Cat Adams - The Mammoth Book of Irish Romance

«The Blue Pebble» © by Shirley Kennedy. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

«The Ballad of Rosamunde» © by Claire Delacroix, Inc. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

«Oracle» © by Margo Maguire. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

«The Trials of Bryan Murphy» © by C. T. Adams and Cathy Clamp. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

«Nia and the Beast of Killarney Wood» © by Cindy Miles. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

«Beyond the Veil» © by Rice Enterprises. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

«Shifter Made» © by Jennifer Ashley. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

«Daughter of the Sea» © by Kathleen Givens. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

«The Warrior» © by Jenna Maclaine. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

«Eternal Strife» © by Dara England. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

«Quicksilver» © by Cindy Holby. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

«The Feast of Beauty» © by Helen Scott Taylor. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

«Compeer» © by Roberta Gellis. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

«On Inishmore» © by Ciar Cullen. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

«The Morrígan’s Daughter» © by Susan Krinard. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

«Tara’s Find» © by Nadia Williams. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

«The Skrying Glass» © by Penelope Neri. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

«The Houndmaster» © by Sandra L. Patrick. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

«The Seventh Sister» © by Sue-Ellen Welfonder. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

«By the Light of My Heart» © by Patricia Shagoury. First publication, original to this anthology. Printed by permission of the author.

Ireland is a land of romance. Pure and simple. And you don’t have to be an expert in Irish lore to appreciate the fantastic opportunities that Ireland offers romance writers: its tumultuous, battle-rife history of clans, territories and kingdoms; its pantheon of heroes, goddesses, saints and magic to rival Rome’s, and its legends of the most fantastical beasts and magical creatures ever recorded. You don’t need, either, to know everything about the Tuatha Dé Danann to appreciate these ancient gods of eire with their beauty, immense strength, and immortality. Irish legend and mythology are full of the ultimate heroes and the most romantic of stories. It is to a great extent in these Celtic cycles, tales and myths that romances — full of heroes, chivalry, courtly love and adventure — were originally born. No wonder popular writers from Tolkein to J. K. Rowling to George Lucas have been seized and inspired by the history of Ireland.

Because Ireland’s history was an oral history until it was recorded by Christian monks in the Middle Ages, you can clearly see where problems might have arisen with an accurate portrayal of Ireland’s wild pagan past! The ancient tribal Ireland of druids and high kings, therefore, is always ripe for reinterpretation. This is why such tales and folklore are constantly rewoven and rewritten; they are always a work in progress, a vibrant recollection of the past, still vital and alive today. It’s also why you’ll find many different interpretations, many different names and dispositions for similar characters.

Here are stories that weave a fiction from existing legend, stories that explore existing myth in greater depth, and yet more stories that stray from established lore entirely with a healthy dose of poetic licence, using Ireland’s constellation of magical creatures in new, exciting ways. And then, of course, here are stories that are simply pure, unabashed, unashamed romance.

And the faery folk seem to have their fingers in most of the trouble and adventure that occurs. Love affairs between mortals and the faery host are put to the test, while the High King of the Daoine Sidhe, Finvarra’s insatiable appetite for mortal women is legendary. Fairy interference — er, help — in mortal life in general is definitely a recurring theme in this collection. But you’ll also be confronted with remnants of Ireland’s Viking past, its legendary warriors, battles fought and won, and the mysterious sea god Lir and his mermaids.

Jenna Maclaine brings Morrigan, the goddess of war, and legendary warrior, Cuchulainn to life as erotic, constantly battling, immortals. And as always we have a few stories that reach out to the wider world of an author’s current series (see, for instance, Margo Maguire’s world of the Druzai). I am also proud to announce the brilliant debut of a brand-new series with a story from Jennifer Ashley presenting her exciting Shifters!

A tumult of styles and themes then, this is a refresher course in Irish history, with a nod to the behemoth that is paranormal romance. Here are some writers with the power to really take you on a ride through a Celtic mythological past, who can definitely hold their own amongst all the vampires, werewolves, shape-shifters and ghosts populating the bestseller lists today.

So why not allow these Irish paranormals — these gancanaghs (ethereal lovers who seduce young women then disappear), alp-luachras (evil, greedy fairies) and Irish High Kings of lore — a little room of their own? Let these writers take you into the lush, romantic, and above all magical heart of an Ireland that is, was and might-have-been.

Trisha Telep

England — 1814

Passengers on the Royal Mail coach to London were surprised when the coach came to a jangling stop on the road not far from the town of Shrewsbury. No houses around. Only a winding driveway could be seen leading up through a heavy growth of trees to an immense Tudor-style mansion that nestled atop a low hill.

«This here’s Chatfield Court, miss,» the coachman shouted. «I’ll toss your luggage down.»

«Thank you kindly, sir.»

While the pretty young woman in her twenties climbed from the coach, the other passengers looked at each other askance. Surely the girl should not have to carry that large portmanteau up the hill by herself. One of the gentlemen passengers stuck his head out the window and called up, «I say, coachman, can’t you take her up the driveway to the entrance? We don’t mind the extra time.»

«Can’t do it, sir. Against the rules.»

«That’s quite all right,» the young woman assured him in a rich Irish brogue. She squared her shoulders. «This isn’t the first heavy load I’ve carried in my life. I’ll be fine.» She picked up the battered portmanteau, smiled, waved a quick goodbye and started trudging up the hill.

The coach started up again, the remaining passengers making clicking noises and shaking their heads. That they were concerned about a passenger they’d known only hours was surprising. She had not uttered more than a few pleasantries, only briefly mentioning she’d been a schoolteacher in Ireland, as had her mother who had recently passed away. Mostly she sat silently gazing out the window; yet despite the paucity of her words, they all recognized an agreeable quality about her and wished her well.

«I liked that girl,» one gentlemen said. «Don’t know exactly why, but she had a certain. I guess you could say, serenity about her.»

«More than that. It was like a special aura that surrounded her,» one of the ladies chimed in. «It was almost as if I felt calmer in her presence.»

«She had a magical quality,» said another.

The gentleman laughed. «Magic? Well, I don’t know as I’d go that far.»

The lady nodded emphatically. «Magic. I felt it. I don’t know what it was, but that girl had a special gift which we all felt, and don’t you tell me otherwise.»

Halfway up the driveway, Evleen O’Fallon had to stop and catch her breath. The heat of the summer day, plus the weight of the heavy portmanteau had done her in. As she rested and wiped her brow, she looked up the hill towards the dark stone mansion called Chatfield Court.

«I’m sure you will like it,» her mother had said on her deathbed. «Lord Beaumont assured me you would.»

Mother’s gone. A tear rolled down Evleen’s cheek. I miss her so. What will I do without her?

At the end, even through her suffering, Mama had thought of Evleen. «All your brothers and sisters have a place to stay, except you. As you know, I have sold the cottage, so you cannot stay here.» She clutched a letter in her fingers, one she had received only the day before. «Some time ago, when I knew I would never leave this bed, I wrote to Lord Beaumont in England.»

«But why?» Evleen was astounded.

«You are aware that Lord Beaumont’s late wife was a cousin of ours. So I wrote and asked if he would take you in.» She’d handed the letter to Evleen. «Here is his reply. Read for yourself.»

With reluctant fingers, Evleen took the letter and began to read.

My Dear Cousin,

I am sorry for your illness and trust you will soon regain your health. In the sad event you do not, rest assured I shall be happy to give a home to your oldest daughter, Evleen. If she’s as gifted as you say, perhaps she can help with the education of my son, Peter, who is seven. Since his mother passed away, he’s been quite precocious and needs a firm hand.

I look forward to meeting Evleen. Rest assured, she will be treated not as a servant but one of the family.

Beaumont

When she finished, Evleen let the letter fall to her lap in dismay. «Leave Ireland? Never! How can I go and live with strange people in a strange land?»

«You will because you must,» Mama answered firmly. «But one warning I must give you.»

«And what is that?» Evleen asked, still numb with shock.

«You must never use the blue pebble in England. In fact, it would be best if you threw it away.»

Evleen touched a small, bright blue pebble, strung by a leather thong around her neck. «But why?»

Mama looked deep into her eyes. «Because the English would never believe a poor girl from Ireland is possessed with magical powers. They would laugh at you — make your life a misery if you even suggested such a thing.»

«All right, I promise,» Evleen readily agreed. «I suspect the pebble would be useless in England anyway. I certainly don’t expect Merlin to follow me.»

«You had best throw it in the creek right now.»

Somehow the thought of throwing the pebble away did not appeal to her. «Perhaps I shall take it along — just as a kind of souvenir.»

«Suit yourself.» Mama reached for her hand and clasped it tight. «Whatever happens, always hold your head high. You must never forget you are an Irish princess, that your father was Ian O’Fallon, son of the Duke of Connaught, who was a direct descendant of one of Ireland’s ancient kings who reigned over one of the earliest Celtic kingdoms.»

«I shall never forget, Mama.»

And she wouldn’t. Now, with a determined nod, Evleen picked up the portmanteau and resumed her trek up the driveway. No, she would never forget, but what good would being an Irish princess do her here in this strange land? Ah well, no matter. Only the future counted now.

I shall be brave. I shall make Mama proud.

«So, Miss O’Fallon, you are from Ireland?»

Seated on a silk upholstered sofa in the grand salon of Chatfield Court, Evleen hid her disappointment. Lord Beaumont had not been there to greet her, although he was expected back from London at any moment. She gazed into the cold grey eyes of Lady Beaumont, Lord Beaumont’s mother. «Indeed I am from Ireland. County Tipperary to be exact. I lived there all my life.»