Read The Ballad of Rosamunde for Free Online

handsome man, confident in
his appeal. His eyes were strange, or at least they did not seem to
match his countenance. He looked to have seen no more than thirty
summers, his body young and strong, his face unlined and handsome.
But his eyes, his eyes were filled with the shadows of experience.
There was the memory of sadness there, of joy, of triumph and
defeat. Had it been her choice to meet him, had she met him when
both were unencumbered, Rosamunde might have been intrigued by the
Faerie King.
    As it was, she saw that his fascination with
her was no more than lust. She would be a conquest, a mistress, a
frippery to be tossed aside when he became bored with her
charms.
    Rosamunde had never been so little and had
no desire to be as much now.
    Indeed, his interest reminded her of Tynan’s supposed love, and she would spurn it as she had failed to
spurn it previously. If nothing else, Rosamunde would learn from
her error.
    Then there was the matter of Finvarra’s
wife, Una, who had retreated to the far side of the hall. Una, no
small beauty in herself, had gathered her ladies about her and they
clustered there, whispering and pointing.
     
    Finvarra ignored his wife so deliberately
that Rosamunde guessed she was but a pawn in some ongoing match
between king and wife.
    It was far less than what she wanted of her
life.
    She had tried to escape, without success.
These maidens purportedly assigned to ensure her pleasure were also
charged with keeping her captive. Their hearing was sharp, their
sight sharper, their vigil complete.
    Rosamunde folded her arms across her chest,
smiled thinly and refused to participate in the festivities. If
Finvarra’s interest waned, perhaps she would be cast out of the
realm sooner.
    It seemed an unlikely prospect, given the
gleam in his eye when he glanced her way, but Rosamunde had
precious few options.
    She disliked this role of a woman pampered.
She disliked having no choice over her direction, having no ability
to shape her own fate. It was utterly at odds with the way she had
led her life, and Rosamunde fairly itched to return to what she
knew.
    First, somehow, she had to escape this
court.
    The music was intoxicating, so loud and
sweet and melodious. The fey danced with a vigor that was
astounding, seeming never to tire. The bounty of food on display
was enticing, all manner of sweets and confections offered for the
pleasure of the company. The mead smelled wonderful indeed, but
Rosamunde feared the loss of her wits should she drink it. She
simply stood and watched, and the hours drew long.
    It was hours later when the faeries began a
vivacious dance. It was clear that Rosamunde’s maidens were
captivated by the music, their eyes dancing and their toes tapping.
Rosamunde encouraged them, one after the other to take the floor,
until finally she felt unobserved.
    It would not last, but she would savor the
interval.
    No sooner was she alone than a man’s hands
closed over her shoulders. He stood close behind her, whoever he
was, his breath in her hair and his chest at her back. Rosamunde
jumped, then felt her eyes widen at a familiar murmur.
    “At your back, as always,” Padraig said, the
feel of his breath on her neck making her tingle. “Say nothing, but
listen.”
    Rosamunde felt her heart skip and feared her
maidens would hear its tumult. She tried to quiet her response, but
she felt the strength of Padraig’s fingers on her shoulders, the
warmth of him against her back. She glanced down but could not see
his hands.
    “An enchantment,” he murmured and she heard
the familiar humor touch his tone. “I know not how long ‘twill
last.”
    Rosamunde’s mouth went dry. She didn’t doubt
that Padraig would be at risk, if they realized there was an
intruder in their midst. She scanned the hall, endeavoring to be
casual in the survey, and realized that none could see Padraig.
None even guessed his presence.
    Then Rosamunde felt Una’s gaze land upon her
and saw the woman smile