The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance

Patricia Rice Beyond the Veil

Connacht Region, Ireland — 161 AD

A blast of wind and hail burst from the roiling black clouds, battering bodies crumpled in a sea of red. Rain lashed at the valley and the grassy mound rising above the fallen warriors, as if to wash away the stench of death. But the carrion crows already gathered.

Mortally wounded and bleeding profusely, one soldier determinedly staggered up the greensward, away from the battle scene. Caught sideways by a fierce gust of hail and rain, he sagged to one knee. But his will was mightier than the storm. With gasping breath, he dug his fingers into a boulder and hauled his big body up again. A cut across his cheekbone bled freely down his square jaw and into his long, wet hair, staining it a deeper shade of auburn.

The great sword slung across his back dripped with the blood of his enemies, but Finn mac Connell knew, in the end, they had killed him. Others like him, warriors all, the kind of which legends are made, lay slaughtered in the valley below. The battle had been won, but at a high cost.

Finn lurched on to a rocky path, his gaze fixed on the wooden fort at the top of the hill, where he’d left his wife. The women and children had fled with the cattle to the woods and hills when the battle arrived at their doorstep. But Niamh had been in childbed.

He had fought furiously to protect his home so he might return to the woman who owned his heart, and the child she was about to bear.

He prayed to all the gods that she was safe. In response, the gale blew so wildly, Finn stumbled backwards, but he fought for his balance and pushed onwards. The gnarled Druid Oak sheltered him momentarily, allowing him to fill his lungs, giving him the strength to continue, although the gash in his side was deep, and he’d lost more blood than any normal man could survive.

No smoke curled from the chimney. She would be freezing in this blustery damp air. He would start a fire for her before he left — because he knew he was not long for this world. But Niamh must live. And his child. Without them, he had no home to defend, and brave men had died for nought.

Using his sword to hold himself upright the last few steps, Finn pushed open the crude plank door of his home.

At the sight within, his roar of rage and agony surpassed the thunder, bringing him to his knees at last.

Niamh, his beautiful black-haired Niamh, lay in a bed of blood, her usually rosy cheeks now as pale and still as the winter snows. Her once flashing eyes stared lifelessly at the ceiling. Her warm smile would never greet anyone again.

The warrior crossed his arms on the timber bed and buried his face against them. He was not a man who wept, but his heart howled like an infant—

Like an infant. His head shot up, causing his long hair to swipe the tattered shoulders of his tunic. The cry was real! Alive. Bellowing with hunger and rage — the cry of a warrior’s son.

Pressing his hand to Niamh’s cold forehead, he blessed her, kissed her cheek and closed her eyes.

With his last fading breath and hope, he lifted the cover concealing his son. Niamh had wrapped him in swaddling clothes and kept him warm for as long as she’d had life in her body, sacrificing her fading strength to save their child.

Hugging the howling babe to his chest, the newly widowed warrior wept, and prayed, «Aoibhinn, please, save my son, take him to your bosom, care for him as your own so that I may follow my heart.»

«And lose the finest warrior that ever walked this land?» a harsh voice asked from the doorway. «I think not, Fionn mac Connell. If you wish to save the child, you must do so yourself. Stand like a man and come with me.»

He had no choice. Much as he’d rather die beside his beloved Niamh, he could not let his son, Niamh’s flesh and blood, die here cold and alone. With the last of his strength, Fionn stood, huddling the now quiet babe.

The wraith in the doorway gestured impatiently.

Accepting that he left the mortal world for the one beyond, Fionn followed the cloaked figure in grey out of the door he’d just entered — into a world that looked like his own but wasn’t.

The wind and hail that had rattled the walls miraculously vanished — to reveal a sun shining in a sky of brilliant blue. Flowers danced in the valley where blood had moistened the trampled earth. The Druid Oak stood young and healthy, shading the richly garbed fae on their fine horses, awaiting his arrival.

The wound in Fionn’s side had already begun to heal. He knew he had to pay a price for this peace, but for his son — for Niamh’s son — he would forfeit whatever they demanded.

On the other side of the Veil, in the real world, a high keening shrieked over the roar of thunder.

Connacht Region, Ireland — 1161 AD

Anya O’Brion listened to the keening of the bean sí and shivered. She feared, in another few minutes, the wraith would have reason to wail again. The fine tapestries, rich panelling and precious gold adorning the high-ceilinged chamber could not stop Death.

Tears sliding down her cheeks, Anya sat on the bed beside her sister-in-law, holding Maeve’s frail, cold hand. The keening could be dismissed as the wind on a blustery night such as this, but Anya knew it was not. The bean sí always recognized the death of an O’Brion, and the stillborn child in the cradle was the last of them, except for Anya herself.

The priest called the sídhe «fallen angels», but Anya had been born with the caul, and had seen the Other World before she’d breathed her first breath. She would not call the fae ones by any name but «Good Neighbours». She did not worship their ancient gods of the earth, but she respected their ways.

She knew her family thought her soft in the head for believing in the old tales, so she’d learned not to speak of what she saw. Instead, she had trained to become the tough, decisive ruler required of a king’s daughter. That did not stop her from hearing the bean sí’s cry and feeling the hairs rise on the back of her neck as the spirits walked.

Maeve whispered incoherently and attempted to squeeze Anya’s hand. The rising wind rattled at the windows. Murmuring a prayer, Breeda, both maid and midwife, shook her head sadly while removing sheets soiled by birthing.

Outside the richly panelled door of this tower room, guards waited, guards who would report to the household with great joy if an heir was born to their recently murdered king, Anya’s brother.

If Maeve did not bear a son, those same guards would lay down their swords and swear fealty to a man Anya despised with all her heart and soul. The man whose consort she would become once the heir was reported stillborn, and she became the last remaining O’Brion to defend her family’s keep.

«Sleep, Maeve,» Anya said soothingly, shoving aside her own fears to reassure the dying Queen. «You have done well. You’ve borne a son and heir. You have done your duty. Rest easy.»

Not quite a lie. Heaven would surely not deny her for easing a dying woman’s heart. Feverish, Maeve still fretted at the sheets.

For her father’s people, Anya was prepared to stand steadfast and do her duty, but her soul would surely wither within her, piece by little piece, once she was wedded to the Beast who had killed so many of her family. As he had killed her father and brother.

The tears slid off her cheek to fall on the simple tunic she’d worn to aid in the birthing. Turning away from Maeve, Anya gazed helplessly at the still, cold form, swathed in white linen, in the cradle at her feet. Even in death, a king’s heir would not lie naked. The boy had dark hair, like his mother. Born early, he’d been too frail to breathe so much as a single breath. Her nephew, the king-who-was-meant-to-be, had passed from the womb directly to heaven.

As she wept over the dead infant, the air over the cradle began to shiver with translucent blues and reds.

Recognizing that ethereal shimmer, Anya pressed the back of her hand to her mouth, hiding her gasp. She had not seen this so close since childhood, when others had laughed at her foolish visions. She was no longer a child, but still, she was aware when the fae pierced the Veil between this world and the next. She knew when the faerie court went riding.

To her knowledge, they had never before entered the castle.

Muttering and shaking out fresh linen, the midwife had her back to the bed. Only Anya could see the cradle rock. Transfixed, she watched the shimmer form a fog that hid the child within. Surely, a dead child could not move? Her heart raced, and she feared to stir.

The mist parted, and a man appeared. Biting her tongue to keep from crying out, she studied the apparition standing tall, straight and strong. Hair the dark red of drying blood fell to his shoulders. A scar marred his harsh jaw. No smile softened his expression, but as he leaned over the cradle and rocked it, the streak of a single tear glistened, as if he wept for the dead King.

Standing again, he caught her eye, nodded and vanished.

In the cradle, the new King whimpered hungrily.

Anya froze, until the midwife swung around at the sound. She breathed again that she was not imagining what she had seen. Or heard.

Seeing the cradle rock, Breeda cried out to all the blessed saints and hurried across the room, her gnarled hands wrapped in her apron, her face lit with disbelief.

«It is a miracle, Breeda,» Anya whispered. Terrified her anguish had led her to visions of what she wanted, and not what was, Anya leaned over to touch the crying child. The live child. She could feel his warmth and solidity. Tufts of dark hair crowned his delicate skull, just as she’d noticed earlier. She unwrapped his perfect limbs, and strong feet kicked at his covers. A tiny fist popped deliberately into a rosebud mouth.

But even though his limbs had been hidden, Anya knew this was not the puny infant that had been delivered dead a few minutes ago. This one was healthy and strong.

Committing the first lie of her new life, Anya placed the changeling against the Queen’s breast. «Your son, Maeve, your beautiful son.»

The Queen died with a smile of peace upon her pale lips.

And the bean sí wailed again.

Fionn stood outside the stone bailey wall of the grand castle that had been built on the hill where his timber fort had once stood. With the passage of time in the Other World, he’d buried the melancholy of losing all he knew and loved. But now, he had to let his son go — to mature in the human world where he belonged. He grieved mightily at the loss of his boy.

Below him, he could see that the Druid Oak was gone, no doubt reduced to ash for a winter fire as people forgot the old ways. The greensward had worn to a barren hill of rock beneath the passage of so many horses and carts — prosperity took its toll. At the foot of the hill, a ditch had been half completed — a fine defence once it was finished and filled with water. Aobinnhe had been kind in choosing a time when his son could return to his rightful position.

He could leave now. Should leave. He was no longer chieftain here. He was from the past, a time forgotten. He had watched from the safety of the Other World as battles were fought and won, new gods were worshipped, new families ruled. Time did not change the dimension he inhabited. He was the same now as he had been then, but the human world had moved on.

But he still possessed a warrior’s fierce heart, and a warrior protected his own. Fionn had heard the bean sí’s cry, seen the worried face of the lass inside as she sat beside her dying queen. All was not well here.

The lass had not been frightened when he’d appeared. Fionn smiled for the first time in a long, long time. He wanted a woman of courage to care for his son, a woman who might understand that the old ways had passed but the gods lived still beyond the Veil.

Aware of the pounding of the distant sea and the rising dawn, Fionn called his horse from the Other World and waited for the sounds of jubilation and mourning to ring inside the castle.

His duty to his son was not yet done.

«Your Highness,» the elderly steward said, interrupting the prayers in the Queen’s chamber.

The steward had come from the formal courts of France and could not be convinced that the Irish did not bow to titles. He lost his bearings and grew confused unless he was «my lording» or «your highnessing» someone, and Anya had grown accustomed to his ways. She looked up from rocking her nephew, no longer annoyed with the man. How could anyone be annoyed while holding the future in her arms?

«Yes, François, what is it?»

«There’s a knight outside, says he’s been sent by the High King to serve the new O’Brion. His mantle is lined with fur, and the fibula must be pure gold! Shall I bring him here?» The last was asked dubiously since the upper chamber was filled with keening women.

Honouring a knight of the High King would be Anya’s first duty as the new King’s guardian. She had to play the part of ruler well or lose the respect she must command until the child could lead on his own. A daunting task for a gentle woman who would feed on dreams if allowed, but one to which she’d been raised.

«I will meet him in the hall, of course. Summon Garvan, if you will, and any of the other knights with him. Have the kitchen provide suitable fare for a man who has travelled far. I will be down shortly.»

Anya’s Norman mother had introduced many of the French ways to the O’Brion stronghold, but Conn the High King was pure Irish warrior. His men would not be gallant knights. Calling for scented water and her richest tunic and mantle, Anya pondered whether or not she should accept this «gift» of service. Did Conn mean for his knight to rule the O’Brions in the absence of a male O’Brion leader? If so, did she dare turn him away?

The maids wrapped silver ribbons in her long, blonde hair and one fastened the triple spiral gold fibula to her blue wool mantle. Anya owned nothing so fine as fur but would not have worn animals on her back anyway. Even her shoes were of matted felt and not leather. Her kingly brother had laughed at her odd ways, but her mother had seen the caul when Anya was born and accepted that her daughter was more attached to the natural world than most.

«Jewellery, please,» she told the maids eagerly arranging the red and gold striped train of her best gown. She might eschew fur, but her people produced the finest linens in the world.

«The queen’s jewellery?» one maid asked hesitantly.

«It was my mother’s,» Anya agreed. «Let us impress the High Court with our elegance so they do not think us weak barbarians.»

By the time she’d been fastened into torque and bracelets of gold delicately wrought to fit slender throat and limbs, Anya was anxious to meet the knight sent to honour her nephew. Anxious — and afraid.

She bent to kiss the infant nursing at the breast of a wet nurse. None would believe her tale of the child’s birth even should she relate it, so she had not spoken of what she’d seen. Straightening her mantle, she proceeded down the four flights of stairs to the castle’s great hall. Conscious that this would be her first appearance as the O’Brion leader, she held her head high and her shoulders straight, determined to make her ancestors proud.

Surely the whole army had turned out to meet the newcomer! The hall was packed with men milling about, pounding each other on the back, elbowing each other to silence as she entered. Her father and brother would have been right there with them, pounding and shouting.

She swallowed hard as the room silenced. Breeda held the train of her striped gown from the flagstone floor. No rushes rotted under the toes of the O’Brion ladies these days. The silence continued as Anya climbed to the dais where her father, and later, her brother, had sat at the head table. Two ornately carved, high-backed chairs faced the hall, with the enormous hearth at their backs.

Garvan, as her brother’s best friend and chief warrior, dropped to one knee and held his blade across his chest, declaring his fealty to the O’Brions, if not necessarily to her. Behind him, all the other men did the same. Except one.

Taller than any other man in the hall, wider of shoulder, an auburn-haired stranger in fur-lined mantle stood in the shadows of the hearth, watching her as if she were some new form of animal, not quite cat or dog. Anya wished she’d worn her hair up so she might look older and more commanding, but she’d been in a hurry — to meet this disrespectful oaf?

Instead of wearing his sword belted at his side, she could see he wore his weapon hung over his back like an uncivilized churl, despite all his finery. And his clothing was very grand, indeed, although not as fine as the form that wore it.

Realizing she stared, Anya settled into Maeve’s slightly smaller chair and beckoned the newcomer to approach the dais. She spoke three languages. She hoped he spoke at least one of them.

He stepped from the shadows of the hearth into the light of the candlelit iron chandelier and made his bow, not quite so courtly a one as Garvan’s, but fair enough. When he straightened, the light fell full on his face, and Anya inhaled with shock.

His jaw was scarred in the same manner as the vision she’d seen last night over the cradle. His stature was as broad and tall as she remembered. What meant this? Was he a ghost? Or a portent?

She had the urge to reach out and touch him, to test his reality, but that would cause others to wonder if she’d lost her mind. Her grip tightened on the gilded chair arms. She wore a short sword in her girdle, and her father’s spear leaned against his chair. Her dream world clashed with reality. She was trained to face threats with weapon in hand, but she had seen this man weep for the child.

Deciding she did not act from a position of strength, she waited silently, as taught, learning all she could before showing her hand.

«Your name?» she asked in the language of her father’s Irish ancestors.

The handsome stranger hesitated at her question, as if considering how much truth to offer. Then bowing his head with respect, he replied, «Finn mac Connell, my lady.»

He spoke the old language and used the old name of mac Connell, son of Connell. Connells were once legendary gods and kings to whom the O’Brions had sworn fealty. These days, simmering enmity separated their descendants.

«I see,» she said coolly, although her thoughts raced ahead of her to dire situations that might require that the King place an enemy in her father’s stronghold. Or did the stranger lie? «Did His Majesty send a message with you?»

Again, the hesitation, as if he pondered every word before speaking it. She did not trust a man who could not speak from the heart. And she could not trust a man who had appeared in a vision, like one of the elusive, ever mischievous, Good Neighbours.

«His Majesty wishes to show his friendship for the new King of the O’Brions, and to offer his protection. I am at your service, my lady,» he finally replied with bold authority.

In this, she believed him. The vision had watched over the babe with tenderness. For all she knew, the next king of the O’Brions was fae born, since he was most certainly not Maeve’s. It did not matter. The child was all that stood between her clan and destruction. He needed all the protection she could summon.

She must see the boy christened immediately.

«Garvan.» She turned to the captain of her small army. «Have we a place for the King’s man?»

Garvan stepped forwards eagerly. Before he could say aye, the stranger had placed himself between Anya and her knight quicker than she could think.

She wrapped her fingers around the dirk in her belt and regarded his broad back. Did he think her so helpless that she could not stop him? Or did showing her his back mean he trusted her?

«My place is to serve the boy,» Finn declared firmly. «I will guard him with my life, but I will not guard him from the bottom of a mountain of stones. My place is beside him.»

Garvan’s hand went to his sword hilt. Finn merely crossed his massive arms and stood like the mountain of stones he scorned. There would be violence if Anya did not interfere. Did she side with her brother’s friend or a stranger?

Garvan’s men had not been able to protect her father or her brother. What chance did an infant have in their care? She had no reason not trust the vision who had wept over an infant. Yet.

«Pax,» Anya said softly, rising from her chair. «We have a funeral and a christening for which to prepare. If the High King sees fit to send his man here, let the mac Connell take his place on the landing. For now, the babe stays with his wet nurse in the women’s quarters, with me.»

Calling for the priest, she swept past the roomful of towering soldiers, aware that the largest of them all followed her to the stairwell.

The haughty wench hadn’t even introduced herself, Finn recalled in amusement, watching the O’Brion princess carry his son down a chapel aisle to the waiting priest. He’d learned her name, of course, but name and title were unimportant in comparison to the woman who wore them. Before he left, he needed to know she could defend and care for the boy.

Anya O’Brion’s temerity alone ought to terrify half the men in the land. She’d stood at the head of a hall full of armed soldiers and commanded respect like a warrior queen, instead of a petite princess. Standing to one side of the altar so he might observe all who entered, Finn hid his grin. Even the goddess Brigid must approve of a woman who could slay grown men with her flashing eyes.

In his time, he’d left worship to the women. That men now commanded the sacred waters and prayed to male gods did not bother him. What bothered him was the tension he sensed in the chapel as Princess Anya kneeled before the priest, holding his son. They doubted her ability to lead them or protect their king — against what enemy?

Was this the price the Old Ones commanded for providing his son the home he deserved — knowing the boy must fight for his place? The Others did not speak plainly but left the consequences of Finn’s actions on his shoulders. He supposed they would smite him dead if he did not obey, but as far as Finn was concerned, he was already dead. He’d died with Niamh.

He glanced at the colourful glass in the chapel windows and wished it gone so he could see outside. How could a man protect his kin if he could not see all the land around him?

Hearing the thunder of hooves, he stepped from the shadows of the altar to stand directly behind the Princess, his sword and his knife crossed over his chest in warning.

The audience gasped at his warlike action, but in the next instant, others heard what he had. The men pushed for the exit, heading for the ramparts, Finn hoped.

«I christen thee Ardal Patrick Connor O’Brion, in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost,» the priest intoned, blithely ignoring the departing soldiers.

Finn did not recognize the name Patrick, but Ardal was a fine old name, and Connor was fitting for the son of a king. Conn was the origin of his own name. The Princess had chosen well. Now that the naming was done.

Finn grabbed the lady’s arm and hauled her from the floor. «Upstairs, now,» he ordered.

Holding the babe, she could not reach for her knife, although he saw murder in her glare. She had eyes the colour of emeralds and hair of the finest flax. And a glower that would pierce stone walls. «Release me,» she whispered harshly.

«After I’m seeing you up the stairs, where no man can go without dying on my blade.» With determination, he rushed her down the aisle.

Rather than submit to the indignity of struggling with him, she hurried ahead as if fleeing the chapel were her idea. She shielded the boy with her heavy mantle as she walked, so Finn approved.

«They fly the Connolly flag,» a guard called from his post in the tower.

The slender woman under Finn’s hand jerked to a halt, forcing Finn to stumble rather than fall over her.

«I will not run from the Beast,» she announced. «Breeda, take Patrick to our chamber.» She placed the protesting bundle of flailing limbs into the hands of her gnarled old maid.

Finn scowled, unprepared for the two to separate. Did he follow his son or stay with the woman? Narrowing his eyes, he watched as the servant carried his son to safety, while the foolish Princess swung to meet some foe called the Beast.

«Are you run mad, woman?» he muttered. «Let the men do battle. Your place is with the boy.»

Her look of scorn would have melted iron. «Your place is with the King. Mine is to slaughter the man who has taken my family. I may start with that part of him that makes him male.» She drew a deadly dirk from her girdle and hid it between the folds of her mantle and tunic.

Finn winced as he caught her meaning. «And wouldn’t it help to be seeing what the man wants before emasculating him?» he asked dryly.

«I know what he wants, and he cannot have it. Emasculating is exactly what he deserves,» she said with satisfaction.

Finn could not resist a challenge like that. He’d have to stay with the mad Princess to see how this game was played. Planting himself in front of the tapestry concealing the stairs, sword in hand, he watched over the Princess Anya as she assumed her chair on the dais.

Well trained, the castle knights formed a phalanx around Anya as the visitors hailed the sentry on the wall.

«Order them to allow Connolly and one of his men in, no more,» she commanded. The moat hadn’t been completed, so there was no way to prevent riders reaching the walls. But horses couldn’t fit through the narrow aperture through which the sentries allowed visitors.

The men who strode in wore mail and helmets and strutted like peacocks. They were big men, without question, but Anya had known them all her life. They had small minds and only two thoughts in them — her, and the lands she now guarded for her nephew.

«You have come all this way to express your condolences?» she asked dryly. «Would you not have done better to bring your mother and sister so we might console together?»

Dubh Connolly removed his helmet to uncover thick black curls interspersed with grey. «I regret the passing of Queen Maeve,» he said gruffly. «How fares the child?»

«Very well,» Anya said sweetly, blessing the saints and the Others and all responsible for the child upstairs. She did not glance behind her at the giant guarding her hall, but for now, her blessing encompassed him as well. «Patrick shall be a fine, strong king someday.»

«But not this day,» Dubh stated bluntly. «And not for many years to come. Your father meant us to wed so that his lands and people would have a strong hand to guide them. I have come to claim my bride.»

Anya fingered the dirk in her skirts and imagined all the ways she could use it. But her choices were no longer her own. She had her father’s people to consider. For now, she must deny personal satisfaction. «It is grateful I am to so fine a man for his offer, but my father is dead. He is dead at the hand of your men, as is my brother. I do not think their wishes would be the same today as they may have been in the past.»

«It was fair battle, Anya,» Dubh declared. «We disagreed over boundaries. There would be no such disagreement between us. Marriage will bind our lands in one, and your nephew will be guarded well.»

«My nephew will be guarded better if he is nowhere near a man who kills me and mine!» Unable to hold her temper at his crass assumption that she was as stupid as he, Anya stood and grabbed her father’s great spear from its post.

Dubh did not look deterred. «You have no choice. You cannot lead your men to war against me.»

He was right. Every man in here knew he was right. They knew her as a dreamy child who spoke of Other Worlds and cried at bloodshed. She knew that did not make her weak, but that was hard to prove to men who only respected war.

Her hand tightened on the spear, desiring nothing so much in this world as to use it. And start a fight she couldn’t win.

The men around her dropped their hands to their sword hilts, and tension mounted.

«I can,» a deep voice declared — not loudly but with enough menace to turn every head.

In surprise, Anya loosened her grip on the spear as the High King’s man stepped forward, towering even over Dubh and his captain. Finn wore no mail, but he held with ease a sword broader than any in here. A weapon like that was meant to decapitate in one fell stroke.

He had said he was here to guard Patrick. Anya was fairly certain the High King would not approve of war between his chieftains as a means of protection. What price must she pay for his loyalty to her and not Conn?

Dubh Connolly clutched the sword hilt at his hip and studied her champion. «What man is this?» he asked suspiciously. «He is none of your father’s.»

«The High King sent him,» she said proudly. «He is a mac Connell. You might be thinking twice if you believe I must bow to your wishes.» The spear was heavy. Anya knew how to wield words better than weapons, but she understood the art of drama. She held the spear straight, with the point in the air, not threatening but warning.

«Conn said none of this to me.» A stubborn man, Dubh didn’t take the hint. «The High King desires our lands to be united. I think you have taken a viper into your nest.»

She would have been as suspicious as Dubh had she not seen the vision of the man with the tearstain on his rugged jaw. She prayed she was not victim of wishful thinking and let Finn speak for himself.

«No man bearing our forefathers’ name would threaten a woman,» Finn said in that deep baritone which commanded without bluster. «No man who calls himself a man would need to. There are far better ways of persuading women, and ashamed I am that a man of my name would not know them.»

May the saints preserve them, but he’d just thrown the gauntlet in the face of the clan chieftain as if he were High King himself! As thrilled as her woman’s heart might be at Finn’s bold declaration, Anya knew if she did not control this scene now, her men would be bowing to Finn.

«Garvan, I think you may escort Dubh to the door. He will no doubt be wishing to ask his women how they would like to be treated. I bid you good day, sir, and thank your family for their concern for our queen. The priest will hold prayers for her soul on the morrow.»

She did not offer to break bread with Dubh or his men. She would have to poison them if she did so. Anya watched as her troop formed to escort the enemy from her doors. Her knights were good men. She did not wish to lose them to battle. That was the reason women did not win wars.

With a sigh, she set down her spear to confront her new warrior. «What in all the heavens did you think you were about? ‘There are better ways of persuading women’,» she mimicked. «Are you after having the bastard court me?»

«It seemed one solution,» he replied without apology. «I like to think a Connolly would be an honourable man, and joining your lands rather than fighting over them is good for all.»

«Including the High King,» she said with disgust, understanding his ploy now. «I should have known not to trust any Conn or Connell. You may leave now, Finn of the Connells. I will fight my own battles, thank you.»

She pushed past him to the stairway, weeping inside, where none could tell. She did not possess a warrior’s heart. But it seemed she must develop one.

Not known for his obedience, Finn claimed his place on the landing between his son’s chamber and the great hall below and pondered his predicament. Resting his shoulders against the stone wall, he pinched the bridge of his nose and muttered, «Aoibhinn, how much time have I here?»

A grey mist swirled above the stairs. «As you are mortal here, not long,» she answered dryly. «Warriors do not live long lives, especially when they antagonize their neighbours. Have you not learned that by now?»

«A man does not let worms stand up and speak for him, or he is not a man,» he retaliated.

«Then use them to catch salmon.» The mist evaporated.

Finn would dip Dubh in the nearest river and let the salmon chew his toes if he thought that would work, but goddesses did not speak in literal terms. He had not lived as long as he had without learning a few lessons, though. The lady — and his son — needed him.

He also knew he didn’t wish to see a lady as courageous as the Princess be beaten into submission by a brutal cur like Connolly. The other chieftain was a handsome man, one some ladies might prefer. Finn had had to offer her the choice, but he hadn’t enjoyed it. Glad he was that she was smart enough to spit in her suitor’s face. But it would not do.

He stalked up the stairs and rapped at the top door. The old woman, Breeda, answered. He did not give her time to dismiss him but seeing over her shoulder, stepped forwards, forcing the maid back.

«We must speak,» he announced. «Come with me.»

The beautiful, golden-haired Princess raised shapely eyebrows but did not set aside her embroidery. «Breeda, call Garvan. I believe we have bats in the rafters.»

The women tittered, and Finn resisted growling and flinging the fool woman over his shoulder. He would have done so with Niamh, but his wife would have grabbed his buttocks and tormented him until he lay her down and took her in the grass. The haughty Princess would more likely stab him in the back.

So, he was not king of all he saw here. He did not possess pretty words any more than a pretty face. But he had not come this far to lose his son to a sweet smile and a sour attitude. «I have an urgent message you must hear. It is better spoken privately.»

«I am armed,» she warned, rising from her chair. Instead of immediately following him, she stopped to cover the infant in his cradle. «I learned to kill a man when I was only six. I do not fear using a blade.»

She lied. Anyone with half an eye could tell the gentle Princess might poison a man with words, but never gut one with steel. A good ruler should have no need to shed blood. She had the makings of an excellent queen.

«I do not wear armour,» he told her. «If you wish to kill me, you can. But for now, I am all that stands between you and a wolf hungry for power.»

«And wealth,» she conceded, taking up her mantle. «Come, I have need of herbs from the garden.»

Finn had forgotten the rich, musky scent of mortal women and the heat that pooled in his loins at the brush of soft skin against his callused palm. He’d been living in a perfect world of perfumed air, a timeless world without need or desire. Until now, he hadn’t missed the human impulse to reproduce, to make his surroundings better, to create new out of old. He wasn’t certain he wished to return to those driving urges again.

Except escorting the exquisite Princess Anya to the kitchen garden reminded him of how much he’d lost when he’d left his humanity behind.

«Do you believe in heaven?» she asked, lifting a reed basket and carrying it to the herb bed. «The priest says Maeve and my brother are watching over their babe from the clouds.»

«I am no priest, but yes, I believe Others watch over us,» he said honestly. «That does not mean they can help us if you think the ghost of your brother will slay your enemies for you.»

She granted him a scowl and crouched down to clip her herbs. «Your urgent message?»

Lost in the sharp scents of herbs and earth and woman, Finn had forgotten what he’d intended to say. The sun here was not the warm, golden light of the Other Side, but he enjoyed the brisk bite of the wind against his skin, recalling the days of flesh and blood — and what he could do with them. «You must catch salmon with bait,» he told her, recovering his rattled wits.

«I don’t eat salmon,» she informed him. «I do not eat the creatures of the field or sea. They have a right to live as much as I do.»

It was his turn to scowl. «And such fasting allows you to see things that you have no right to see. You saw me the other night when you should not have. Why do you not accuse me of being a demon?»

«If you are a demon, then I must accept that Patrick is one, too, and that I will not. If mortals see you, then you are real and as human as I. It is only the Others, the ones I glimpse through the Veil who are not human. Do they urge me to eat salmon?» she asked with curiosity.

«No, they bait me as they bait you,» he growled. «But they must approve of you if they have brought Patrick here.»

She nodded serenely as if they spoke of what meal they would have that evening and not the mysteries of the universe. «Thank you for being honest and not telling me I am imagining what I see. The priest would say that I speak with angels, or he would be forced to call me a heretic, but I know it is arrogance to believe we know everything. I certainly don’t know what you mean about salmon and bait.»

He crouched to help her with the basket, and an arrow hissed past his head, into the earth beneath the keep’s wall. Before she could so much as cry out, Finn flattened the Princess beneath him and rolled with her under the shelter of a garden bench. He could feel her heart thumping wildly, in tandem with his. He had not come here to die so ignobly.

The arrow had come from the bailey. Finn scanned the ramparts, noting scurrying figures but no archer.

«I can’t breathe,» the Princess said from under him. «If we’re being attacked, I need to reach my knife.»

Beneath him, she felt soft, warm, and curved in all the right places. Finn longed to forget archers and lose himself in her flesh. Lifting his weight on both elbows, he let his hips press against hers. Dodging death raised his appreciation of life. «I see no more archers. You may have a traitor among your sentries. And if you cannot reach your knife like this, then you are very badly trained.»

«You would teach me better?» Her fair features expressed more curiosity than fear.

«I would, after I throttle the traitor.» He rolled off her. «You are the bait. Choose your salmon and wiggle.»

Not wishing for further argument while someone wished to kill him, Finn flung the baffling woman over his shoulder, picked up her basket and carried both into the safety of the keep.

Choose her salmon and wiggle, Anya mused that evening, sitting at the head table, picking at her mushrooms and carrots while the others feasted on fish brought up from the sea. What a strange thing for a man to say, but then, Finn was not really a man, or was he?

He’d certainly felt as solid as any man. If she’d questioned his faeness before, she certainly could not after being shoved from the chapel, rolled under a bench, and carried over a brawny shoulder. Finn mac Connell was all muscled man.

She darted a look to the warrior apparently enjoying his meal. He’d smelled like a man when she’d been lying under him. He’d felt so alive, she could have sworn he’d been aroused. And she’d been too stupefied by her unexpected desire that she’d hardly understood that he could have died out there.

The meal was quieter than usual. While mead flowed freely and the feast was fit for a king, they’d hung one of their own this day — the first death of the battle ahead. The traitor had been caught and tried and justice done swiftly, as it must be. The archer had been kin of Connolly’s.

«There will be war, won’t there?» the late Queen’s lady-in-waiting asked from the seat at Anya’s right. Cailleagh had been lady to Anya’s mother as well as Maeve. She wore the black of mourning for the many lives lost this past decade.

There would be no war if Anya married Dubh and gave him all the wealth he lacked. His lands were rocky and not suited for farming. He fought viciously for every field of fertile ground he could claim. She understood how he thought and why. But his thinking was of the past. These days, they must fight the enemies that threatened from outside, not each other.

«There is always war,» Anya agreed. «It is choosing the right war that matters.»

If she married Dubh. She would have to kill him before he killed Patrick. She had been trained to defend herself, but she had never killed, for self-defence or any reason.

Her gaze strayed to the big man apparently enjoying the feast. He was of Faerie but not one of them. He was much too solid, too real. Surely, if he could enter the Other World, he had gifts far stronger than her own. He had protected her with his life, as he would protect Patrick.

She knew now what she must do, even though it broke her heart. She stood. Few noticed or cared. She quietly departed for the stairwell. Finn followed, as she’d known he would. Even though he’d been as lost in feasting and drinking as the others, he halted, for her. And for the infant.

She left him at his post on the landing and entered her chamber where the maids entertained a wide-awake babe. A beautiful babe, one she would claim as her own, if she could. Smiling as if she hadn’t a care in the world, she took the child king into her arms and cuddled him. He swung his little fist as if to touch and explore her. She already adored him with all her heart and soul, and tears filled her eyes as she carried him from the chamber, down the stairs.

Without questioning, Finn followed in her footsteps, outside to the secluded garden where she’d told her brother he could not build because the Good Neighbours rode through this place. A hidden door allowed them to pass through the wall unhampered. Her brother had laughed and called it a Faery gate, but she had felt the appreciation of their unreal Neighbours and known that the passage had been the right thing to do. The Others had inhabited this land well before mortals.

When they were alone in the moonlight, Anya turned and held the child out to Finn. It took all the strength in her to do so. «Take him where he will be safe, until he is full grown.»

As usual, he did not do as told but studied her with wariness. «A babe needs a woman to care for him. I cannot.»

«Salmon eat bait. If I am to be swallowed whole, then I cannot guarantee the child’s safety. I would rather die than lose him that way.» Tears sprang to her eyes, tears she hadn’t allowed herself to shed since she’d known the mantle of responsibility would fall on her frail shoulders. «I thank you for offering me this chance to escape my fate, but I see now that I was being selfish.»

«The child is mine,» he said resolutely. «I wish him to grow strong and true and take the place that is his birthright. He cannot do that from a place of weakness.»

«Yours?» Surprised, she gazed into the babe’s wide dark eyes, seeking a resemblance, but the warrior was hard and stern and the babe had yet to develop such character. Patrick gurgled and sucked his fist. And she loved him. Weeping, she offered the babe again. «I cannot protect him from Dubh. He is ruthless and single-minded. You must see that. If anyone must be sacrificed, it is I, not the child.»

At her words, Finn stared as if she had suddenly developed a halo and wings. He brushed her cheek with his knuckles and stared into her eyes. «Niamh?» he asked in a disbelieving whisper. «Have the Others brought me to you? I swear, no other would sacrifice herself for our son.»

Memories settled on Anya like a soft mantle, warming her heart and thoughts as she turned them inwards. «No one has called me that since.» She tried to recall. «I had a nurse once, a nurse who took me to see our Good Neighbours riding. They called me Niamh.» She looked at him oddly. «You know me?»

«From another time and place.» Finn stroked her face boldly, tenderly, testing the quality of her hair and skin but studying her eyes. «You do not look the same, but your heart. your heart is mine.»

Anya did not understand his words so well as his expression. Heart thudding at her daring, she stepped forwards, stood on her toes, and tested a kiss against his chiselled lips. And to her amazement, they softened.

«My bait, no others,» he whispered against her mouth, pulling her against his chest, with the child gently crushed between them. «You will wiggle only for me.»

The intoxicating liquor of his kiss prevented her from laughing at his odd idea of courtship words. Before she fell too far under his magic spell, she pushed away. «How?» she asked, unable to form full phrases while her head spun, for it did seem they were meant for each other. She could feel it in that place that recognized what lay beyond this world.

«They knew,» he said obliquely. «They knew I merely survived with them. That to live, I must make things better, and their world is too perfect for an imperfect mortal. They knew this world needs me more than theirs, and they brought me to you. Mortality is a price I willingly pay.»

«You can stay?» she asked, holding her breath in fear, widening her eyes as she studied the rugged, broad-minded man who held her and looked upon her as if she were the answer to his prayers. How could any woman resist such a man?

«I can,» he said with certainty. «Together, we will buy Dubh’s lands and put his tenants to work so that we all might grow wealthy together. So someday, Patrick may inherit peace.»

«Yes,» she sighed happily, as the babe gurgled in delight. «Yes, and we will be good neighbours to everyone, even to those we cannot always see. Where have you been all my life?»

With a roar of joy, Finn lifted her and the babe in his mighty arms and swung them around in the moonlight. «I’ve been here, with you, inside your heart all these years!»

Beneath the spreading oak by the hidden gate, an invisible, elegant troop of riders nodded approval at the joyous couple — before turning their mounts and galloping into the mist rising from the sea.