Deception's Princess (Princesses of Myth) (10 page)

I didn’t know what to make of her presence. There was never any common ground for real friendship between the fosterlings and me. All that seemed to interest them was gossiping about one another or tittering about boys. From time to time a few did seem willing to share my company, until I found out their sole reason was to claim a bond with the High King’s daughter. That ended that.

Guennola sniffed. “Lady Cloithfinn says I’m supposed to help you make ready to welcome the visitors,” she said stiffly. It was clear she saw this assignment as glorified baby-tending.

I’d have liked to send that prim girl on her way, but her
orders came from Mother. Only heroes fight battles they can never win. I took off everything but my undershift, released my hair from its plait, and said, “You’d better start by bringing me a bowl of water and a towel.
Someone
thinks I need to wash my face. Twice.”

Washing, dressing, and loading me with sufficient jewelry were easy. Combing the wildness out of my hair was hard. Guennola groaned and complained while working out the snarls, as if she were the one feeling massive fistfuls of hair being yanked out of her scalp. “I don’t understand it,” she whined. “Your hair was in a neat braid when you came in. I saw it! Where did this nest of briars come from?”

“It’s … a wicked spell … cast over me … by the Fair Folk,” I replied, wincing between words. “One of their—ow!—one of their ladies was—ow!—envious of my hair and— Oh,
please
just give me the comb!”

“But this is my job, Lady Maeve. Your mother said I was supposed to—”

“I won’t tell. Will you? I’ll comb, you braid.”

“Lady Cloithfinn said you’re to wear it loose. It looks prettier that way. I’m supposed to put flowers in it and tie silver beads to the strands near your cheeks.”

“What a ridiculous fuss!” I exclaimed, gently guiding the comb through my much-abused tresses. “Who
are
these guests of ours?”

I had my answer soon enough, but not from Guennola. She ignored my question and began decorating my hair before I finished untangling it all, tying the last silver bead in place a heartbeat before Mother burst into my room.

“Aren’t you done ye— Ah, you are. Good. Well done,
Guennola. Maeve, attend me.” She spun about and sailed back into the great hall before either of us could catch a breath.

Our visitors were with Father, seated comfortably on benches at the far side of the central hearth. Servants were already filling their drinking horns with a choice of mead or fresh milk. Others were hurrying to offer food. Mother snatched a bowl of bread from one of them and thrust it into my hands. Her intention was clear: these guests were worthy of being served by a princess.

As I stepped forward with the bread, Father beamed. “This is my youngest daughter, Maeve. Maeve, this is a splendid day for us. Our home is privileged to welcome Master Íobar and his son, Odran.” There was no need for him to mention Master Íobar’s calling. The druid’s ceremonial bronze sickle was in plain sight, hanging from his belt. “They’ve come from Munster in the south, bound for the holy island of Avallach, but they’ve consented to stay with us until it’s time to set out for the Samhain rites at Tara.”

“This is an honor,” I said pleasantly, offering my bowl to the older man. His dark hair was heavily streaked with gray and he had the blackest eyes I’d ever seen. They drew me in and held me rapt. I was only dimly aware when he took a piece of bread and thanked me. I found myself unable to tear my gaze away from his until Father saved me.

“Maeve, I think Odran would like something to eat too.”

Flustered, I shifted my attention to the druid’s son. Even now, inside the great hall, he kept his cloak around him. The only parts of his body not concealed by wool and fur were his feet and his face. Blue-black hair lay long and thick down his back and fell in a smooth sweep across his high forehead. I
was thankful to see that he didn’t have his father’s unfathomable eyes. His were the clear, honest blue of that morning’s summer sky.

Perhaps he stays so wrapped up because he’s been ill
, I thought, taking in the pallor of his skin. There wasn’t the faintest stain of healthy red on his cheeks, nor any sign that the sun had tanned him in all the days he’d been traveling.

“Please help yourself,” I said, urging the bread on him.

He made no move to accept my invitation. His hands remained tucked away under his cloak. “Thank you, my lady,” he said with a gentle smile. “I’m not hungry right now.”

“But you’ve been traveling. You need to eat. If you don’t want bread, there’s cheese coming too, and lots of meat. I hope you’re not worried about being a burden to this household. We have plenty to share and our guests make us happiest when they eat their fill. Here, have this.” I took a large chunk of bread from the bowl and held it out to him.

He didn’t move to take it. Something else did. The red fur collar ringing his neck shuddered, twisted, and raised a daintily pointed black snout from beneath the curtain of Odran’s hair. The little fox’s yellow eyes blinked sleepily at me before it roused itself completely and snatched the bread from my hand in one snap of its jaws.

I gasped with surprise as the swift creature jumped down from Odran’s shoulder to hide itself and its prize under the boy’s bench. “Your collar—” I began breathlessly.

The front of Odran’s cloak squirmed. A small brown, round-eared head popped into view, eyes bright with curiosity. It was the first time I’d seen a stoat at such close quarters while the feisty creature was still alive. In one jump, it landed
in my bowl and began tearing savagely at the bread. I yelped and reacted without thinking, throwing the bowl straight up over my head.

Odran moved almost as fast as his strange pets, shedding his cloak as he leaped forward, arms outstretched, eyes fixed on the flying bowl. He didn’t see me in his way. Even if he had, I doubt it would have made a difference. His shoulder struck me aside as he grabbed the bread bowl in midair. My rump and his feet hit the ground at the same time.

“Odran!”
Master Íobar’s shout shook dust from the roof of the great hall. “You worthless toad dropping, what have you done to the princess?”

His father’s rage had no visible effect on Odran. Now that he had the young stoat cradled safely in his arms, he stood there gazing at the rest of us in mild bewilderment. He reminded me of a puppy, caught making a mess indoors. His eyes seemed to ask:
What’s wrong with you? Why are you yelling at me? I don’t understand
.

I clambered back to my feet and tentatively laid one hand on Odran’s arm. I didn’t like being so close to the feeding stoat but felt that if I kept my distance now, his father would see it as proof I’d been insulted. “If you didn’t want bread, you should have just told me so,” I said genially.

His smile returned. “I believe I did, my lady.”

“Then it’s my fault for not listening, and I beg your pardon.” I eyed the stoat uneasily as I spoke. The vicious little thing was gnawing avidly at a piece of bread, but who could say when it might grow bored with that bland food and want a taste of something with blood in it? My hand, for instance?

He misinterpreted why I was staring at the beast. “Would
you like to pet her?” he asked, making as if to pass the stoat to me.

“No!”
I recoiled violently, as if he’d offered to dump a basket of fish guts onto my bed.

Father found my reaction to be the funniest thing he’d seen in a long while. “Tsk, Maeve, you’re giving our furry guests a rough welcome,” he said, chuckling. “Maybe you should ask Odran’s creatures to excuse your bad manners.”

I rolled my eyes at him. “I’ll do that on the day after I hear
you
apologize to every cow you slaughter at Samhain and every tick you pluck off your favorite hound and crush between your fingers.”

“That sounds like something your mother would say. What’s happened here to make my little spark catch fire?” Deliberately and distinctly he slewed his glance in Odran’s direction and laughed again, harder.

My cheeks flamed. I was in no mood for his teasing. Making myself as tall and dignified as I could, I turned to our guests and said, “Master Íobar, Odran, be welcome to Connacht.” Then I marched to my sleeping chamber, ignoring my father’s great guffaws, my mother’s irate orders that I come back at once, and the high-pitched yipping of an overly excited small red fox.

“Y
OU LIKE HIM
, don’t you?” Mother asked playfully as the two of us worked on embroidering a new tunic for Father to wear to the Samhain rites. It was another flawless morning, some nine days after our guests had arrived, and we’d had the servants move a bench outdoors so that we could take advantage of the sunlight.

“Who?” I asked, distracted. All my focus was on my needlework. It was an art I wanted to master but found slow going. My stitches were too long or too short and I kept getting knots in the thread.

“Odran. Who else could I mean?” Mother finished a spiral design banding one of the tunic’s wrists. She was already done with the other wrist and the neckline of the garment, while I was still struggling with ornamenting the lower hem.

I looked at her as if she’d grown antlers. “Odran?” I repeated. “I do like him—”

“Aha!”

“—except not the way you’re thinking.”

“Oh.” She seemed disappointed but shrugged it off in short order. “That’s just as well, I’m sure. I don’t want any of my girls to have broken hearts.”

“I don’t think Odran could break anyone’s heart,” I said. “He speaks politely to everyone, no matter their rank. I’ve never heard him give our servants commands, just requests. He’s kindness itself to those animals he keeps, and he makes sure that no one but he has to deal with their meals and their messes. I’ve never heard him brag or bully or complain about anything.” I shrugged. “He’s so … nice.”

Mother tied off a thread. “You say that as if it were a fault. Do you want one of those lads who’s always scowling or picking fights or who’s perpetually bored and so very
loud
about letting everyone know it?”

I made a face. “I don’t want
anybody
.” Then I grew thoughtful and added, “Not just yet.”

“So, if you
did
want someone—which you don’t, of course—could that someone be a
nice
boy?”

“Do we
have
to dwell on this?” I slapped the cloth draped over my knees. “We used to talk about so many different things when we had work to do together. Now you talk like one of our girls, forever twisting the conversation back to boys and boys and
boys
.”

“And you keep twisting it away. You’ll be married someday. You should know what you want in a husband.”

“Don’t you mean what Father wants?” I countered.

Mother examined her finished embroidery with a meticulous eye for any defects. “Not if you’re my daughter. When the time comes, you’ll find a way to make your desires known.”

“I can do that now. It doesn’t mean Father heeds me. For all I know, he’ll come back from Tara and say, ‘Look at the wonderful gift I’ve brought home for my little girl—a husband! Take him and like him.’ ”

“And you sound like a
very
little girl when you say such things,” Mother replied. “Really, Maeve, there are more ways to fight for what you want than striking out with sword, spear, or even a stick. Griping isn’t one of them. I hope your new sister won’t whine like that.” She set her stitchery by and rested one hand on her belly.

She wore a tranquil smile, as if she were the guardian spirit of the Fair Folk’s treasure. I smarted from her remarks.
Do I really whine so much?
I thought. But seeing her so perfectly content gave me a warm feeling that overcame every resentment.

“The baby might be a boy,” I said, placing my hand atop hers.

“You think so?” The baby kicked; we both gasped with delight. “I don’t think I have the knack for birthing boys. I wonder if I’d even know how to raise one.”

“You won’t have to worry,” I said, drawing my hand away and leaning back. “Father and his men will take charge of his upbringing from the moment he’s born.”

“Darling Maeve, can you even
picture
your father and his mighty warriors trying to keep a newborn’s stomach full and its bottom clean?”

I clapped my fingers over my mouth and snickered. She pressed her lips together. We might have held on to our self-control, but we made the mistake of looking at one another. “Father … cleaning …
baby
,” I sputtered, and we were both hysterical.

Mother brushed tears of mirth from her cheeks. “It’s good for a child to be surrounded by joy, even before it’s born.” Her gaze shifted from her belly to me. “I want that for all of my children.”

We returned to our stitchery. I bent my head over my needle and concentrated on embroidering a pattern of triquetras along the hem of Father’s tunic. A triquetra was a simple figure that looked like three overlapping ash tree leaves, although without their jagged edges. My needlework left much to be desired, but Mother seemed content with it.