by Jules Watson
Maeve’s curves had been pared away by illness, riding, and weapons: the muscles at her waist built up, the flesh of her hips worked off. It was not a lush body to excite a man. Perhaps the vulnerability of her injury affected Ailill, though, or the trembling she could not hide.
Desire began to warm his eyes, and he smiled.
It took a week for Maeve to bring her wrath to heel and return to the lake. Ruán had saved her more than once. She owed him every apology she could muster, and even more gratitude. She had to show him what really lay inside her, so he would again call her ceara with that catch in his voice.
I was yours long ago. Be with me through this, and soon it will change.
As she rode, Maeve comforted herself—a little—that at least Ruán already knew her pride was abominable. Perhaps he could forgive her.
He had to forgive her.
At the fringes of the reeds, Meallán came to a halt, his ears twitching back and forth. He had already sensed what was only dawning over Maeve. The silence of the lake had deepened. For the first time, the emptiness felt threatening, the wind tearing at her cloak.
It was a wild place now, and nothing more.
Maeve slid to the ground, the hammering in her chest drowning out the subtle shifts in her surroundings. She crossed the shore. The dew coated the grass, unbroken by footsteps. She reached the place where they put up his tent in the hailstorm. The shelter was still there, though the flap had come undone and the furs inside were wet. Everything she had brought was laid upon the bed—pots and platters, the fire-dog to spit meat over the hearth, deerskins and blankets.
They were already musty with damp.
Her thoughts flew around, crazy as moths. Perhaps she had furnished this place in a swoon of madness, and there had never been a Ruán. Perhaps she had been led astray by the glimmers of the lake, the murmuring reeds.
So why had the emptiness crept inside her now?
Maeve forced herself to move, squatting by the hearth. He might be off fishing after smooring the fire to save the coals. She reached out a quavering hand and let her palm hover over the ashes.
Cold. Long dead.
Her chin sank to her breast.
At dusk Maeve rode into Cruachan.
She did not pay any mind to the blur of people who flowed out of her way. At the stables, she uncramped her fingers to wave aside the boys who came running to catch Meallán’s bridle. She forced a stiff leg over to dismount.
She came back to herself with a jolt, ankle-deep in straw in the darkest stall away from the doors. She was standing with her palms on Meallán’s sweaty flank. Her horse had splashed through the lake, and still smelled of sour mud and weedy water. If she let go of him, that smell would be gone, too. She would have to face the harsh light of day, the bustle of the dun.
Meallán’s hide trembled, as if something poured into him from her touch. Maeve jerked her hands away.
“Mother.”
This time she longed to turn from that voice, lurking in cold shadow until she went numb.
“Mother?”
The voice was insistent, tugging on her. A touch came on her shoulder, her arm. Maeve lifted her aching head and flinched as the pale light from the doors caught her face.
Finn searched the tracks on Maeve’s cheeks. “Are you sick again?”
A familiar denial surfaced. But she was only talking to herself, wasn’t she? No one would know her weakness if she whispered it to herself in the mirror. “The pain … it burns. I can’t … I can’t breathe.”
A pause. “Then let the servants fill a bath for you, Mother, in the women’s lodge. That will soothe you, and I will wash your hair.”
As Maeve walked across the grass, everything was a haze of color: snapping red banners on gold thatch roofs, white clouds scudding across a bright sky, the green plains beyond high, dark ramparts. She longed to burrow away from it all.
Only when she huddled in steaming water, a sponge spilling heat down her back, did her shivers slow. Her knees were against her chest. Water poured over her hair. Fingers massaged her head.
Dimly, Maeve became aware of footsteps approaching the screen of woven willow around the bath. Finn dropped the bone scoop to the flagstones of the bath-chamber and dashed out. “My lord?”
“I have news for the queen.” It was Garvan.
“Can it not wait …?”
“No, it cannot, little Red. I’m ready to leave for Mumu, to see King Niall.”
“But … she’s not dressed!”
A snort. “It is nothing I haven’t seen before.”
Garvan was standing by the bath. Maeve looked up at a thatch of black glossy hair, a glint of bright eyes. “I thought you should know Ailill has gone to see his father, spitfire. He was all primped, his guards and horses scrubbed. He listened to you, after all.”
The words fell through Maeve. She stared down at the water, red in the light of the brazier. She put her hand on the surface so the skin of it clung to her.
The shining lake reflecting the sunset … Ruán singing as he built the fire behind her. Gazing out, she had not been able to turn away from the burning sky and glowing water, even though she was in ankle-deep and growing cold. She had longed for that peace to flow into her, to fill her forever.
“Maeve.” Garvan’s step dislodged a sponge from the tub and it fell in the water, shattering the surface.
Maeve forced her chin up.
“Did you hear what I said? Ailill has gone to Laigin. I am for Mumu.”
She gazed at him wide-eyed. It had begun. There was no stopping it now … the warriors were gathering their strength, champing at the bit.
Her hands fell on the sides of the bath, gripping the rim to push herself up. Naked she was, but she must be clad now in the heavy robes of a queen.
That was what her people needed. She had made that vow to them on the steps of the temple of Lugh, the day the sacred mead bound her to the land.
CHAPTER 23
Cúchulainn sat at his own fire for once. He had retreated to his fort Dun Dalgan, near the eastern shore of the Ulaid close to the border with Laigin.
His was not a formal household, and everyone from the boys who led the cattle to the cooks and weavers clustered into his hall at night. At the still of dusk, though, when the stock was being penned and servants were roasting meat and stirring broth, everyone left Cúchulainn and his wife alone beside the flames.
Emer and Cúchulainn nestled close, her head on his shoulder as they shared one cup of mead. The glow on Emer’s soft cheek and the gleam of her dark hair let Cúchulainn pretend, for a moment, they were simple herders at their hearth, the cattle safely in for the night.
Emer’s heart beat against his arm where she pressed her breast to him. Cúchulainn sighed.
“My father was here today.” Emer’s husky voice was comforting. “The other chieftains are growing angrier with Conor, but Fa doesn’t think anyone will act against him. They are too afraid.”
For a mad moment it occurred to Cúchulainn that if one of the lords usurped the king, their problems would be solved. I could. But his oath was to protect the Ulaid, and if anyone seized power without the acclaim of all the chiefs, battle would ensue. Conor had bought many of them with land and other riches, and for some, that would hold more power than loyalty to the people.
This could still be mended … if Ferdia found the sons of Usnech.
Poor Ferdia. He had not been back long from Skatha’s—empty-handed—when Levarcham sought them out. The silver-haired druid, her face now so haunted, told Cúchulainn and Ferdia that she had nearly killed herself with the druid herbs, but had at last glimpsed in her visions something of Deirdre’s whereabouts.
She was certain that the girl and the sons of Usnech were hiding in the west of Alba.
Ferdia immediately took off again, desperate to get to them before Conor did. This time Cúchulainn had pressed hard to go, but Ferdia talked him down once more. “You must stay, Cú, and hold the Red Branch tog
ether. That Connacht raid was too close.” Ferdia’s smile was tight as he hefted his pack into the boat’s hull. “And I am expendable.”
“Not to me,” was Cúchulainn’s sharp reply.
Ferdia’s face was still hovering before him in the flames as Cúchulainn rested his chin upon Emer’s brow. She reached a hand up and ran it through the hair at his temple.
Suddenly, the Hound went alert.
Cúchulainn heard the challenge from one of his guards then, and the scrape of the gates and thud of hooves. A panicked horse—it had been ridden fast.
Emer sat up. “What?” Dark curls drooped over her face as she rubbed her nose.
“Ferdia.” Cúchulainn spoke his longing aloud. But … no. His guards would never challenge Ferdia.
The rider ducked into the hall, mist dampening his hair and muddy cloak. It was a warrior Cúchulainn had planted in the king’s hall at Emain Macha long ago. With a taut face, Cúchulainn shoved a cup of ale in the rider’s hand. He gulped and spoke between swallows. “Conor has at last discovered the sons of Usnech.”
Emer gasped, a hand flying to her mouth.
“The king heard rumors of three Erin men at Dunadd, the western stronghold of the Epidii tribe. The king has sent someone to identify them before he does anything else.”
Does what? Cúchulainn wondered, sick to the belly. Pay the Epidii king for prisoners in chains? Dispatch someone to kill them? Or send someone dear to Naisi, who would bring them home safely, with their honor intact?
Ferdia did not get to them first.
Chilled despite the flames, Cúchulainn asked his servants to feed the man and find him a bed. Then he swung back to Emer.
“Conor knows that the eyes of his people are upon him,” Emer said swiftly.
“Aye.” Cúchulainn swallowed, determination hardening. “He cannot harm them if everyone knows this news. I must ensure it is spread among the Red Branch—and shouted from the walls of Emain Macha.” He beckoned to the men on the wall-benches sharpening their spears. “Bring my weapons!” he cried. To Emer, he muttered, “I’ll need jewels and clothes. Are my best robes clean, my boots? The horse-tack and chariot need polishing …”
“Husband.” Emer gripped his arms. “We will ready it all. The king and his men know there is only one Hound of Cullen, and they will hearken to that glorious sun when it rises in their midst.”
He filled his lungs, focusing on her again.
“But … you go tonight?” Emer’s voice dropped as she searched his eyes.
Cúchulainn gathered himself, brushing a curl from her cheek. “At dawn. So come with me now, wife, and we will make a flame of our own to drive back the dark. I will take it with me when I go to challenge the king.”
In the blessed darkness of the storehouse, Conor, King of the Ulaid, sprawled among his riches. His head swayed, so heavy on his neck. The room spun and he threw an arm around the bulge of a grain sack, piled up as the harvest was gathered in.
He had crept there to escape it, but the blaze that was Cúchulainn still hurt his eyes, as if Conor had looked into the sun.
Just after dusk the Hound had come, slamming open the doors of Conor’s hall. The firelight reflected off his gold and bronze as he paced around the hearth, and every flash speared Conor, pinning him to his chair. So he knew that he had at last found Deirdre and Naisi.
“Bring them home with honor!” Cúchulainn had bellowed, prowling before the Red Branch heroes—shaming his king before his warriors. “Bring them and feast them, and mend what has been riven, and make us one again.”
Conor wanted to. Since he felt the touch of the gods in the temple, he longed to. He had already sent someone Naisi loved to Alba to fetch the exiles home—Fergus mac Roy and his sons Illan and Buinne.
Conor’s gaze darted about the storehouse. Even here, moonlight found its way between the timbers, picking out all the wealth he possessed.
His breaths were muffled by jars and barrels, sacks, baskets and pots piled up against the walls. On a shelf, a gleam of wood bound by iron bands. Crawling over, Conor reached up and clawed out the bung of the little keg, opening his mouth beneath. He gulped, greedy for oblivion, mead spilling down his chin. When he thought he might be sick, he shoved the bung back in, collapsing against the wall. His throat burned.
He swallowed the sweet juices of Deirdre’s mouth.
No. His nails dented the timbers beneath him. They were not his thoughts. He summoned the ecstatic vision from the temple instead. That was real, and sacred. The voice of the gods.
Deirdre.
Even now she might be flying to him over the waves. She would shine a light over his kingdom, her beauty binding his fractured people back together. Conor crawled back to the sacks, the floor bucking beneath him. He scrabbled with the flax tie until he tore one open. See … grain.
Deirdre would stand beside him at the temple and bestow upon him her gifts of plenty. Conor grabbed a handful of barley seeds, crushing them to his nose.
Wife, came a dark whisper. Queen.
Conor gasped, scattering grain over the floor. She was Naisi’s. They were both so young and beautiful … If his people saw them together, and then he wrenched her from Naisi, they would all cry out against him. There must be some way his possession of Deirdre could become a sacred duty.
The walls shivered away, and Conor saw himself at the shrine of Macha, holding Deirdre’s hand and being cheered by his people. And there, on her other side … there must stand Naisi in some position of honor, to show all was forgiven.
The Red Branch would revere him for that.
Clutching another handful of seed, Conor pushed himself up and stood wavering from side to side. Slowly, he poured the grain over his head until it streamed through his gray locks and caught on his eyes and wrinkled cheeks.
Turning his hair gold again—making his skin gleam once more.
He longed to be the Good God, the father of the land who made everything fertile, who brought safety and plenty to his people. That was why he must elevate Deirdre into a goddess—an idol—whom all would worship. For if they worshipped her, she would bestow that sacredness on him.
Conor staggered, the seeds of plenty spilling from his shoulders onto the wet floor.
Maeve’s illness appeared to return to her.
Her body became exhausted—a weariness she could only overcome with an effort of will. Her mind, though, was fevered, and her heart would not be still. She would not allow it, even for a moment.
There was no way to exist but to push on.
Aching in every bone, she rode the rounds of the harvest feasts, waiting until the dancing was frenzied and the mead flowing before she begged the lords for more men to build her war-bands. She sorted tithes and cattle-portions; heard complaints and dealt with trade ships; settled marriages and chieftain disputes.
She paced the ramparts, studying the sparring warriors with burning eyes. If she had only sacred duty to drive her on, then that is what they must summon, too.
Then Ailill returned from Laigin with the news that Ros Ruadh would not support any plan for a full-scale attack on Conor. Despite Conor’s demands for the bull, and the raid on Connacht, Ros Ruadh thought the Ulaid were still too strong to defy. They still possessed the Red Branch.
He is old, Maeve stormed to Ailill. His fear makes him weak.
Without Laigin, the secret appeal to Mumu also came to nothing.
And then came worse—much worse.
“Conor has found his fugitives in Alba,” Garvan reported to Maeve. “He’s forgiven Naisi and his brothers, and Fergus is bringing them and Deirdre home so he can set them back in a place of honor.”
So they were too late. The Ulaid would bind themselves back together, closer than ever, and be too strong to ever face again.
And so Conor would come in force for Connacht. For her.
Too late, Maeve fretted, as she dragged herself up the stairs to the gate-towers, slipped on and off her horse, and raised her hollow voice i
n laughter among the fighting men. She gulped mead with the chiefs until they fell over and she was left staring into the bonfires and seeing nothing but destruction.
“You never stay still,” Ailill complained one day from the hearth-bench in the king’s hall, as Maeve pulled her mantle on and squatted to lace her boots. “You never come to bed, and you won’t sit and eat.”
“I am a queen,” she muttered, head down. A wave of dizziness hit her, and she sat on the rushes, blinking to clear her eyes. “If you want a kingdom to rule, then this is what I must be.”
I can only be this.
Memories of him kept creeping in, each drawing a blade that hacked away at her roots. But if she let them fell her, she would huddle and weep and her strength would bleed away. Instead, she crushed that pain into a ceaseless ache that merely walked beside her.
She would not even think his name.
Maeve returned in the dark that night when Ailill had already drunk himself into a stupor. Aching all over, she removed her armor beside the low bed. She flinched when she brushed the welts her breastplate had worn under her arms. The sword’s weight had rubbed blisters beneath her belt, and battered bruises down her thigh.
She accidentally touched the thin scar on her flank. Tenderly knitted back together. Her fingers leaped away as if scalded.
Shivering, she crawled in beside a snoring Ailill and sat with her back against the mud wall. In the dark beneath the thatched eaves she could clench her knees to her chest and no one would know.
That day, Erna told her of something Tiernan had cried out during a vision in the grove. The druids who witnessed it were whispering among themselves in dismay, the rumor spreading among all the priests like a blight.
All riven, all burning!
Blood shines in the fire, amid the flames.
And after, there is only ash blowing through empty halls.
Sorrow becomes a fog over the land, light perishes.
Cruachan. It must be.
There was little Maeve could do without the support of the other kingdoms, or at least an agreement from her own chieftains to send their men into battle. She could throw herself into Connacht’s defenses, however.
