by Jules Watson
She moistened her mouth. “I want a troop of the Galeóin to train our men, and an oath that we can call on the rest if we get attacked.” The Galeóin were an old tribe of Laigin. Small, dark-haired, and deadly silent, they were known for their skill with spears and rigorous training.
Relieved, Ros Ruadh nodded, and she moved the conversation to bride-price: gold, cattle, servants, grain, and mead. The wariness left the king’s stooped shoulders. “What if your bid to rule fails?”
Maeve sat erect in her chair. “Then both your son and bride-gifts will be returned. I make this offer as a free woman, and Fraech will not hold it against you. I alone will lose.” Flinging it out released some pressure in her chest. “I, alone.”
Ros Ruadh thought for a moment, then crooked his finger to summon his servant with the jug of mead and two cups.
A roar went up from the men around the downed stag.
Maeve lowered her spear and uncramped her hand, her body still quivering. It was good that Ailill’s barb had hit the deer’s heart.
Her Connacht guards released their hackles now and smoothed stiff backs, congratulating Ailill with hearty slaps. Hounds crowded their legs, tails waving. Laigin and Connacht men laughed together, reaching to ruffle the dogs’ ears. One of the huntsmen slit the stag’s throat to let it bleed out.
The season had broken very early, and on their way home through Connacht, frosts gave way to rains. Now Maeve plucked her feet from the mud beneath the oak trees, scraping her boots on the roots as she made her way back to her horse.
Garvan glanced over, his face cold. He had barely spoken to her since she chose a Laigin prince over him, but she was too tired to coax him out of it. He would understand, soon.
She dug a flask from her saddle and slurped ale as she leaned on Meallán’s flank. Below in the sunlit clearing spread the traveling camp furnished by Ros Ruadh. Outside the jumble of tents, lances had been stuck into the ground—a forest of pale shafts and glinting spear-tips against the leafless, mossy trees. Painted shields hung on tent poles.
Maeve drank in that view with more pleasure than the ale. Laigin was famed for its lowlands of barley and wheat, and its protected coast that drew rich trade ships from eastern lands.
Behind the tents, therefore, sat rows of carts holding jars of Greek wine, Laigin ale, and sacks of grain. There were costly cedarwoods and fragrant oils from the Middle Sea, and silver, tin, and gold guarded by Laigin swordsmen. It was the greatest bride-price ever assembled in Erin.
Maeve squinted at it, wondering if it would banish the frowns of her lords when they found she’d bought a Laigin king for Connacht.
Something caught her eye—a person struggling in the grasp of two of the Laigin warriors. She slipped the flask away, wiping clammy sweat from her brow as she shaded her eyes. The Laigin guards were dragging a slight figure up the slope between the trees, a youth in costly if battered war-attire: a dented helmet that was too big and a mail-shirt that reached past his knees.
“What is this?” Maeve demanded when they reached her.
Exchanging fearful glances, the warriors gave their prisoner a nudge and let him go. The boy stumbled. The helmet slipped over his eyes, and he tilted his head to see Maeve, blowing away wisps of ruddy hair.
Not a boy, a girl, with a pointed chin and slanted cheekbones. Maeve’s mind stalled and went blank.
The girl’s eyes flashed, and the look pierced Maeve’s belly. “Hello, Mother.”
CHAPTER 12
All color bled from the woodland, as if it was still under frost.
Maeve only saw the girl, her hair a light shade of amber, freckles scattered across a snub nose. Her features were cast from the same mold Maeve saw in her own mirror every day—except this girl boasted the large eyes and round face of the fox-cub, not the vixen.
Ros Ruadh’s child.
Maeve couldn’t face those eyes again. She stared instead at the challenging twist of the girl’s sweet mouth, so jarring against all that creamy skin. She heard steps behind her. Her mind was a trapped bird fluttering against the cage, and she could only grasp for the one thing she knew: Ailill.
Unseeing, Maeve turned to him. “Bring her to my tent.” And then she walked away.
Ailill delivered his half sister less gently than the Laigin guards had, elbowing up the flap of Maeve’s tent, dragging her in and giving her a shove.
The girl rubbed her arm. “Easy, brother!”
Ailill grunted, striding to the trestle table laid out with honey bread and a haunch of beef boiled over a campfire. One of Maeve’s servants had swiftly lit a stone lamp, and the little rush wick now burned with a feeble glow.
Maeve had used those snatched moments to pull off her filthy tunic and drag on a clean one. To smooth her hair with shaking fingers.
Now she stared into a cup of Erna’s herb brew. Shadows moved in the beaker as the lamp flickered. The part of her heart that could make sense of this had been hollow a long time, and she poured this brew into it every day, deadening it further.
Dead was easier. It let her breathe.
But there was a hole just the same in the world, a sliver cut out where the babe once existed. Now that emptiness was crowded with something warm and alive, that breathed behind her in the same rhythm as she did.
Maeve blanched and set the cup down. “Finnabair.” She turned to the child. Child … she is nearly sixteen.
Maeve had been three years younger when the birthing nearly killed her. By the time she was well, Ros Ruadh had given the babe to a flock of Laigin women who guarded her jealously.
But there were moments together, snatched ones that seemed timeless, where she felt … No. Maeve stared into the girl’s eyes. Gods. As blue as her own, and as bright as when they followed the little seal Maeve cobbled together from scraps of fur, diving it back and forth, back and forth, through the air …
No.
Maeve’s lips parted again but nothing more came out.
“Finn,” the girl stated. “I am called Finn.”
“You know Father hates that.” Ailill drained a cup of ale, throwing his wet cloak on the cowhide rug, where one of his servants scooped it up. “It is a boy’s name, unbecoming to a royal lady. As is stealing away from home without leave.”
“You did it all the time when you were young.” Finn rocked on her toes. “And anyway, if I was as fat as you, no one would know I was a girl.”
Ailill fought down a smile. “Vixen,” he growled.
A shudder nipped the back of Maeve’s neck. She turned to Ailill as he flopped onto a pile of fur cushions. “Why did you not tell me she was at Dun Ailinne?” Her voice cracked, and she pulled at the heavy neck-torc. “I … thought she had been sent away years ago.”
She had been able to tear no word out of Laigin about the child. No word at all.
Ailill shrugged, gesturing to his serving girl to pull off his sodden boots. “You didn’t ask.”
“And why did Ros Ruadh not tell me—” Her voice was rising too high. She cut herself off, resting her knuckles over her mouth as the servant unlaced Ailill’s boots.
Ailill cocked a rueful eye at his sister. “She has always been his favorite. He probably didn’t want you knowing she was still around.”
Blunt Ailill shot very straight barbs. Maeve remembered that flicker of fear in the king’s eyes. Did he think she had come to demand this girl as part of the bargain? Daughter. Maeve could hardly even conjure the word.
“Which is why he will be livid when he finds you gone, little sister.” Ailill flexed his wet foot, wrinkled and white. “And just how did you manage it?”
“It amused some of your men to keep me secret—until that stuffy old Lonan found out.” Finn pulled off her battered helmet with a flourish and dropped it. “And I left Father a message with my women. He’ll understand. He always understands me.”
His treasure. His own. Maeve had heard him whisper it into Finn’s ear as he rocked her.
This was foolish; she had to fo
rce herself to turn around once more. “Why are you here?” Her voice was unsteady, and there was nothing she could do about it.
The tips of Finn’s teeth showed between her lips. “I am a marriage gift, Mother. From me.”
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Ailill tossed roasted hazelnuts into his mouth. “You will have to go back.”
“Why?” Finn returned. “It is time I visited my other kin, especially now that my brother will be king. I cannot think of a better time, can you?”
Maeve stared. When she spoke to her own father like that, her only reward was a blow to the cheek. Yet beneath the girl’s haughty chin and flaring nostrils, Maeve thought she saw a tremor go through her.
The world must stay as it was; it was all Maeve knew. “We are sending you back,” she stammered.
“If you try, I will scream and kick all the way back to Dun Ailinne. People will laugh, and from what I heard, Maeve of Cruachan would hate that.” Finn’s eyes widened, the surface opaque.
“Lugh’s balls, let her stay.” Ailill looked his sister over. “She is passing pretty when she’s clean. She can be part of this great spectacle you are weaving.”
Maeve grasped for that, clinging to those thoughts that had now become ingrained. Many eyes would be upon her when she returned home, and a spurned daughter would not be viewed with favor by the chiefs and their wives.
“I can ride at the back with the women,” Finn chimed in, watching Maeve carefully. “I brought my horse, Nél. You won’t have to see me again.”
The relief that caught Maeve up was so strong it blotted out all else. She needed the cold of the woodland, hares to set the dogs after … something to do with her useless hands and limbs. With a nod to Ailill and his sister, she grabbed her cloak.
In moments she was once more surrounded by yapping dogs, gripping a rowan spear in a sweaty palm. The sensation that crept over her the rest of that day was not the looseness of freedom and tired limbs, however, or the numbness of cold air.
Had she been broken on his body after all? For it seemed she was fragmented, and could not bind herself back together again.
Try as she might, she could not summon the Maeve she once was.
Maeve sent a messenger to Tiernan that the column of horses, carts, and fighting men came in peace, and that she led them.
She said no more.
The rain cleared to a sunny, cold day, and she ordered the covers of the carts to be rolled back. Some things were more powerful than words. The fine weather had drawn everyone out. Tillers were sowing beans between the barley. Cruachan’s houses were bustling, men up ladders mending the thatch, women and children slapping mud on wattles to fix fences and doors after the long dark storms.
Everyone stopped what they were doing to gawp at Maeve’s arrival.
Laigin warriors pranced on their ponies; bridle bits, buckles, and hilts all polished. Shields decorated the carts, drawing the eye to the gleaming spill of grain in open sacks and the vivid hue of real gold piled among them. The brightly dressed women who accompanied the warriors thronged the carts, hair braided with ribbon and limbs wound with bronze.
The stern Galeóin trotted at the rear in perfect rows, crowned by carved spears, and trailed by Connacht lads who exclaimed at their weapons.
Settling Ailill in the best guest lodge, Maeve perched near the hearth as his servants scurried about storing away furs and platters, piling cedar tables and cushions against the walls.
Ailill sprawled with his feet on a bench, nursing yet another horn of ale.
“Set out ten of the Greek wine-jugs at the feast,” Maeve ordered one of the maids, her bracelets jingling as she waved her away. During their passage through Connacht, she had sent messages to all the nobles nearby to attend. They would already be on their way.
Ailill sat up, scowling. “That wine is mine. You can’t waste it like that.”
“You bought me with it. It is mine.”
When his lip jutted, Maeve slid on the bench beside him and focused on him long enough to pat his hand. Her mind kept roaming far away—and she kept wrenching it back. “The nobles have to see what they can gain from an alliance with you … and trade with Laigin.”
Grudgingly, he folded his arms and swung his feet back up. “Then buy me more wine with your own cattle.”
“Soon I will possess the king’s herd, and enough calves to buy a ship of fine wine.” The words were tasteless and empty, but they made Ailill smile.
That night, Maeve sat by until the lords and their women had drunk their fill. The pig baked in a salt crust—valuable British salt, from Laigin—was now stripped to bone. They smeared Connacht butter on soft white bread ground from Laigin’s wheat, and used it to mop up the drizzles of Greek oil that glazed the salmon, exclaiming at the taste.
She had sent Finn to the women’s lodge, guessing that the girl would detest being paraded for Maeve’s nobles. She could not bring herself to demand it of Finn even though it would have been shrewd. Ailill was her prize—he had agreed to it. An equal bargain.
The meal became a blur about Maeve, though, for she could not rid her mind of that pale face with the blazing eyes.
Eventually she rose, waiting for the lords to fall silent. As she went to speak, she swayed with exhaustion, and realized she had lost all willpower to embroider her words. It was so hard to fight, to keep fighting, when sometimes it all wavered and she could not grasp what she fought for anymore …
Maeve straightened her neck. Power made a shield. The shield kept the blades away. Conor. Idath. Felim. “I have offered myself to the prince of Laigin as his wife.”
Scandalized, the guests began muttering to each other.
Maeve spread her fingers. “This war-band is not a threat, it is a gift. Such a treaty with Laigin will bind us closer than either kingdom can ever bind to the Ulaid.” She placed her palms on the long, low table, meeting the eyes of the great cattle-chiefs one by one. “And this makes us stronger than we can be alone. Conor mac Nessa wants to be ard-rí, that is why he demanded Finnbennach. We need all the strength we can muster against him.”
Gruff bearded men nodded, others fiddling with their wooden beakers, deep in thought.
Tiernan placed a sparse slice of bread on his platter with elegant fingers. “And you did not think to consult us on this matter?”
“I am a free woman. If I am to rule, chief druid, I must trust my own judgment.”
This was dangerous ground, for the cattle-chiefs wanted to think they were in charge. Sensing the mood, Maeve swung back to them. “I will never, though, be subject to my Laigin husband. In all matters of Connacht, I will rule alone.” She smiled. “With the advice of my most loyal nobles, of course.”
Ailill was glaring at her. She had left that part out.
Remember what you get in return, her eyes replied.
He looked impressive, at least. His shoulders were broadened by lush folds of stoat fur, brown as his hair, and leather belt and boots tooled into intricate designs. Ros Ruadh had emptied his coffers to adorn his son, wreathing him in enamel-studded bronze and twisted gold rings.
Well-fed and glossy as a bull.
“No man of the derbfine can match this,” Maeve added. “A marriage with the next king of Laigin, and a treaty with the ruling king. I have added their wealth and power to our own. You’ve seen the riches I won for us, the wheat, the gold.” Maeve drank in the avid expressions of the lords and warriors. “Can Fraech give you all this, or weave such alliances to hold us strong against the Ulaid storm? No! His kin have spent all their gold trying to buy the goodwill of their enemies!”
There was a ripple of laughter. Taking a breath, Maeve let it out, lowering her shoulders. “Enjoy this bounty, and remember that with me as queen you will only enjoy more.”
As soon as they were chattering, she slipped to the oaken doors of the hall, which someone upon exiting had left open a crack. In the shadows of the porch, she drew in the cold draft to clear her head.
Tiernan app
eared at her elbow.
Maeve hastily straightened. “The pieces are nearly in place,” she murmured. “Fraech cannot command such power, and you know it.”
“Not all the pieces.”
A flickering lamp hooked beside the door cast a sheen over Tiernan’s unblinking gaze. Maeve had a moment of clarity: her knees on damp grass as she offered him up her naked sword. And soon after, curls of swamp-mist rising over her own watery grave.
“You cannot command everything,” the druid said.
“No.” Her eyes saw nothing now, her fingers curled at her throat. “We must both trust to faith for a time yet, chief druid.”
After a night without sleep, Maeve rose at dawn and, rubbing her gritty eyes, went directly to the stables. Outside, the biting air would blow away the fog of wine, though her temples pounded with every strike of Meallán’s hooves as they cantered out through the gates into gray and blue shadows, and a low sun slanting across the bronze grasses.
She headed for a ridge to the north and east of Cruachan. There, she could ride in peace, avoiding the busy cart-tracks among the steadings and fields. Meallán lurched up the crest and the rising sun blinded her, so when he suddenly shied she was almost thrown from the saddle.
She did not at first recognize the other horse and rider coming down. Shading her eyes, she saw it was Finnabair, dressed in riding trews and a shaggy sheepskin cloak.
Why was she out here unguarded? Sharp words rose to Maeve’s tongue, but they died away as she was arrested by Finn’s stricken expression, her eyes enormous in her pale face, her mouth pursed tight, drawing in her cheeks. The girl’s knuckles showed white and red on the reins.
“Sorry to startle you,” was all Maeve could mumble, urging Meallán to flat ground.
“I heard you coming.” Finn wiped her face smooth of emotion. “Your horse has a heavy tread.”
