But the ring’s charm did not hide all:

Una saw the mortal in her hall.

The Faerie Queen had no good intent;

Loyalty to her spouse had been spent.

None could have joy while she did not;

And so Una schemed her own plot.

Padraig might capture his love lost,

But Una ensured too high a cost.

It was Beltane, and Padraig was enough of his mother’s son to know that anything was possible on this night of nights.

On this night and on Samhain, the fey were at their most potent.

He made his preparations, fully aware of that.

He bought the horse that he had borrowed and the ostler was pleased to be rid of the beast, given that it had gone missing the night before. Padraig got the steed for a better price than he might have otherwise. He prepared it with care, ensuring that there was no iron in its harness, less the fey realize it was not one of theirs.

It was a fine stallion, a high-stepping black horse with a proud gait. Its mane was long and dark, its eyes lit with a fire that made Padraig wonder whether it knew more of the fey than he. It was said that the faeries bred the best horses, and there was majesty in this one’s lineage.

It had not even shied at the sid, but waited calmly for him at the hawthorn tree.

He declared his intent to sail with the morning tide, had his ship provisioned for the journey, and kissed his sister goodbye. He cleared space in the hold to create a stable for the horse, for he had no inclination to leave it behind.

He paid his debts and tried to sleep, that he might be at his best when night fell.

When the darkness slipped over the land, when the Beltane fires were lit in the hills, Padraig walked his horse to the old Norman gate. His heart in his mouth, he mounted and rode out into the night, slipping the ring on to his finger when he left the road.

His steed was proud, as black as night

He donned the ring, was lost to sight.

The steed ran on, proud and bold,

His hooves thundered on the road.

The lover knew he faced his test;

Without his lady, he’d know no rest.

Lit by the fires on ev’ry hill,

The heat of his ardour knew no chill.

Padraig rode for his lady heart,

Would the fey queen keep them apart?

Padraig reached the stone circle, but found only silence within it. The wind was still, the ground dark. He feared he had come too late, that the host had already ridden out — or that perhaps they had guessed his intent and chosen to forgo tradition to keep the prize of Rosamunde.

There was much he would forgo to keep her by his side.

Then the wind rustled in the branches of the hawthorn that grew to one side of the stone circle. His stallion snorted and tossed his head, then Padraig heard the clarion call of a distant trumpet.

The single note was clear, as clear as a mountain stream, as lovely as a summer morning. The sound melted his heart, dissolved his inhibitions, filled his veins with starlight and resolve.

The earth in the middle of the mound cracked; it gaped wide. A portal opened in the ground, one wide enough for four horses to ride abreast. Padraig glimpsed the hall beneath that he had visited the night before and his grip tightened on the reins.

Golden light spilled from the hidden court into the night’s darkness and the Faerie host rode forth. Music accompanied them, the tinkle of ten thousand silver bells mounted on a thousand harnesses. Their steeds pranced with pride, confident of their splendour and beauty. The Beltane fires on the adjacent hills burned higher as if in tribute, their flames stretching to the stars.

And the fey laughed.

Padraig stared in awe at their magnificent display.

Then lo, he saw the Faerie host,

Their company more beautiful than most.

He saw the silver and the gold;

He saw the Faerie knights so bold;

He saw the maidens garbed so fine;

He heard the music, saw the wine.

The will-o’-the-wisp danced on the hill

Fey light glimmering and never still

The stars seemed to have come to earth

As the Faerie host rode in mirth.

And so it was he glimpsed his lady,

On the left of the King of Faerie.

There were horses in the company without riders, or perhaps their riders were too small to be seen. Padraig would have eased his steed to join the company, but the beast seemed to know his expectation — it marched alongside, as if it had done as much a dozen times before.

The Faerie host flowed over the hills, eased down to the valley and ascended the next hill. Small Faeries darted towards the occasional cottage, claiming whatever gifts had been left for them. They shared the milk and ale with their fellows, lapped the porridge and cast gold coins in their wake. Each Beltane fire they passed snapped and crackled in acknowledgment of their passage, and Finvarra laughed at the sight. His wife, riding on his right, smiled but there was no joy in her eyes.

Neither was there joy in the steady gaze of Rosamunde.

Padraig eased his horse closer to the royalty, stroking its neck to encourage it to pass between the other beasts. The stallion needed little encouragement, and Padraig considered the possibility that horses felt a natural attraction to the Faerie King.

Just as the Beltane flames acknowledged his presence.

Padraig did not know how long they rode, nor how far. He thought solely of getting closer to Rosamunde without attracting attention, and he made consistent progress in that goal. They crossed a vale and ascended another hill. When they reached the top, the shining dark water of Lough Carrib was visible, gleaming at the foot of the hills. There were more stars on this night than he had ever seen and the moon rose high in pearly splendour.

When they began to descend the hill, Padraig’s horse eased so close that he could touch the hem of Rosamunde’s dress.

It was time.

He spurred his horse, he galloped near

He seized the lady he loved so dear.

He stole her from the Faerie host

Claimed she Finvarra desired most.

The fey did scream, the horse did run,

Finvarra shouted ’twould not be done.

«Hold fast, hold fast,» Rosamunde cried.

«For she would steal you from my side.»

And so he held with all his might

Even as Una unleashed her spite.

The company jostled for position as they began the descent. The fey were celebratory, and less disciplined than when they had first left the hill. Their laughter was louder and their songs more merry.

Padraig lunged through the company with purpose. He dug his heels into the stallion’s side, and the horse leaped with power. Padraig snatched Rosamunde from her steed, his arm locked around her waist, and placed her on the saddle before him.

Then he fled.

As the stallion raced down the hill, the golden ring upon Padraig’s finger cracked in half. It fell from his hand and was trampled beneath the horses’ hooves, leaving him revealed to the fey.

«Impostor!» they cried. «Thief!»

«Fetch my mistress!» bellowed Finvarra.

Padraig gave the horse his heels. The steed raced down the hill ahead of the Faerie host, running so quickly that the ground was a blur beneath their feet.

«Faster,» Rosamunde urged, glancing back. «Faster!»

Padraig heard Una’s song rise sweetly in the distance, but did not trust her ode.

«Padraig!» Rosamunde said, locking her arms around his neck. «She means to make you spurn me. Be not deceived.»

Padraig guessed the test he would face a heartbeat before it began.

«They will turn me to an ancient crone

A woman wrought of sinew and bone.

A cold, rotted body from the grave

Hold fast, my love, you must be brave.»

In his embrace, Rosamunde turned to a hag, appearing to have endured a thousand years of hardship. Her skin was wrinkled like ancient leather, her eyes yellow and her teeth missing.

She cackled at him, this apparition, and looked fit to devour him. Padraig could see the bones of her skull beneath the loose flesh of her face, he could smell the fetid stench of decay, and he felt the clutch of her skeletal fingers on his neck. Everything within him was repulsed and his urge was to cast her aside with all speed.

Padraig told himself it was but a spell and held fast.

«Next I’ll be a writhing snake

With a toxic bite your life to take.

I will be as slipp’ry as an adder

My release lies solely in your power.»

Rosamunde changed then to an enormous snake, green and slippery in Padraig’s grasp. The snake bared its fangs and malice lit its eyes as it reared back to strike. He had no doubt its bite was poisonous, but he did not release it.

There were, after all, no snakes in Ireland. Padraig knew that this, too, was but a fey trick.

He heard Una’s song, realized it was growing in volume, and knew there would be worse to come. Three tests there would be, he guessed as much, and they would become more fierce. He held fast to the writhing green snake and hoped he could keep hold of Rosamunde. The horse ran, outdistancing the shouting host at its heels.

The snake twisted in his grip, as elusive as a fish, but Padraig held tightly. The water of the lake drew ever more near and he wondered what the horse would do. He thought to direct it around the body of water, then Rosamunde changed shape again.

«And last I will become a flame,

As hot and fierce as ever came.

A Beltane fire, orange and hot

My love, my love, release me not.»

In the blink of an eye, Rosamunde became a fire in his embrace. The brilliant light of the flames nearly blinded Padraig and surprise almost loosened his grip.

He cried out and tightened his grasp upon her. The fire burned his skin, the flames licking at his flesh. He closed his eyes to the sight of his own body burning, to the smell of his destruction. He held fast to the column of flame, even as he feared he could not have the strength to endure against the fey.

Padraig thought of the way Rosamunde’s hair looked in the sunlight.

He recalled her bold stance on the ship as they sailed to adventure. He remembered the light in her eyes when they had first met. He thought of her determination, even when the spriggan Darg had stolen her charts and trapped the ship in a calm.

He recalled her pride in her nieces and her joy in seeing them well wed. He thought of her passion and her pride and he fortified himself with the truth of why he loved this woman with all his heart. Padraig squeezed his eyes shut as the pain built to a crescendo.

He could not lose his love.

He recited the paternoster, on impulse, recalling his mother’s counsel. Tears stung his cheeks as he said the familiar prayer. Our Father.

The horse halted abruptly, reared, then it ducked its head. Padraig was thrown over its neck and gasped aloud when he landed in the lake with a splash.

He sank low, still holding fast to Rosamunde, and the cold dark water of the lake embraced them. He felt the flame in his arms turn to a woman again.

A naked woman.

A naked woman he loved more than life itself.

And Padraig knew he had triumphed. They broke the surface together, Rosamunde’s smile enough to light Padraig’s nights forevermore.

When they might have spoken each to the other, a man cleared his throat at close proximity.

Finvarra stood on the shore, holding the bridle of the stamping black stallion. «And so the contest goes to you,» the High King of the Faerie said. He stroked the horse’s nose with affection and the beast nuzzled him. Finvarra smiled and his eyes glinted. «I shall take this horse into my care, seeing as it was once stolen from us and is rightfully returned.»

Padraig understood why the horse had not been startled by the fey, why it had been so at ease joining the host. Recognition was possibly why it had been allowed to join the company in the first place.

He understood then why it had thrown him and saved Rosamunde. Padraig fancied that the horse had intended to reward him for bringing it back to Finvarra.