Deception's Princess (Princesses of Myth) (2 page)

Mother overheard. “Don’t count your cows too soon, my girls—not with the easy way you all fall to bickering. Your father’s so fed up with it, he’s willing to
buy
peace. Five cows
for each of you if he finds you little she-wolves lying down in friendship when he comes home.” The severe look she gave us added:
See that it happens
.

“Do
we
get to choose?” I piped up.

“Choose?” Mugain echoed, raising her eyebrows.

I folded my arms. “They’ll be
my
cows. I want to pick them.”

She snickered. “You can hardly wipe your own nose, Maeve. When did you become a judge of cattle?”

“Tame your tongue, Mugain,” Mother snapped. “This is how quarrels start. Maeve has a good point: you girls should have a hand in matters that affect your future. I’m not raising you to be helpless or lazy or to expect you’ll lead perfect lives simply because you’re princesses. My daughters will
not
be empty bowls, waiting idly for someone else to decide if you’ll hold the hero’s portion or scraps for dogs. It’s not enough to be
given
things. You must also—”

“So you
want
us to pick our own cows, Mother?” I interrupted, grabbing her arm and bouncing up and down. “Can we? Will you promise?”

“She can’t do that, Maeve,” Clothru said in her most annoying I-know-everything voice. “She has to ask Father.”

Mother’s eyes flashed at my eldest sister. “Beg
his
permission to give
my
word? Your father will honor my pledge because he honors
me
. And if you girls wish to be respected by your husbands when you’re grown up, gone, and managing your own households, you will take care to—”

I didn’t linger to hear the rest of Mother’s lecture. Whenever she started talking of husbands, I knew she couldn’t mean me. I didn’t want one, not if being married meant leaving
home, not as long as my life held so many more interesting things to do.

I might never want a husband, but I did want a knife, and now. I stole away so nimbly that not even Derbriu noticed my departure. I sneaked into the great hall and spirited off a small, keen-edged blade from the place where the women prepared our meals. My plan was simple: find five cows that I’d be proud to own and cut off half the tuft of coarse hair at the end of their tails to mark them as mine.

The need for haste blinded me to all else. If I waited, one of my sisters might get a cow
I
wanted. I didn’t spare a moment to take off the fine clothes I’d worn for Father’s leave-taking or waste a thought over how dangerous cattle could be.

As I said, no one ever called me Maeve the Wise.

I plunged into the fog that had swallowed up Father’s raiding party, happy to have it conceal my departure from Cruachan, but once I reached the grazing fields, my elation faded. The mist wasn’t burning off fast enough to suit me. How was I supposed to choose cows I couldn’t see? I wanted to stamp in frustration, but cold droplets soaked the hem of my tunic and dense grass hampered my feet. I scowled into the haze and struggled on. The thick, unmistakable smell of cattle was all I had to guide me along.

And then, between one step and the next, I met the bull. He loomed through the slowly thinning fog like one of the Fair Folk’s stone monuments leading to the Otherworld. A feeble glimmer of sunlight made his black-tipped horns glow with an unearthly light. He was less than seven paces away and seemed unconcerned by my presence. I could have flung a pebble and hit his flank easily, but I would have died before committing
such sacrilege. His glorious strength and lordly presence stole my breath. I knew that I had to have him.

The bull was grazing as I crept closer. From time to time he lifted his heavy head and turned it slowly from side to side as if sifting the different scents on the morning air. When he did this, I froze in place, willing him to mistake me for a part of the landscape. I wasn’t a
complete
fool: I understood that what I wanted to do was perilous. Now that I saw the full measure of the beast before me, I recognized him. This was not just any of my father’s cattle. This was Dubh, the fire-hearted black bull whose horns had laid open a man’s leg from hip to knee when Father first brought the creature home. This was the one whose blood ran so hot that our cowherds had to keep him far from the other cattle outside of breeding time.

This was the bull I was born to own.

I slipped off my tunic and tied the sleeves loosely around my neck. If I suddenly had to turn and run, I couldn’t have that dew-drenched garment holding me back. But it wasn’t just any tunic of wool or linen, to be dropped in the field and retrieved later—if the bull’s hooves spared it. I’d chosen to wear my best one for Father’s leave-taking, a family treasure made from silk the deep blue of twilight.

The tunic’s soaking hem fell against the backs of my thighs and clung there. That didn’t matter; my legs were free. I was ready. My palms grew damp, my mouth dry. I licked my lips; it didn’t help. The bull continued grazing. I edged closer, coming up behind him. A misstep plunged my right foot into one of his droppings. I think the familiar stink of his own waste masked my true scent just long enough for me to lift his tail and slash a chunk free with my blade.

Oh, how I ran after that! I raced through the grass, one foot a reeking mess, one hand clutching the precious spoils of my adventure. My heart pounded in my ears, but not half as loud as the rumble of the bull’s hooves. I’d struck swiftly, but not swiftly enough to escape undetected. Great Dubh knew he’d been challenged, and he bawled his outrage to the skies. I didn’t look back, but I could hear him closing the gap between us. Now the morning mist was lifting and I could see Cruachan’s high earthen walls in the distance. A stand of trees sprang up to my right, but too far off for me to reach them before the black bull reached me. From the left I heard the lowing of many cows as the king’s herds were driven to milking. Those were the beasts I’d been seeking when I found the bull. If I could reach them and lose myself in the herd, I might survive Dubh’s charge. Could my small legs cover so much distance in time?

I clenched my teeth and drew in deep, desperate breaths through my nostrils. As hard as I ran, as dire as the fate at my heels, I never let go of the tuft of bull’s hair in my left hand.
I won’t give it up!
I thought angrily.
It’s proof he’s mine! And if he overtakes me, I’ll … I’ll …
 My right hand closed more tightly on the little knife. In my heart I knew that even if I managed to stab the maddened bull with that pitiful blade, it would be no more to him than a fly’s bite. Still I clung to false notions that I was not entirely helpless. I stoked my fury like a blacksmith’s fire until it blazed away the panic in my bones.

The sound of many voices raised in fear came from across the fields: my father’s cowherds. The sun had erased the last of the mist, giving them a clear view of my wild, hopeless dash. They were horrified but too far off to help me. Even if they
could have conjured wings and covered the space between us, would they have been able to stop the beast? They’d have had better luck using a reed to hold back a thunderstorm!

My chest tightened and burned. I stepped on a tuft of grass and staggered sideways, stumbling halfway to my knees but recovering quickly. Something tugged at my left foot as I rose. I kicked backward violently, thrusting clear of whatever had snared me, and ran on.

It wasn’t until I’d covered forty strides that I became aware of the change all around me. The cowherds’ cries of alarm had turned to cheers. The bull’s ever-closer presence was fading. The sun and wind poured over my back, which was now bare as an egg, and my neck was no longer encircled by the silk tunic’s sleeves. What was happening? I couldn’t resist the temptation to pause in my flight and turn around. Dubh the Mighty, Dubh the Fierce, Dubh the Bull of Bulls, my father’s most valued beast, no longer chased me. Instead of plunging on, eager to avenge his clipped tail with my blood, the huge animal was trampling and goring and tearing the life out of … my tunic. Most of it lay in a damp wad under his hooves, the rich blue silk a muddy brown. A scrap of fabric trailed from one of his horns, forever just out of reach, tormenting him. He bawled and shook his head, but it was there to stay.

“I’m glad your father’s not here to see that, Princess.” A man’s voice sounded at my side. One of the cowherds had arrived. “He’d offer some outlandish prize to the man bold enough to steal old Dubh’s ribbon and I’d lose at least four of my stupidest lads to that contest.” A fresh bellow from the bull made him chuckle. “
Now
hear him. Pitiful, like he is begging
me to free him from that rag: ‘Oh, please, won’t you save me, dear friend? I promise by all I hold dearest, cows and cud, that I won’t hurt you. I’ll stand as tame as an old dog, and once you’ve plucked this accursed thing off my horn, I’ll let you leave in peace.’ Ha! Find a different fool to believe
that
, Dubh,” he called out through cupped hands; then he lifted me onto his shoulder just like Father would and carried me home.

What a return that was! From the moment the cowherd brought me back to my mother I was scrubbed and kissed, praised and scolded, spanked and stuffed with the best tidbits at dinner. She ordered me to tell her what had happened, but I was so proud of my successful adventure that she didn’t need to
demand
an explanation. I recounted the whole tale to her, to her attending ladies, to my sisters, and soon to all those who hadn’t accompanied Father on his raid. Everyone who heard it repeated it, and sometimes added to it, until the ripples of the story ran out from Cruachan to meet Father halfway on his road home.

His driver, Fechin, raced the horses up the slope at such a furious pace that our watchmen scarcely had time to announce their lord’s approach before Father was leaping down from his chariot, shouting my name. When Mother and all of us girls rushed out to welcome him, he scooped me up and threw me so high that I gasped with delight.

“What have you done now, Maeve?” he shouted. It was the only time anyone would say those words to me in praise. “What have you done to that poor, helpless bull? Bested by a girl! Will he ever recover from the shame?”

He placed me on my feet before him so that I could catch my breath and reply, “I only wanted to make sure my sisters
couldn’t take him when we choose the cows you promised us for not quarreling. And we didn’t, not even once.”

“Who said
you
could choose a gift of
my
giving, little spark?” Father tried to sound serious and failed utterly.

“It was my idea,” I told him. “But Mother agreed it was a good one and said you’d do it.”

“Is that so? Just like that?” Thick, spear-calloused fingers smoothed his mustache, which was as red as my hair. He smiled at Mother. “What sort of bold behavior are you teaching your daughters, my clever one?”

She tossed her chin high. “The same that I’m teaching
your
daughters, old boar.” Everyone laughed, Father loudest of all.

Circling Mother’s waist with one arm, he said, “Ah, Cloithfinn, are you sure you haven’t been misleading me all these years?”

“What are you bleating about, calling me deceitful?” Mother tried to push free of his embrace. Her scowl looked deadly.

He kissed her heartily and earned a slap for it. Chuckling, he replied, “Haven’t you been hiding the fact that our Maeve’s no girl-child after all?”

“Do you even hear the nonsense you speak, boy?” Mother snapped at him. She must have known he was teasing, but she was in no mood to play along. If she hoped hard words would make him seal his lips, she failed.

“Be reasonable, love. What girl goes romping off to capture a full-grown bull? Our Maeve’s got a spirit fierce enough for her to make a fine son, one that any king would be proud to call his heir. When Maeve was born, your good friend Lady Íde came to tell me she’d seen the baby come into the daylight
with its fists clenched, ready for a fight. The midwife saw this as such a powerful omen that it took her a while before she noticed she’d delivered yet another princess.”

“ ‘Yet
another
princess’?” Mother repeated, a dangerous note in her voice.

Father stepped away from her and raised both hands as if to shield himself from a blow. His ready smile wavered.

I was too young to tell if this was more of their usual sparring or if they were quarreling in earnest. I threw myself between them and begged, “Don’t fight! I promise I won’t take my bull or the cows if you make up. It’s Father’s homecoming. We should all be happy.”

My plea eased the tension. Father sighed and smiled fondly at Mother. “She has your wisdom, Cloithfinn. We should heed it.” He offered me his hand, huge and rough, and Mother gave me hers, small yet strong. Soon I was shrieking with glee as we entered our stronghold, my parents swinging me high into the air at every third stride.

As we approached our great house, I saw a group of Father’s men crowding the stone-framed entry. Flanking it were the severed heads of warriors who had fallen most valiantly in battle with Lord Eochu, each carefully embalmed with cedar oil and displayed in a niche. I had grown up seeing these grisly trophies, a tribute to my father’s skill with the sword. The worthiest of the king’s fallen adversaries was shown the greatest respect by having his head set on the lintel above the doorway, but this place of honor had remained vacant for over a year.

No longer. The warriors who had just mounted the fresh trophy there turned to greet Father with loud cheers. He
scooped me off my feet and held me against his battle-scarred chest so that I could have a better look at his newly taken prize.

“See there, Maeve?” he said gravely. “That’s the fate of a man who thought he could betray me and escape the consequences just because he was High King of Èriu.” He gave the sightless eyes a mocking look. “I taught you otherwise, eh, Fachtna Fáthach?”

I stared at the severed head in wonderment, remembering the times when Father had spoken about attending the High King at Tara or sending him gifts. A man so high-ranked that other kings paid him tribute, yet now he was … gone.