by Jules Watson
She glimpsed the royal standard of Connacht, a white eagle on blue, hanging from the gate-towers of the warrior and king’s hall, and her heart soared with its outstretched wings. Horns blared, their bronze throats singing the war-band home.
Maeve had kept herself at the rear of the column. She wanted to be among the men—they had won this day, and she felt reluctant to take any glory. It was enough to be jostled by smelly horses and even smellier fighters, her stained clothes blending with everyone else’s. Her hair was tucked beneath her grimy helmet, her face obscured by filth.
The bolder warriors teased her, their horses shouldering Meallán. The shy ones watched her with awe in their eyes. She felt almost like a child again, riding back with the hunters, dirty and tired from her escapades in the woods.
One of them.
Many men had wounds bandaged with dirty linen. At the back, carts carried those who could not ride and bodies for loved ones to burn. Despite this, the warriors sang battle-chants as they ducked beneath the overhang of trees along the river.
Greenery had softened the stark brown landscape now, leaves pushing through a riot of white blossoms on the thorns. Maeve brushed the tiny flowers as she passed, their heady smell drawing her mind from its cocoon.
She slowed her horse, dropping back.
The land had burst into life. Leaf-bud had come early. A subtle rush ran through the earth beneath, like an underground stream.
Shading her eyes, Maeve caught sight of the herders who had gathered from the steadings to watch the war-band pass. When younger, she had shared a bowl of pottage many times at the house of Aengus.
Spurring her horse, she sent Meallán along a narrow path that led between the little ridged barley fields. Green shoots were already spearing up from the turned earth, and the boggy meadows along the streams were sprouting new grass.
Maeve sought out Aengus and his family, tugging off her helmet outside their thatched hut. His women broke into awkward curtsies, clutching the hands of their children, all of them gaping at her bloodstained finery.
“Is it true the season has broken early?” she breathed.
Aengus had come in from the fields with his brother, a hoe across his broad shoulders. “Aye, the warmth brought the crop so fast, lady, we are planting more. And the hay sprouts like Davin’s head!” Aengus ruffled the flaxen hair of a small boy clinging to his legs. “None remember it like this.”
It caught Maeve under the ribs. Could it be? Or was she still in that dream?
She pointed at the wicker pens beside the hut, dotted with sheep. “You have your ewes gathered in, though, not out in the pasture.”
Aengus squinted, sucking his teeth. “Aye, for they are bearing twins—every one. We have to turn out every night to help some through the birthing.”
His plain words rang through her. “And the calves?”
Aengus’s brother spread a callused hand, his palm earth-stained. “Twins up and down the valley, lady, and all the herders mad with it.”
She wanted to feel bad for them being out all night in rain birthing lambs and calves. She wanted to, but she could not. Thanking them in a husky voice, she turned Meallán back to the procession of warriors.
Garvan had pulled off the track and was waiting for her. “Spitfire, if you can race down a hill into all those swords, you can damn well lead the men through a bit of cheering.” He grinned, pushing up his helmet with his sword-hilt.
Maeve nodded, but she wasn’t listening. Her mind was soaring ahead, seeking one man above all the hundreds of people now massed around Cruachan.
Garvan insisted she ride all the way along the track through the gold-thatched houses, swept along by a river of overwrought women and children flinging themselves at their men. Maeve knew it should fill her up like a draft of mead, but she could barely focus on their glowing faces, their tears and laughter.
She saw Garvan being pulled off his horse by one of his lovers, and when he was distracted with a kiss, Maeve took her chance. She needed to soak this up alone … to know it was real.
Was the power hers, at last—to hold her, to fill her?
She kneed Meallán onto one of the empty paths behind the houses and headed for the stables, sliding from his back in one of the stalls. A shower of windflowers fell from her hair—sticky-fingered children had been throwing them from the earth ramparts. She tossed the reins around a post, patted her stallion, and ignoring the strain in her muscles, vaulted over the rail and bounded out the door.
Outside, Maeve was enveloped in light, the sun catching on all the puddles, wet timber, and soaking thatch. Light … lifting her up, as it did at Ruán’s side. She loped along the silent pathways away from the king’s hall, racing up the green mound of the temple of Lugh.
There were druids before the golden shield. “Where … is … Tiernan?” she gasped, holding her side.
One pointed. “He is waiting for you, lady, at the gate to the king’s hall.”
Maeve limped back down, her face streaked with sweat. Her legs were protesting, her old scar cramping.
As she reached the crowds flocking about the king’s hall, it took all her willpower to slow to a walk. This was not a triumph for her on her own—how could she forget? People gradually hushed and fell back to let her through, as they did when she trod this path to fight her brother, thinking her life was about to end.
It was all different now.
Tiernan was standing alone in the gateway between the wooden towers, his hair a waterfall of gray over his pale robe, sunlight resting on his shaven brow.
Maeve’s voice failed when she recognized the veil of the druid trance that clouded his eyes. So he had also been seeking far for her.
Breathing hard, she pulled her sword free and knelt before him. “I triumphed against those who opposed me, and won the loyalty of lords and warriors. The long dark was mild, and leaf-bud early. The crops are abundant, the flocks and herds swelling. All is fertile and unfurls with life.”
Tiernan’s eyelids closed and opened again. His human self gradually settled back into him, and he slowly moved his head, looking down at her.
Maeve raised a fierce face. “Now proclaim what you know to be true!”
Mother of the land. A power that meant safety to her.
Tiernan’s gaze sharpened as it roamed over her, and his eyes filled with wonder. With a nod, he unclasped one veined hand from his staff and rested the palm on her brow. “It is as I foresaw.”
His resonant voice called a great stillness into Maeve’s body, and she stopped shaking. Everyone shared that silence with her, that pause.
“Before the gods I give you a new name. Maeve, Queen of Connacht, ruler of the lands of the Western Sea.”
The roar of the people came—a wave sweeping her away.
As soon as he was able to get to her through the throng of warriors, Tiernan appeared once more at Maeve’s side, a sheepskin cloak thrown over his druid robes. He had come back to himself, though his cheeks bore a trace of high color.
He beckoned Maeve with his staff toward the rampart stairs. Children scampered out of their way, their parents dropping back and whispering.
Up on the gate-tower, Tiernan folded his hands over the globe of white quartz atop his staff. “You wanted this burden, lady, and so it comes. A small party of warriors has raided the northern border.”
Maeve’s exultant smile faded. “And?”
Tiernan squinted at the sunshine. The rains had washed the sky clean and it was a vivid blue, the new grass on the plain a bright emerald. “They kept close to the rivers, moving fast, barely stopping. Some of our herdsmen took up spears against them and were killed.”
Maeve’s heart sank. “Did they steal any cattle?”
“No, strangely. They ignored many herds in passing.”
Maeve looked down, releasing her breath. “Conor did not take no for an answer.” She met Tiernan’s eyes. “They are only seeking Finnbennach. If they wanted a fight, they would have killed more pe
ople. He wants Finnbennach.”
Tiernan frowned. “We have kept the great one well hidden, as you suggested. And … he is certainly not white anymore.” He spread his gnarled hand. “I sent riders after the Ulaid warriors, but the best trackers were with you, and mine lost them in the hills.”
“Then I will send more, and if Ulaid warriors are still harrying our lands, we will drive them away.” It was an effort to brace her shoulders, for they suddenly felt unbearably heavy. “You know this is just the beginning.”
He nodded, studying her. “Because of Eochaid’s death, Conor may have thought to use your marriage to press some absurd claim of kingship. Now, though, he will discover we have a ruler of our own—and one, I fancy, he was not expecting.”
Maeve touched her brow and bowed her head, her heart pounding.
Maeve galloped Meallán along the shore of the lake, and this time she was in control of his reins.
She jumped down, and did not need to seek Ruán with her eyes. She merely let go. As she raced through the marsh, the grasses set up a great murmuring, bending as the wind swept through them. It blew away all memory of gates and ramparts, thatch roofs and smoke, and the bustle of Cruachan beyond the hills. There was only an endless expanse of reeds closing about her … to lose herself in.
No voices calling for her, arguing, or hammering out demands. Her fingertips trailed through the stalks, her steps quickening. No one grasping for her, pulling her in all directions. She glimpsed water now, the sparks of sunshine beckoning.
Maeve splashed through puddles with abandon, the wind dragging her hair from its rough braid, and she grew lighter the farther she went from solid land.
Without needing to think, she found Ruán.
He was toiling hard in the sun, cutting bundles of tall reeds for his bed. His long hair was wet, gleaming like an otter pelt, and the sunshine was strong enough now to turn his bare shoulders a faint red.
Maeve leaped up on an old buried log beside him. When Ruán straightened with the stems in one hand, she saw his face and words failed her. “I am Queen.” It came out as a whisper, after all.
He said nothing, for some reason lowering his chin, his shoulders sinking. The same heaviness dragged down Maeve’s belly, and only then did she realize what thumped so loud in her breast was nothing about being a queen at all.
“You came to me.” Maeve unbalanced and fell off the log. Ruán caught her, and her thigh instinctively nestled between his two strong legs, the sweat on his belly penetrating her thin tunic. She looked down at his brown wrist. “You saved me.”
He froze, before letting out a soft exhalation. “So it was not a dream.”
“You took me from sleep, showed me the men waiting to ambush me. We crossed the hills and attacked them—and we won.”
And I lived. Her shallow breaths made them both sway, the soft ground giving way beneath her heels.
His lips parted, it seemed with wonder. Then his forehead creased up. “But how can that be? I did not try to reach you.” He glanced into the distance, as if asking someone else.
Confused, a chill again swept Maeve. “Well … be happy at least that you saved the lives of many men.” She hesitated, her chin lifting. She had summoned courage in battle, and it still flowed through her.
So she would be raw before him now … risk this even though his brow was heavy.
Maeve freed her wrist and carefully took his face in her hands. She needed to feel life rushing through him again, for she had been so near death now—and survived.
At her touch, Ruán’s head came up. He was poised in that way he had, as if at any moment he might leap away through the trees or dive down through deep water. Away from her.
Maeve let out a shaky breath and brushed strands of his damp hair over one ear, smoothing the wet nape of his neck and trailing the dark hair back on the other side. His tanned, moist skin was silky beneath her fingers. She swore a shudder went through him.
“So,” she whispered, “this means you do not wish me dead, Ruán of the marsh. It means you came for me.” She had to swallow a lump, force it out. “As I would you.”
The tension in him flowed out of his muscles like water, his shoulders lowering. “So it seems, ceara.”
Ceara. Fiery red.
Ruán tossed down the reeds in his fist, his palm stained green. The curse that came from under his breath sounded a note of surrender.
He swept an arm about her neck and pulled her in, his mouth crushed fiercely to her brow.
Out in the dark, the lapping of waves had hushed as the wind dropped. Ruán was curled around Maeve in the nest of hides they had made, both of them facing the campfire. Maeve rolled on her back to look at him, the lush furs brushing her naked skin.
His elbow was propped up, chin in one hand. Under the furs he stroked her arm, but the touch was distracted, as if he beheld the same flames she did and sought for something in them.
She tilted her head up to him. “In the dream, I saw your eyes.”
His chin lowered, that invisible regard focusing on her. His loose hair caught on his collarbone, stiffened by the lake-water.
She traced the stubble on his jaw, touching the sweet bow of his lips, roughened by sun and wind. “They were gray because of the moonlight, but bright. They saw into me.”
The dips in Ruán’s cheeks hollowed, and he shuddered as if a memory blew over him. Maeve nestled the fur around his shoulder and settled her rump into the curve of his belly.
She laid her cheek on his callused hand. His heart thudded into her back.
At last Ruán sighed, leaning his chin on her hair. “They were green.”
That secret did not fly out into the dark forest. It stayed between their bodies, along with the scent of their skin.
CHAPTER 18
The day approached where at last it would not be Maeve raising the mead horn to bestow the blessings of the land upon another man as king. Someone would have to gift the cup of plenty to her, the first Queen of Connacht for generations.
“I can’t do it.” Finn backed up against Nél’s stall in the stable. Her tunic was grimed with dirt and there were smears across her soft round cheek. She held the horse-brush before her like a shield. “No.”
Maeve frowned as Nél kicked the rail, tossing his head. “You are of Connacht and Laigin, our alliance in flesh and blood …” She faltered.
The whites of Finn’s eyes were showing, her lips drawn in.
Maeve sent her senses along unfamiliar pathways. She had trained herself to read men’s hearts, but only for the dark things that threatened her. Women’s hearts? Never.
Finn tossed the brush to the straw and turned from Maeve, visibly forcing herself to lower her shoulders as she fingered her horse’s mane. “You ride to battle, and I know only that you will most likely die. Then you do nearly die, but I only find out you haven’t when the servants tell me of your message to Tiernan. Then you take off again—with no word for me—and now you want to parade me around, moving when you say, speaking when you say?” Her hands slipped from Nél’s neck to the rail, gripping it. “Well, I won’t!”
This torrent left Maeve speechless. Since she returned, Finn had never sought her out, and rarely met her eyes when she tried to draw a smile from her. Now Maeve was taken by an impulse to put a hand to her as she would to a foal, for that was all she knew about young things.
Yet as Maeve came closer, Finn spun about and shrank back. So Maeve stopped and searched her face. Finn’s braids were shoved beneath a leather cap. From afar she looked like a boy. But the sweaty curls that had escaped at her brow were all Maeve’s, and meeting Finn’s startling eyes was like looking in a mirror.
That was it. The answer lay in her memories of her own young self. She moistened her lips and cupped her palm along Finn’s temple in a touch of equals. The girl would twist away from anything else, like a wild cub.
Finn did tense but did not move, her lip quivering.
Maeve pretended not to notice. “Daugh
ter, any leader would want to take you to battle, for you would make a fine scout. But if you were harmed, I could not forgive myself. The day my blood runs into the ground, it will still flow in your veins. You are daughter of a queen and a king; you have the people of Connacht and Laigin to think about.” She moved her hand to Finn’s shoulder, just as she gripped Garvan. “And if you are going to stay, you must therefore learn what it means to rule a kingdom.”
Finn’s anger flared into something else. “Stay?”
That light in her eye struck Maeve’s breast, though for once it was not pain. “Do you want to?” Maeve’s voice was hoarse, but, inspired, she drew her sword from its sheath and tilted it to the light from the stable doors. “Can you fight?”
Finn’s brows shot up and she trapped an incredulous smile between her teeth. “Father thought such things unbecoming for a woman—and unsuitable for a child.”
“The handling of a sword is a fine skill to learn. It keeps you strong and nimble, and gains you the respect of men.” Maeve held the blade out on her palms, hilt first.
Finn’s eyes went round, and with a little, exultant bob on her toes she clasped the hilt. When Maeve let go, the weight made Finn’s arm dip. Blushing, she hefted it, swishing it through the dusty air.
Maeve watched the flame of sunlight breathe along the living blade. “And when you can fight, you don’t get left behind anymore.”
Her gaze met Finn’s. The thrill danced between them, hot and bright.
The day of Maeve’s crowning was the greatest celebration Connacht had seen in years.
Her warriors had chased Conor’s raiders away without them discovering Finnbennach, and she had placed a strong guard about all approaches from the north. Within that ring of safety, Connacht’s people could indulge in pleasure after the challenges of the dark and cold.
Games in the leaf-bud sunshine. Races. Prizes. Casks of mead and spitted pig and beef for the crafters, farmers, and warriors who came from all over Connacht. Streaming banners. Battle-horns and drums. A raucous fair, with stalls offering food and drink, cloth and baskets, leather, beads, and bronze.
