What did you say?
Otherworld
Question? Why should a king require a queen in order to rule?
Answer: Not hard. Every ruler needs a lady to bear his sons, sit by him in his hall, order his table and house and fields, and comfort him if and when he returns from battle. Long ago, or so the sages say, the King of Temair’s true mate was the many-named figure of Sovereignty who protected his kingdom. In the darkness of ancient days, all of Ériu attended the rituals by which the new king consummated his union with his territory. Ériu only yielded to a man worthy of her, in expectation that his just and generous dominion would bring peace and full harvests to her lands. If, during his rule, mares gave birth to handsome colts, heifers produced calves and plentiful milk, and mortal women brought healthy babies into the world, the king was worthy. If the king turned bad, though—if he treated his people unfairly, was too avid for battle and slaughter, violated his gessa, or rendered bad judgments—to be sure, then the earth and its creatures became barren and war convulsed the kingdom until Sovereignty found a better mate. That’s if you believe in mysterious feminine symbols of power who may have been invented by the medieval tellers of tales.
Still, everyone know that if a man could not find himself a wife, he could not rule a kingdom.
The Book of Becc
I decided he was good looking, although not as handsome as a hero in one of my stories. His hair dark as treebark curled just above his shoulders. His cheekbones were sharp. A scar ran down one of them. His eyes were light and quick, a greyish blue—or were they greeny-grey? He kept them on the path ahead but held out an arm whenever he thought I might stumble.
He asked, “Are you running away from someone? A father, a husband? A master? Do you seek sanctuary?”
He wanted to know if someone would come after me. Why else would a woman suffer the night alone on Bríg’s Hill and then dash out of the woods at twilight if she were not escaping a man?
”I am not a runaway. I have come to Tobur Brigte for my own purposes.”
“In order to learn the way of vowed Sisters?”
“In order to learn to look the right way.” I kept walking.
The Highwayman
The robber ducked and raised one arm up to snag the bag and dropped it neatly on the ground. With his weapon still levelled and eyes on the prisoner, the masked rogue bent and slid a hand into the satchel to probe its contents, lifting out a pair of trews, then a book. His mouth turned down in dismay.
“You did not mention a book,” the robber said, trying to peek at a few pages one-handed while keeping eyes on the victim. He dropped it on the ground. “The Villain of Penrys Castle?” The robber sighed. “I declare, sir, not only do you appear to be appallingly bust, but you have deplorable taste in literature. Poor fiction and penury in a hired coach.” The robber pushed his hat brim higher with the tip of his pistol. A few dark brown wisps of hair escaped. “What are you then, the youngest son, sent off to Ireland as punishment?”
The sky had been spitting before, but now rain dripped steadily on the robber and his prey. The passenger yanked off his hat and ran a hand through his hair. “Something like that,” he ground out. He tapped his fingers on the edge of the window but when he saw his opponent watching, he clenched his knuckles.
The Highwayman spotted the glimmer of the gem in the squalid light of the wet evening. He said cheerfully, “Right, you liar, give us the ring.”
“You will have to take my finger with it.”
“I suppose I must shoot off your hand. I see no other way of gaining the ring. Did I mention that I am quite a good shot? With a duelling pistol, I can blow the center out of the ace of hearts at ten yards.” The villain steadied his weapon and regarded the victim. “But I cannot promise to ruin only one finger with a weapon of this sort. It is not precise enough. Alas.” He was grinning.