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The Raven Queen, by Jules Watson
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In this dazzling retelling of one of Ireland’s most stirring legends, acclaimed author Jules Watson brings to life the story of Maeve, the raven queen, who is as fierce as she is captivating.
She was born to be a pawn, used to secure her father’s royal hold on his land. She was forced to advance his will through marriage—her own desires always thwarted. But free-spirited Maeve will no longer endure the schemes of her latest husband, Conor, the cunning ruler of Ulster. And when her father’s death puts her homeland at the mercy of its greedy lords and Conor’s forces, Maeve knows she must at last come into her own power to save it.
With secret skill and daring, Maeve proves herself the equal of any warrior on the battlefield. With intelligence and stealth, she learns the strategies—and sacrifices—of ruling a kingdom through treacherous alliances. And to draw on the dangerous magic of her country’s oldest gods, Maeve seeks out the wandering druid Ruan, whose unexpected passion and strange connection to the worlds of spirit imperil everything Maeve thought true about herself—and put her at war with both her duty and her fate.
- Sales Rank: #1827315 in Books
- Published on: 2011-02-22
- Released on: 2011-02-22
- Original language: English
- Number of items: 1
- Dimensions: 8.21" h x 1.17" w x 5.47" l, .88 pounds
- Binding: Paperback
- 544 pages
Review
"Fans of Watson's previous volume of fictionalized Irish mythology The Swan Maiden will love this - it's even better! Once again Watson brings Irish lore to life with characters and issues that resonate with contemporary readers. Don't miss this one, it's a keeper." —Romantic Times, Top Pick, 4-1/2 out of 5 stars
"The Raven Queen is a fine, beautifully crafted rendition of a very exciting and magical legend. While based on a Celtic fable, Ms. Watson manages to show Maeve as a marvelous leader who just happens to be a woman. Maeve is strong, brave, and fearless, but doesn't lose the side of her that makes her all too human, able to love and to make difficult choices that could damage that love. All of the characters are richly presented, the historical research impeccable, and the writing is brilliant. Readers will find themselves totally immersed in the ancient Celtic world and will be cheering for Maeve. The Raven Queen is a Perfect 10 all the way." --Romance Reviews Today
"Make sure you take plenty of "me time" to read this book. Because once you start you will not want to pull yourself out of this land rich in history and danger. I thoroughly appreciated Ms. Watson's additional information included with this read, everything from pronunciation of names to the myths and legends behind Maeve's story. The vivid detail that is used to describe scenery transports you; the description of characters help you understand each one for who they are and what they bring to the story. All these great qualities make for a great read for fans of history, romance, and fantasy." --Coffee Time Reviews: 4 cups
And Praise for Jules Watson’s The Swan Maiden
“Fascinating and unforgettable . . . Jules Watson has conjured up the mythic past, a land of Celtic legend and stark grandeur.”—Sharon K. Penman, author of Devil’s Brood
“A tour de force . . . magical and compelling. . . Watson does not tell the story, she lives it.” —Rosalind Miles, author of The Lady of the Sea
About the Author
Jules Watson was born in Australia toEnglish parents. An archeologist and freelancewriter, Watson is the author of the criticallyacclaimed Dalriada Trilogy, which also includesThe White Mare and The Dawn Stag, bothpublished by Overlook.
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
CHAPTER 1
LEAF-FALL
CONNACHT
Maeve risked a glance behind her. By now her husband would know she had run. Were the clouds darker already in the north? Don't be a fool. She heeled her horse over a ditch that cut between banks of yellowing trees.
The stallion's haunches plunged, his forelegs scrabbling. Maeve slammed into the saddle and clung on for all she was worth, rubbing her chin on her shoulder. She might herself throw everything away, but she wouldn't let a man--or a slip of the ground--take it from her.
Dusk veiled the west of Erin by the time Maeve's horse flew into her father's stronghold in Connacht. Ramparts of earth topped with rows of stakes closed about her. Smoke leaked from thatched roofs into the mist.
Cruachan.
At the stables, Maeve leaped from her mount, Meallan, and caught his foaming muzzle. Then she closed her eyes, her brow on his. "I am so sorry, a stor." Woman and horse-breath mingled, and Meallan's hide trembled beneath her palms. "Rest now."
Maeve had been gone so long she didn't know the horse-boy who was gaping at her. "Water him, please," she instructed the lad. "I must see the king." And she bolted outside, her windblown hair flying.
At once she caught herself. Remember who you are. Drawing straight, she picked her way along earthen paths between the little huts where the crafters lived, their mud walls damp with moss, their reed roofs sweeping the ground. People's chatter died as they stared at her mud-spattered trews and cloak, and the kilt of leather strips that covered her thighs, scored by branches and thorns.
Some of the crafters she knew, and their faces kindled when they recognized her. "Lady," they stammered.
One of the weavers reached out gnarled hands that had once braided Maeve's copper hair. Her eyes were milky. "Is that you, child, back with us again?"
Maeve touched her fingers, gentling her voice. "Yes, Meara. But I must get to my father."
The noble houses that jostled for rank around the royal hall--gaudy-painted, banners flying--were nearly empty. The warriors were no doubt huddled somewhere muttering about the king, Maeve guessed. The few older lords who were left stared at her with narrowed eyes.
Her appearance in her old home often coincided with some upheaval, and men muttered that she brought trouble with her. Such troubles are not of my making. Maeve thrust that fierce thought at them with her chin, until they looked away.
The king's hall of Cruachan stood at the heart of Connacht like a golden hill. A great ring of stone wall was topped by a vast thatch roof that almost touched the ground, sweeping up to a carved crest hung with banners.
A circle of stakes around the doors held shields, racks of antlers, and pennants of wolf-tails, now limp with rain. As Maeve approached she smoothed her wild red hair, shielding her eyes from the guards and sweeping past before they could stop her.
The hall swallowed her, a cavern of oak pillars and thick furs gleaming in the firelight. Flickering lamps picked out the glint of shields and swords on the walls. A hint of strange herbs made Maeve's nostrils flare. Yes, there was sickness here. The rumors she had heard were right.
Her heart thumped as she fumbled her hair into a braid with chilled fingers and pushed through the servants about the fire-pit. She clambered up the ladder to the sleeping floor--a ledge of oak planks that ran inside the great roof. Beds nestled beneath the eaves, screened by wicker.
Hurrying to the king's chamber, Maeve charged into the back of her older brother Innel. Years of fighting and illness had thinned the ranks of siblings until only these two remained.
Whipping around, Innel caught hold of her.
Maeve stared over his shoulder at a spindly figure in a pool of lamplight. Father?
"What the gods are you doing here?" Innel's arms were iron bands, cutting off Maeve's breath. "Out, all of you!" he growled at the servants, who fled. Only then did he release her.
Maeve swayed. Her sire Eochaid had always been a stern oak tree looming over her. Now he was a fallen trunk, his branches withered. The fiery hair he'd bestowed upon her and Innel was now the hue of ash. And his face . . . The left side was melted like wax, and slack lips spun a thread of drool. One eye drooped, revealing a sliver of white.
Maeve had to make her throat move. "When were you going to tell me, brother?"
Innel's eyes were cold as he folded his brawny forearms. Sword scars webbed the corded muscles with silver. "You seem to have forgotten you are of the Ulaid now, sister--Conor's queen. You do not belong here."
Maeve got up. Her brother always stiffened his ruddy hair into spikes and wore his scars, broken nose, and butchered ears as battle spoils. She must be wary, but she was also trapped. Her husband King Conor's famous Red Branch warriors--the elite fighters of the Ulaid war-bands--could be coming already to drag her back to their fortress.
She curled her hand at her neck, hiding her pulse. For the safety of her people, she could not stay silent. "I have run away from Conor."
Innel grimaced and grabbed her wrist, pushing her against the slope of thatch. His breath reeked of ale. "You stupid . . . willful . . . bitch."
Maeve arched a brow, breathless. "Surely I cannot be all of those, brother. It takes sense to be willful, after all."
He growled, his grip biting. "Father sealed the Ulaid alliance with oaths--with you. You'll draw the wrath of Conor and his Red Branch upon us at the very moment he is weakened. Do you care nothing for our people?"
"I care only for them, which is why I've come back!" She dragged herself free, rubbing at the welts he had left. "I lived among the Ulaid for two years. I know their heroes, their war-bands. I know the mind of Conor the cunning."
Innel paced, plucking at his ruddy moustache. "We must hand you back to them without delay."
Maeve's nostrils flared as she sought for her only weapon. She cocked her head. "So already you make Father's decisions for him. You hover around his sickbed like a crow on a carcass."
Her brother clenched his fist.
Maeve watched it, readying herself to duck.
Just then King Eochaid groaned, and his body stirred beneath the coverlet of wolf fur. Fear darkened Innel's face.
Ah, Maeve thought. She traced the bedpost with a shaking finger. "If Father is ill, other kinsmen will be gathering, as hungry as you to rule. So you will send your thugs to drag me back to the Ulaid now, leaving you here alone?"
Innel scowled, knuckling his temple as if her words strained him. At last he stalked past her. "You will soon be begging my favor, sister--when I am king."
After he left, Maeve sank onto a stool at her father's side and rested her brow in her hands. Her jerkin of toughened hide dug into her ribs, making it hard to breathe. What have you done? But sometimes she had to act, or she felt she would burst open . . .
A cracked wheeze. "You . . . broke . . . my alliance?"
Maeve sprang straight. Eochaid's good eye was blazing.
Her gaze flew to his hand, and out of habit Maeve flinched. Only then did she realize it still lay limp. "Yes, Father."
"Conor's warriors will fall upon us . . . battle and ruin . . ." Spittle gleamed on his lips. "Traitor!"
Maeve was on her feet. "Three times you married me off to kings and princes, Father, and you broke two of those alliances yourself." Just as I finally scrounged some scraps of peace. She gulped that down. Eochaid hated defiance but admired bravery. How to walk that line? She lifted her chin. "None of them made war once you returned their bride-gifts. They all had other women, and Conor does, too. He is already betrothed to someone else, an orphan girl he has raised as kin. He will soon have other wives . . ."
"You are his wife! You were given to him to seal our oaths, his and mine."
A cow to be bartered away. She swallowed that, too.
"You would not dare defy me if I was well," he slurred, withered fingers knotting the blanket. "A raven, you are, come now to pick over my bones."
Maeve's nails dented her palms. No, she was merely desperate. And this close to him--listening to his labored breath, seeing his helpless limbs--she could not think of anything save when he first made her feel this same way.
Paralyzed.
Maeve turned from him, trying to fill her lungs. But she was there again anyway, sixteen years ago . . . as if yesterday. The day her father first gave her body away.
The firelit lodge of the aging King of Laigin, Ros Ruadh. Once more she tasted the sting of vomit in her throat, felt the drag of robes too heavy for a twelve-year-old. She heard the bracken crackle as she cowered into the bed, too shocked to whimper; remembered the gleam of sweat on the Laigin king's brow as he labored over her, wheezing.
Maeve's will had long ago conquered the pain. It was the invasion that was so hard to banish, the sense of her own bright self being ground away into nothing.
When she was sixteen, her father plucked her from the household of the stern and indifferent Ros Ruadh, only to marry her again to Diarmait, prince of Mumu. He pinned her with brute arms and a heavy belly, to make her writhe so he could strike her and stoke his lust.
She eventually found a way to make him leave her alone, though: claiming a say over her body by rutting with men of her choosing, and many of them. She had to endure worse beatings at first, but finally Diarmait's rage turned to repulsion, as she had hoped. He sought other wives and kept the alliance with Connacht in name only.
So again Maeve carved out a sliver of peace for herself, this time for ten years. It was then her father went after his greatest prize yet: kinship with the Ulaid, the most powerful kingdom in Erin. Two years ago Eochaid broke his oaths with Diarmait of Mumu and she was sent away for a third time, to be Conor's queen.
Of all her husbands, it tur...
Most helpful customer reviews
5 of 5 people found the following review helpful.
Fantastic Historical Fantasy
By Jenny Q @ Let Them Read Books
I really enjoyed this reimagining of an Irish legend and I absolutely loved Maeve. Maeve is such a fully fleshed-out heroine. She is fierce, intelligent, and unpredictable--struggling, grasping, fighting, desperate to protect her people, to prove herself and to earn true independence. Yet underneath her tough facade, she's extremely vulnerable. All her life she's been used and abused by men. She's frightened. She's full of self-doubt. Yet she's surprisingly sensitive and maternal. But she's surrounded by men to whom she dare not show any of these "weaknesses", men she wants to rule. She is continually challenged, and it's exhausting just to read about, so it's no wonder Maeve's health suffers as the stakes for her queenship grow higher. She finds unexpected solace in the company of Ruan, a mystical wanderer who, though he's blind, sees her as no one else has. But Maeve's rabid determination to become queen threatens to cost her everything, and when she finally comes to realize what is truly important to her, and what truly sets her free, will it be too late?
The Raven Queen is a mix of fantasy, history and romance, and it's brought to life in vivid Celtic detail. I love Ms. Watson's descriptive writing style, and the way she weaves the beauty of the natural world and the magic of the Source into the narrative and into the characters themselves. She has the marvelous ability to put the reader in the moment and make the reader feel that subtle magic, and it really helps lend some balance and peaceful moments to an intense, often violent story. Here's one of my favorite examples:
"For a time all was still, until a full moon broke over the hills. The lake-water flared into life. The reeds were tipped with silver, dipping and whispering. The streams and pools ignited into sheets of brightness. What had been clear in the day and empty in the dark now became something blurred. Gray. Silver. Indistinct. An in-between place."
See what I mean? Those moments of tranquility are a welcome diversion. There are many characters and several related storylines running simultaneously, and Maeve's precarious position is in a constant state of flux with one obstacle after another presenting itself, but the evolution of the story arc and the pacing are perfect throughout, and it all comes together flawlessly as the story reaches its conclusion.
When I'm reading, I love to escape into a different world and I like a good romance, but I also like to walk away feeling like I've learned something. Ms. Watson provides an interesting and detailed author's note describing the role Maeve has played in Irish myth and how she navigated the different versions of the legends to create her own tribute to Maeve. As a fan of fantasy and historical fiction, I thought it was great!
4.5 Stars
4 of 4 people found the following review helpful.
Courageous but unlikable heroine
By Kat Hooper
Jules Watson's The Raven Queen is a historical fantasy based on the ancient Irish legends about Queen Maeve. Red-haired and fiery-tempered, since childhood Maeve has resented being used by her father, King of Connacht, as a political tool. He has sent her as a peace-bride to acquire alliances with various neighboring warlords, but Maeve doesn't tend to actually foster peace anywhere she goes. In fact, she has just returned home to her dying father after running away from her third husband, the powerful King Conor -- an action that will surely bring Conor's wrath against Connacht at a time when they do not have a strong leader. As expected, when her father dies, Maeve, her brother, and other relatives begin vying for the throne of Connacht as they simultaneously brace for an invasion by King Conor.
Despite her admirable independence and courage, Maeve is not a likable heroine. You might argue that, based on the legends, she is not meant to be, but even a villainess can be a great heroine if the author can persuade the reader to believe it (and I've been persuaded many times). But there was no reason to sympathize with Maeve. For most of the story she was whiny, petulant, impulsive, mean, and bitter. She complains that her father used her body to make alliances, but then she offers her body when she needs an alliance. She hates men and marriage, but she uses men and marriage to get the power she wants for herself. And why does she want this power? She tells us she wants her people to be free, but it's hard to believe that when we see her behave so selfishly and ruthlessly. I thought she'd make a terrible queen and likely a worse ruler than at least one of the alternatives would, so I couldn't route for her, which kind of ruined most of the plot for me. Maeve became more likable by the end of the book, but by that time it was too late for me to start cheering for Maeve.
The Raven Queen might have gotten away with such an unpleasant heroine if its style had made up for it. Unfortunately, this was not the case -- there was little beauty in it. Short choppy sentences and paragraphs became irritatingly rhythmic, and word usage that was slightly "off" jarred me out of the story occasionally. As just one example, I found the constant use of the word "rutting" to be ugly and coarse (e.g. "She had gone too long without the release of rutting..."). Sounds like animals, not people. A bit more attention by the editor could have easily fixed this small but insidious problem.
Readers who don't mind an unlikable heroine (who does get better by the end of the book) and can overlook some editorial negligence will enjoy The Raven Queen more than I did. The story is fast-paced and includes some lively characters and plenty of action. Readers might also like to know that Jules Watson's novel The Swan Maiden is a companion story -- it tells that tale of Deirdre and Naisi.
1 of 1 people found the following review helpful.
Never judge a book by its cover
By Brenda
I always feel guilty writing a review when I couldn't even finish the book but I felt a need in this case.
The cover and synopsis was very promising and was a large part of what drew me into this book. Unfortunately, I could not get through this book. The story tries to follow a large array of character's perspective and I found myself getting caught up in one story only to get ripped away into another that I could care less about. Many of them seemed unimportant or just the author wanting to give you a different perspective on a situation to add depth but it just added confusion and frustration. I began to care about none of the characters and confuse them with others.
I brought this book to work when I was attempting to push through it and let another coworker borrow it after she saw the cover. She returned it promptly as she too could not get through it.
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