The Raven Queen
Page 1
PRAISE FOR JULES WATSON
THE SWAN MAIDEN
“Wonderful. Watson does not tell the story, she lives it. Mystical and poetic; a tour de force. A magical and compelling recreation of the lost Celtic world.”
—ROSALIND MILES, author of Isolde, Queen of the Western Isle
“Jules Watson has conjured up the mythic past, a land of Celtic legend and stark grandeur. Readers will find her world and characters fascinating and unforgettable.”
—SHARON K. PENMAN, author of Prince of Darkness
“In this graceful retelling of the Irish legend of Deirdre of the Sorrows … Watson’s characters have both a larger-than-life appeal and a commonality that emphasizes their human frailty as well as their dedication to life and love.”
—Library Journal
“A Perfect 10 … The Celtic legend of Deirdre of the Sorrows is given a very human, yet enchanted retelling … both glorious and heartbreaking, and Jules Watson uses her beautiful prose and Celtic knowledge to weave a stunning novel that is both uplifting and magical. For a wonderful love story, and some unforgettable characters, I highly recommend The Swan Maiden.”
—Romance Reviews Today
“Watson weaves the story of Deirdre’s deepening understanding of her druid side and her powers to bridge the human and spirit worlds together with history and a powerful love story in this page-turning retelling of one of the Ulster Cycle tales.”
—Historical Novels Review
“The Irish legend of Deirdre and Naisi is retold in exquisite detail by Jules Watson. She brings to life every drop of rain, blade of grass, and scent of the forest for her readers. Her characters sway you with their heart-rending love for each other and their lands, but what really strikes a chord is how she digs deep into their souls and lays everything bare. Their pain and sorrow are as poetically described as their joy, and each page feels like lyrical prose. Such attention to detail and beautifully rendered dialogue is the mark of a true artist, and Jules Watson should be applauded, for this is a book to be read over and over. Five cups.”
—Coffee Time Romance
THE WHITE MARE
“With nods to Marion Zimmer Bradley’s Mists of Avalon and Diana Gabaldon’s Outlander series, newcomer Watson presents an ancient Scotland tightly laced with romantic tension, treachery, and cliffhangers aplenty.… Mightily appealing.”
—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“Watson deftly blends fact and fancy, action and romance in her splendid historical fantasy debut.… An appealing love story, well-researched settings, and an interesting take on goddess worship.”
—Publishers Weekly (starred review)
“It requires a special sort of imagination to create a plausible vision of Britain at the time of the Roman conquest. Jules Watson rises effortlessly to the challenge.”
—Daily Express
“In the grand tradition of the historical epic, this is a tale of heroic deeds, kinship and kingship. Truly sumptuous reading.”
—Lancashire Evening Post
“A sweeping tale of the struggle for love, honor, freedom, and power.”
—Home and Country
“Strong characters, a compelling story, and sound historical research make this a winner. A stunning debut novel.”
—JULIET MARILLIER
“Lovers of all things Celtic will find much to satisfy in this incredible tome.”
—Good Book Guide
“She breaks new ground targeting Roman incursions north of the border, a road few historical novelists dare to tread.”
—The Herald (UK)
THE DAWN STAG
“Richly imagined … Watson brings first-century A.D. Britain to vivid life with just the right details at the right times, and successfully keeps the tension high, balancing violence and tragedy with romance and religious transcendence.”
—Publishers Weekly
“Epic and spellbinding … The exploration of period gender roles and the intriguing diversions into pagan mythology enhance this enchanting tale. And while the tale is dense and leisurely paced, its emotional impact is significant.… If the components of a novel are a volley of arrows, then Watson hits her targets every time.”
—Kirkus Reviews (starred review)
“A scorching read that will keep readers breathless.”
—Good Book Guide
“The writing is smooth and pleasing. If you like your Celtic historical romance well written and constantly interesting, this book is for you.”
—Historical Novels Review
ALSO BY JULES WATSON
The Swan Maiden
The White Mare
The Dawn Stag
Song of the North (U.S. edition)
The Boar Stone (UK edition)
The Raven Queen is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
A Spectra Trade Paperback Original
Copyright © 2011 by Juality Ltd.
All rights reserved.
Published in the United States by Bantam Books, an imprint of The Random House Publishing Group, a division of Random House, Inc., New York.
SPECTRA and the portrayal of a boxed “s” are trademarks of Random House, Inc.
Map © 2011 by Daniel R. Lynch
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Watson, Jules.
The raven queen / Jules Watson. — A Spectra trade paperback ed.
p. cm.
eISBN: 978-0-345-52486-7
1. Medb (Legendary character)—Fiction. 2. Women—Ireland—Fiction.
3. Mythology, Celtic—Fiction. I. Title.
PR9619.4.W376R38 2011
823′.92—dc22
2010041449
www.ballantinebooks.com
Cover design: David Stevenson
Cover illustration: Juliana Kolesova
v3.1
To Claire, for story-catching in Ireland,
and Alistair, for always
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to Anne Groell at Bantam for being so clever and polishing my book, a treat after finally prizing it from my weary hands.
Thanks to Russell Galen—known in my household as Russ Superagent—for his soothing voice of reason, which floated over the Atlantic to calm a few writerly storms.
I could not have pulled this off without the generosity of Bella and Charlie Miller of Lerags House, who gifted to me a “room of my own” in the last months of writing when I foolishly managed to misplace my house. Without the brownie crusts, kitchen-stool philosophy sessions, and really bad movies … I would not have got there. Bella, I will always be grateful.
Claire Swinney was at my side in Ireland when this story was born, and we fished it from the waters and gathered it from the airs together. There are no words of thanks for that.
I am always grateful to my dearly beloved Alistair, who managed to squeeze in read-throughs while moving continents (not literally) and zipping about the world. People have had enough of me being soppy about you. Nevertheless … all my love, always.
Contents
Cover
Other Books by This Author
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Acknowledgments
Map
Character, Place, and Pronunciation Guide
Chapter 1 - Leaf-Fall
Chapter 2 - Leaf-Bud
Chapter 3 - Leaf-Fall
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15 - Leaf-Bud
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20 - Sun-Season
Chapter 21
Chapter 22 - Sun-Season
Chapter 23
Chapter 24 - Leaf-Fall
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41 - Sun-Season
Note on Mythology and History
About the Author
CHARACTER, PLACE, AND PRONUNCIATION GUIDE
THE FOUR ANCIENT PROVINCES OF ERIN
Ulaid Tribe who lived in and gave their name to Ulster
Connacht Old name for Connaught
Mumu Old name for Munster
Laigin Old name for Leinster
CHARACTERS
CONNACHT
Fort of Cruachan Aí:
Eochaid, King of Connacht
Innel, his son
Maeve, Eochaid’s daughter
Garvan, a young warrior
Fraech, Maeve’s distant cousin
Idath, Fraech’s father
Felim, Fraech’s uncle
Tiernan, the chief druid
Erna, a female druid
Lake
Ruán, a wanderer
LAIGIN
Fort of Dún Ailinne:
Ros Ruadh, King of Laigin
Ailill, his son
Finnabair, Ros Ruadh’s daughter
ULAID
Fort of Emain Macha:
Conor, King of the Ulai
Cormac, his eldest son
Fiacra, his youngest son
Fergus mac Roy, former king and Conor’s stepfather
Illan, his youngest son
Buinne, his eldest son
Warriors of the Red Branch:
Cúchulainn, the King’s Champion and nephew
Ferdia mac Daman, his best friend
Naisi, Ardan, and Ainnle, the sons of Usnech
Conall Cearnach, a Red Branch hero
The forest:
Deirdre, King Conor’s betrothed
Levarcham, King Conor’s druid, Deirdre’s teacher
PRONUNCIATION OF NAMES
Places:
Connacht KON-AKT
Cruachan CROO-a-karn
The Ulaid The OO-lee
Emain Macha OW-en MAK-uh
Characters:
Ailill AL-yil
Cúchulainn Koo-KULL-lin “Hound of Cullen”
Dáire DAW-re “fruitful, fertile”
Deirdre DEER-dra
Eochaid YO-khee
Ferdia FAIR-dee-ah
Finn FYUN Anglicized Fionn, male name,
“bright/fair”
Finnabair FYUN-oor “fair spirit”
Fraech FRAYkh “heather”
Garvan GAHR-vawn Anglicized Garbhán,
“little rough one”
Levarcham Lev-ARK-um
Maeve MAY-ve Anglicized Medb, “she who
intoxicates”
Meallán MEL-awn “lightning”
Miu Mew Egyptian for “cat”
Naisi NEE-sha
Nél NYAY-uhl “cloud”
Ros Ruadh Ross ROO-ar “red promontory”
Ruán ROO-an Anglicized Rúadhán, “red one”
Tiernan TEE-ar-nan “lord”
Spoken as written:
Conor Anglicized Conchobhar, “dog/wolf lover”
Conall “strong wolf”
Erna Legendary maid of Maeve’s, gave her name to Lough Erne
Fergus “man of strength”
Innel
OTHER WORDS:
Sídhe shee Fairy folk, Otherworld beings
A stór AH store “beloved”
Banshee as written Ban “woman” and sídhe “fairy”
Ceara KYAR-a A name meaning “fiery red one”
Derbfine The kin from which a new king can be chosen, descendants of one great-grandfather
Fili A bard.
FESTIVALS:
Samhain SAH-win November 1. The ancient Celtic New Year; a feast of the dead. The veils to the Otherworld grow thin, allowing the sídhe to pass forth.
Imbolc IM-bulk February 1. The coming of spring and lactation of the ewes. Sacred to the fertility goddess Brid.
Beltaine Bee-YAWL-tinnuh May 1. May Day; the fertility festival heralding summer. Cattle are driven between bonfires to bless them.
Lughnasa LOO-nah-sah August 1. The harvest festival sacred to the god Lugh.
CHAPTER 1
LEAF-FALL
CONNACHT
Maeve risked a glance behind her. By now her husband would know she had run. Were the clouds darker already in the north? Don’t be a fool. She heeled her horse over a ditch that cut between banks of yellowing trees.
The stallion’s haunches plunged, his forelegs scrabbling. Maeve slammed into the saddle and clung on for all she was worth, rubbing her chin on her shoulder. She might herself throw everything away, but she wouldn’t let a man—or a slip of the ground—take it from her.
Dusk veiled the west of Erin by the time Maeve’s horse flew into her father’s stronghold in Connacht. Ramparts of earth topped with rows of stakes closed about her. Smoke leaked from thatched roofs into the mist.
Cruachan.
At the stables, Maeve leaped from her mount, Meallán, and caught his foaming muzzle. Then she closed her eyes, her brow on his. “I am so sorry, a stór.” Woman and horse-breath mingled, and Meallán’s hide trembled beneath her palms. “Rest now.”
Maeve had been gone so long she didn’t know the horse-boy who was gaping at her. “Water him, please,” she instructed the lad. “I must see the king.” And she bolted outside, her windblown hair flying.
At once she caught herself. Remember who you are. Drawing straight, she picked her way along earthen paths between the little huts where the crafters lived, their mud walls damp with moss, their reed roofs sweeping the ground. People’s chatter died as they stared at her mud-spattered trews and cloak, and the kilt of leather strips that covered her thighs, scored by branches and thorns.
Some of the crafters she knew, and their faces kindled when they recognized her. “Lady,” they stammered.
One of the weavers reached out gnarled hands that had once braided Maeve’s copper hair. Her eyes were milky. “Is that you, child, back with us again?”
Maeve touched her fingers, gentling her voice. “Yes, Meara. But I must get to my father.”
The noble houses that jostled for rank around the royal hall—gaudy-painted, banners flying—were nearly empty. The warriors were no doubt huddled somewhere muttering about the king, Maeve guessed. The few older lords who were left stared at her with narrowed eyes.
Her appearance in her old home often coincided with some upheaval, and men muttered that she brought trouble with her. Such troubles are not of my making. Maeve thrust that fierce thought at them with her chin, until they looked away.
The king’s hall of Cruachan stood at the heart of Connacht like a golden hill. A great ring of stone wall was topped by a vast thatch roof that almost touched the ground, sweeping up to a carved crest hung with banners.
A circle of stakes around the doors held shields, racks of antlers, and pennants of wolf-tails, now limp with rain. As Maeve approached she smoothed her wild red hair, shielding her eyes from the guards and sweeping past before they could stop her.
The hall swallowed her, a cavern of oak pillars and thick furs gleaming in the firelight. Flickering lamps picked out
the glint of shields and swords on the walls. A hint of strange herbs made Maeve’s nostrils flare. Yes, there was sickness here. The rumors she had heard were right.
Her heart thumped as she fumbled her hair into a braid with chilled fingers and pushed through the servants about the fire-pit. She clambered up the ladder to the sleeping floor—a ledge of oak planks that ran inside the great roof. Beds nestled beneath the eaves, screened by wicker.
Hurrying to the king’s chamber, Maeve charged into the back of her older brother Innel. Years of fighting and illness had thinned the ranks of siblings until only these two remained.
Whipping around, Innel caught hold of her.
Maeve stared over his shoulder at a spindly figure in a pool of lamplight. Father?
“What the gods are you doing here?” Innel’s arms were iron bands, cutting off Maeve’s breath. “Out, all of you!” he growled at the servants, who fled. Only then did he release her.
Maeve swayed. Her sire Eochaid had always been a stern oak tree looming over her. Now he was a fallen trunk, his branches withered. The fiery hair he’d bestowed upon her and Innel was now the hue of ash. And his face … The left side was melted like wax, and slack lips spun a thread of drool. One eye drooped, revealing a sliver of white.
Maeve had to make her throat move. “When were you going to tell me, brother?”
Innel’s eyes were cold as he folded his brawny forearms. Sword scars webbed the corded muscles with silver. “You seem to have forgotten you are of the Ulaid now, sister—Conor’s queen. You do not belong here.”