gooey puddle at his feet.

«Is that the condition you meant, love?» he added.

«Nooo. I. I meant the other condition. The condition that tests your. your true feelings for me. And your courage, of course. Courage is very important in a husband.»

«It is?» His dark brows rose. «And what test might that be? Diarmaid said nothing about tests.»

He was frowning as he looked down at her. He had one palm planted against the wall, beside her head. The other cupped her chin as he tilted her lovely face up to his. She wouldn’t meet his eyes, he noticed. What did the wee minx have to hide? «Siobhan? What test?» he repeated.

On his lips, even her name sounded sweeter than when others said it. «Shivonne,» he murmured. «Tell me!»

«It’s not much of a test, not really. Not for a. a skilled hunter like you. A huge wolf they’ve named Airgead has been killing the shepherds’ late lambs. They are terrified of it. It is twice as big as a wolfhound, according to those who’ve seen it. You must find the wolf and bring back its pelt, to prove that you’ve slain the brute.»

«And after?» His eyes searched her face. His gaze was intent, his expression stern.

Siobhan swallowed. Her betrothed was a little intimidating, if truth were told. Despite those laughing blue eyes, that disarming grin, he would not be a good man to cross, she sensed, nor one to lie to.

«Siobhan?» he repeated. «What then?»

«And then, I shall name a date for our wedding,» she promised.

Again, she would not meet his eyes.

He hooked his finger under her chin and turned her face smartly upwards, forcing her shamrock eyes to meet his. «Do you swear it, my love?»

She crossed the fingers of both hands so that her lie wouldn’t count as a sin. «I swear.»

She had not been baptized a Christian but there was no sense in taking chances.

He nodded. «Good enough, my lady. I shall leave at dawn on the morrow.»

And with that, Colm gathered her into his arms and kissed her witless.

The following morn dawned fine and clear. The sun shone, and everywhere was green and vibrant. It seemed impossible that winter would soon be hard upon them.

Siobhan ordered food to be prepared for her suitor’s journey. Dried venison, oatcakes, skins of wine and mead. She watched as the provisions were loaded on to the pack ponies.

Colm’s hounds — great shaggy wolfhounds that wore spiked leather collars — milled excitedly about the courtyard, yelping and fighting their handlers’ restraint.

The horses, saddled and fresh after a good night’s rest and a few handfuls of grain, were tossing their heads so that bits and bridles jingled.

Finally, Colm’s huge black horse, Dibh, was led out by its groom. Its master, looking the worse for wear after a night spent out-drinking her father, strode from the hall.

He swung himself easily into the Spanish saddle of fine red leather, then saluted Siobhan and her father.

The old chieftain seemed confused.

«Why are ye leaving so soon, my boy?» the old man demanded, scowling up at Colm through rheumy bloodshot eyes. «You promised me a game of chess, don’t you recall?»

«You had best ask that question of your daughter, my lord father,» Colm said, casting Siobhan a pointed look. «I’ll be back for you soon, Siobhan,» he murmured, leaning low in the saddle to lift her hand to his lips. «And when I return, ye’ll be mine in every way. My word on it.»

«I shall be here, my lord. Hurry back to me, for I cannot wait to be your bride!» It was true, at least in part. She could not wait to see him again.

Aislinn fanned herself with her hand as her mistress’ suitor, his kinsmen and his servants rode forth from Glenkilly keep, hooves clattering against the cobbles.

«Oh, the way he looked at you, my lady. Why, he fairly gobbled you up with his eyes. I thought I should swoon!»

«I don’t think ‘gobbling’ was quite what he had in mind,» Siobhan murmured, her own hand flying nervously to her throat. A wicked half-smile played about her lips. Imagining what her betrothed was thinking left her almost as breathless as his kisses.

«What was it your man said last night?» Lord Diarmaid frowned. «Something about a giant wolf. What wolf did he mean, Siobhan? And what late lambs was he talking about? Is the poor lad tetched in the head, then?»

«It is nothing to worry about, Father. Truly. I’ve taken care of it. Go and rest, now, dear man. You look tired,» she urged, shepherding him back inside to the comfort of his carved chair and the fireside.

If truth be told, she was still vexed with her father. He had not told her that he had set her bride price, nor that he was accepting offers for her hand. Instead, she had been the very last to know of his plans for her.

Still, it was possible the old fellow had forgotten the arrangements he’d made, just as he’d forgotten to tell her about them. Lately, he forgot a great many things, including that her mother was dead. He would spend ages wandering the keep, looking for her, calling her name.

«Rest, ye say? But, I just got up,» the old fellow grumbled in protest. «Did I not, Siobhan?» Nowadays, he could never be sure.

After the old man had been settled comfortably before the hearth with his drinking cup — the hollowed skull of one of his enemies, polished and set with precious jewels — in one fist, and a wineskin within easy reach of the other, Aislinn drew Siobhan aside.

«What are you going to do when Lord Colm returns, my lady? You’ll have to marry him then. You won’t be able to keep putting him off. He won’t let you, not that one.» Aislinn would love to see her mistress given her comeuppance by Colm mac Connor.

«No,» said Siobhan with a rueful smile. The back of her hand still tingled from his farewell kiss. She shivered. «He won’t.»

«Then whatever shall ye do?»

«I don’t know.» Siobhan sighed. «I suppose I must cross that bridge when I come to it.»

Siobhan fretted and worried about Colm mac Connor for the next three days. She could not sleep a wink for thinking of him! And with every passing moment, she came to love him just a little bit more, although she had known him only a short while.

She had heard it was possible to fall in love with a man at first sight, but had not believed it — until now. Now, she thought it was quite possible, quite possible indeed.

She dreamed of Colm, too, when she finally fell into a fitful sleep. Dreamed of how it had felt to lie beneath him in the forest, his weight heavy on her. Of the taste of his mouth, and the scent of his skin. Aye, and she burned for him, ached for him, as she lay in her bed, alone.

She pretended the soft fur of her coverlet was his passionate embrace, its heavy weight his powerful arms enfolding her. And she wept with longing.

By the fourth day, she was sick with worry. Had she sent Colm to his death? Would he be attacked by a giant wolf that had not been seen on her father’s lands for at least a half-decade or more? Would he and his party be set upon by murdering brigands, or attacked by a ferocious wild boar? Would they all be killed because of this wild goose — wild wolf — chase she’d invented?

«It is no use! I cannot just sit here and wait, Aislinn!» she wailed. «I am grown ill with worry for my dearest lord. I must see with my own eyes that he is well.»

«Hmph. Ye should have thought of that before you sent him away, I’m thinking,» the serving wench muttered.

«What? What was that?» Siobhan demanded, sharply yanking one of Aislinn’s tawny braids. «Tell me, or I’ll pinch you!»

«Ouch! Nothing, my lady. Nothing. I was just humming a jig. The one Lord Colm’s cousin, Finn, played at your betrothal, remember?» But then she saw what Siobhan was up to. «Oh, no, mistress! You’re not going to do it again?»

But she was.

«On wings of white / Pray, let me fly!» Siobhan chanted softly, her green eyes gleaming in the rushlight. «Mistress of / The azure sky! / By the magic / In my blood / Change me!» As it did whenever Siobhan cast her shape-shifting spells, the air grew very still. It was as if the bower was holding its breath.

Aislinn held her breath, too.

The fire on the hearthstone ceased snapping and crackling.

The shadows on the walls leaped up, became dragons, giants, wizards and other monstrous creatures.

Aislinn heard tinkling in the distance, like fairy laughter, or the chiming of tiny bells. Sounds that came from the Otherworld.

The fine hairs rose on the back of her neck as light streamed from Siobhan’s fingertips. Eyes closed now, like a priestess of the Moon, lost in a trance, Siobhan beckoned the light to come to her, to surround her.

And it came.

The golden aura slowly expanded, until it limned Siobhan from head to toe.

A second later, she melted into the deep shadows and was gone!

Straightway, Aislinn heard a fierce whirring of wings. Something heavy — something alive — landed on Aislinn’s shoulder. She screamed, and tried to bat it off her with her fists.

«Stop!» she heard Siobhan’s sharp command in her head. «Stop, Aislinn, else I’ll change you into a mouse and eat you!»

Aislinn stopped flailing, although the snowy hawk’s sharp talons dug painfully into her flesh.

She had no fondness for birds. Nor did she like the way this one perched on her shoulder, peering at her right eyeball with its own beady ones as if selecting a tasty morsel for its supper.

Aislinn jerked her head to one side, as far from the hawk’s beak as she could get. «As you will, my lady. Oh, there’s a bloody mark upon your. your wing!»

«Enough! Carry me outside where I may fly free!»

The sun was setting in the west when Aislinn went out into the courtyard, carrying the heavy white hawk on her wrist.

«You must tell everyone I am sick with heartache that my lord has gone. Tell them I have taken to my bed,» Siobhan instructed, «and cannot be comforted.»

«How long will you be gone?» Aislinn wondered aloud, imagining the merry times she could have with her friends while her mistress was away.

«As long as it takes. And while I’m gone, you can busy yourself sorting and hanging the herbs we gathered. Take the acorns to the mill for grinding into flour. Oh, and spread fresh rushes in my bower, too. Now, what was that about a red mark on my wing?»

«Nothing, my lady. Will there be anything else, my lady?» Aislinn asked, tight-lipped. There was a rebellious edge to her tone.

«No. I don’t think so. Just do whatever needs doing. And there’s to be no gossiping and silliness with those wretched serving wenches while I’m gone!»

Beady golden eyes looking down her cruel curved beak, Siobhan gave her servant a fierce glare.

With those parting words, the white hawk rose up on her talons and spread her snowy wings. She flapped, beating the air, nearly putting out Aislinn’s eye as she lifted off from the girl’s wrist.

Up, up, up, Siobhan climbed, a shrill cry of peeeeeewhit! peeeeeewhit! bursting from her hawk’s throat as she soared.

She rose higher and higher into the streaming orange, red and charcoal sunset until it seemed her snowy feathers were gilded by fire.

«Fare thee well and good riddance, my lady!» Aislinn muttered. She rudely stuck out her tongue. «Pray, take your time. Don’t hurry back on my account!»

Siobhan passed the night in a round stone tower. It rose from a grassy headland that faced seaward. The tall conical tower, called St Kieran’s Tower by the local people, was her favourite place. She went there whenever she wanted to be alone.

Monks had built the tower over a hundred years ago to keep out the Viking invaders who came to steal their religious treasures. To date, it had served them well. Glenkilly had not been sacked, razed or robbed.

Ousting a startled barn owl, Siobhan took up her perch with her head tucked under her wing. Exhausted, she quickly fell asleep, only to dream of mice and voles and rabbits.

She awoke as the sun was rising, lighting a shimmering trough of silver across the glassy grey of St George’s Channel.

Spreading her wings, she soared up into the pearly pink-and-lemon washed dawn, wheeled once over Glenkilly Bay, where the seals and sea otters were playing, and flew north.

Below her, she could see fishermen, already hard at work, mending their nets and patching their coracles despite the early hour and the sharp nip in the air. Then, with a shrill cry, she headed deeper into the mountains, beyond which lay the Viking stronghold of Dublin. It was the direction Colm had taken.

It had been only four days since he rode forth from her father’s keep, yet already she ached for the sight of him.

I love him, she thought with a sense of wonder. I truly love him — yet my love will prove his undoing!

Riding the wind, she glided on, wheeling and stooping through the heavens as if she had been born a she-hawk, rather than a mortal woman bound to the earth.

Never had she enjoyed her shape-shifter’s powers more than she did in that moment. To soar above land and sea, riding the four winds, with the valleys and mountains an ever-changing tapestry of colours and textures far below was a wondrous gift; one that ordinary mortals were not blessed to enjoy.

The land that was Eire spread out beneath her in green and unending beauty.

To the east, dense forests of oaks and firs clustered between gently rounded mountains and beautiful little valleys, like Glenkilly. Tiny villages of wattle and daub, or cottages of dark grey stone thatched with straw were scattered between them, as were larger farmhouses, with the flocks and herds that had survived the autumn cull grazing in the pastures.

Several small monasteries and miniscule churches of grey stone, and ornate stone crosses etched with ancient spiral patterns, showed that the old gods, the pagan gods she followed, such as Lady Moon, and the Tuatha Dé Danaan who lived beneath the ground, were losing their followers, one soul at a time, to the Christian God.

Was her betrothed a pagan or a Christian?

She did not know.

Would he care that she followed the old gods? Or that she possessed powers that came from the Otherworld? Again, she did not know.

Rivers twisted and turned between the stubbled fields like shining ribbons. Lakes gleamed like looking glasses of polished silver. And, bordering it all, to the east, lay St George’s Channel.

Once, Siobhan thought she glimpsed dark vessels on the hazy lavender horizon — vessels that looked much like Viking drakkars, or dragon ships. Their dreadful serpent prows reared high above the water, screaming defiance at the evil spirits of storm and sea. Their sails of red-and-white striped wadmal splashed a vivid threat across the horizon.

But, when she looked again, the ominous vessels had vanished as if they had dropped off the edge of the world.

She must have imagined them, she decided. Or perhaps what she’d seen had been a small flotilla of merchant vessels, bound for Waterford to the south. After all, it had been many years since the first Vikings had sailed up the east-coast inlets to attack Irish ports, or places with wealthy monasteries, like Glenkilly.

Those early invaders had stayed, married Irish women, or brought their Norse kinswomen over the sea from Denmark and Norway to marry Irish men. Norse and Irish now lived side by side, in peace and harmony.

It was not until the next day that she caught sight of Colm and his two cousins, camped by a lake. Of the remainder of his company — horses, hounds and servants — there was no sign.

She drifted lower and lower, riding upon the air currents, until she found a perch in an oak tree close to Colm’s campfire.

From her perch, she eavesdropped as Colm talked with his cousins, Fergus and Finn.

«The beast is twice the size of Bram,» Colm was saying. Bram was the shaggy wolfhound that followed him more faithfully than his own shadow. «Or bigger.»

«Aye, and ’tis a she-wolf,» Finn said. «I expected Airgead to be a male, from what the shepherds told us.»

«A bitch is more deadly,» Fergus observed. «This one has a litter of whelps to feed. That snare about her throat makes hunting no easy task. ’Tis why she’s killing the late lambs. They are easy prey.»

Colm nodded. The three of them had tracked Airgead, an enormous silver wolf, to a farmer’s pasture less than a half-league from their camp. The wolf had been crouched over the carcass of a dead lamb, its jaws stained crimson with blood.

Turning to face them, the wolf’s baleful yellow eyes had ignited, glowing like embers, challenging the hunters to draw closer at their own risk. Baring her pointed fangs, she snarled deep in her throat.

They had fallen back, allowing Airgead to take the dead lamb in her jaws, and flee unharmed towards the mountains with her prize.

Colm, Fergus and Finn had continued on alone, tracking the huge wolf’s paw prints to a cave in the foothills of the Wicklow mountains. Inside were five cubs. To Colm’s eyes, they had appeared half-starved.

The hungry whelps had fallen eagerly on the meat their mother provided, growling and yelping as they devoured the lamb’s carcass.

Before long, each cub’s muzzle was bloodied, each lean belly swollen with food.

When the exhausted mother had dropped down to the cave floor to rest, Colm and Fergus, watching from a nearby thicket, discovered why the wolf, though a giant, was only skin and bones beneath her silver-and-black pelt.

A metal snare was wound so tightly about its throat, the beast could hardly breathe, let alone eat. The silver-and-black fur of its mane had been worn away by constant chafing, which had left its throat constricted and raw. In parts, the metal snare was deeply embedded in the wolf’s flesh.

Unable to hunt or eat her fill, the she-wolf was dying a slow painful death.

«In the morning, we will bait our trap, then lie in wait. Before day’s end, I’ll have Airgead’s pelt draped over my saddle, and we’ll return to Glenkilly in triumph. And on Samhain Eve, I shall take the lady Siobhan as my bride, as planned,» Colm said with relish. «I— whoa!»

All three men reached for their daggers at the furious sound of wings flapping, bushes rustling. Colm sprang to his feet. Dagger in hand, he strode across the clearing.

«Show yourself, rogue, else suffer for it!»

But instead of the outlaw he expected, Colm saw only the white hawk.

It had fallen from its perch in the oak tree, and was flopping clumsily around like a wet hen.

He laughed. Its loud squawks sounded more like a chicken than a hawk. And who had ever heard of a hawk falling from its perch?

Slipping leather jesses from a pouch at his waist, he harnessed the struggling, screeching hawk by the legs before it could escape him, slipped a hood of soft suede over its head to calm it, then set the hawk upon his gauntleted fist.

«Nicely done, cousin! You’ve got yourself a fine hawk there.»

«Aye,» Colm agreed, stroking the hawk’s snowy breast. He could feel its heart beating frantically beneath his touch. Was the bloody wound on its right wing the reason it had fallen? Was it injured, was that it?

In that instant, he could have sworn he heard a faraway tinkling sound, like that of fairy laughter, or chiming bells.

The fine hairs on the back of his neck stood up.

First, there had been the white doe with the bright splash of blood on its shoulder that he’d chased and lost.

That same evening, his betrothed had complained of a bloody scratch on her right shoulder.

«And now, a hawk, similarly marked on its right wing.

You know, Fergus, what this hawk lacks in intelligence,» he said loudly, «she makes up for in beauty, does she not? A man could ask no more than that from a wife, eh?» He grinned.

«Peeewhit!» the hawk screeched indignantly.

Fergus threw back his head and laughed. «She understood ye, cousin.»

«Aye,» said Colm thoughtfully. «I think she did. Will you sup, my pretty?» he asked, drawing a strip of raw venison from his pack.

He offered the bloody meat to the hawk.

But instead of tearing eagerly at the deer meat, the hawk recoiled. She chittered and opened her beak wide, as if she was gagging.

«Well, I’ll be! Did you ever see a hawk refuse raw meat?» Fergus exclaimed, bushy red brows raised. «Fancy that!»

«A hawk, no. But a dove—?» Colm grinned. «Aye, I did. Perhaps a well-cooked snail or a roasted worm would be more to my lady-hawk’s liking?»

«What?»

«Nothing, cousin,» Colm said, returning Siobhan to her perch. The hawk’s rejection of the bloody meat had confirmed his suspicions. His lovely fey Siobhan was a shape-shifter. The question now was what should he do about it? «Nothing at all.»

Airgead, crouched in a thicket of trees across the forest clearing, threw back her head to scent the chill night air.

She had followed the rich scent of the humans back to their lair. She watched them now with hungry golden eyes, licking her chops as they rolled themselves into blankets about the campfire.

From the forest in the foothills, Airgead could hear her brothers’ full-throated chorus to Lady Moon. Their mournful howls echoed through the amethyst dusk.

Soon, moonlight would dapple the forest with coins of white and silver, and Airgead would be invisible. Only then, when the moon was at its highest, would she hunt.

Her babies were hungry.

Siobhan was dozing in her roost when Airgead came, slipping through the moon-dappled shadows like a wraith.

She could see nothing, thanks to the soft hood over her head that blinded her, but she could hear the stealthy rustling as the she-wolf approached the three men, asleep by the fire.

Frantic to warn them, Siobhan stretched herself to her fullest height and beat her wings as hard and as fast as she could. She screeched a loud, «Peeeewhit! Peeewhit!»

Colm heard the frantic hawk as if from a great distance away. Her harsh cries echoed through his dreams.

He awoke as Airgead leaped on him, going for his throat. Her amber eyes were like twin coals, the burning eyes of a demon. Strings of saliva dripped from her jaws.

Colm thrust his forearm into her mouth, forcing her still powerful jaws apart. He flung the wolf over, on to her back, and would have leaped after her if Fergus had not rapped her across the skull with his club.

The beast fell with only a yelp.

Fergus quickly drew his dagger. Crouching down, he grasped the wolf’s muzzle, and jerked its head back. He would have slit its throat, had Colm not stopped him.

«Wait! She has done no wrong. It is in her blood, a part of her very nature. If her whelps are to live, then so must she. Remove the snare, then run her off with a brand from the fire. She will not seek out such easy prey when she is healed.»

Siobhan gasped, astounded by Colm’s compassion.

In that moment, the spell was broken.

«My lady! Where did you come from?» Fergus asked, slack-jawed to see her over Colm’s shoulder. He looked astonished. The Lady Siobhan had appeared from nowhere! «And where did the hawk go?»

«Those questions are ones we shall leave for the morrow, cousin,» Colm cut in smoothly. «My lady? You must be cold?»

«I am, yes. Just a little.»

He removed his tartan mantle, and draped it around Siobhan’s shoulders. She was shivering, for the night was chill and her thin white kirtle was no thicker than an under-chemise. She smiled gratefully. «Thank you.»

«And hungry, too, I’m thinking?»

She eyed him askance, remembering the bloody venison, and gave a delicate shudder. «Not at all.»

He smiled.

«Remember the shepherd’s hut we passed yesterday?» Colm asked Fergus. «I will take my lady there, that she may pass the night in comfort. Meet us there at dawn, with the others. I would be back in Glenkilly by sunset tomorrow.»

«Dawn it shall be. Goodnight, my lady. Colm.»

Fergus continued to stare after them long after they had walked away.

The shepherd’s tumbledown cottage was a poor place of spiders, cobwebs and mice, but better than sleeping outside in the frosty air. Siobhan was glad that it was too dark for her to see much of anything, for mice and spiders might not be her only companions. The only light was the full moon’s light that spilled through the ruined walls. The only sound was the solemn hooting of hunting owls, and the rustling of the trees in the night wind.

While Colm lit a fire of twigs, she took his mantle and spread it across the dirt floor, before kneeling on it.

The fire started, Colm followed her down to the floor. Finding both her hands in the darkness, he took them in his own. He drew her cold hands to his lips, kissed each one, then drew her against his chest and cradled her in his arms. His body warmed her.

«Love me,» she whispered. «Take me, my lord!»

«When we are wed, then shall you be mine, and not before. Sleep, my sweet.»

«Colm? Do you know. what I am? What I can do?» Perhaps she could use her gift to frighten him off, make him think twice about marrying her. He would be safe then.

«I think I do, aye.»

«And you still want me for your bride?»

«More than anything. It is in your blood, this magic you have, this power. It is your nature, a part of who you are. To love you is to love all of you. And I do.»

Hearing his simple declaration of love, tears filled her eyes. «There is something else I must tell you, my love.»

«You need not tell me any»—

«No, no, I must. You see, when I was a little girl, my mother bade me ask a skrying glass to show me my future husband on our wedding day. The man I saw reflected in the glass 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 superstition, 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 glass was a toy for telling fortunes, something superstitious 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. God 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

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 pass.

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 Norsemen were armed to the teeth as they waded ashore. 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 gods 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 God 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 godless 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 glass 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 glass, mistress.»

«No! Never again! That wretched glass 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 glass 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 passing 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 glass? 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 glass to St Kieran’s Tower. There, she propped it against the tower wall.

Standing before the ebony glass 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 glass, 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 shore 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 glass to look out of the window — and saw the same scene as that reflected in the glass.

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 shore without missing a step.

It had come to pass, just as the skrying glass 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 shore 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 shore 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 shore 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 gods, 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 nobody’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.