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 sisterscouldn’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 daylightwith 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. Hescooped 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
“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 sisterscouldn’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 daylightwith 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. Hescooped 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
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