Grania: She-King of the Irish Seas by Morgan Llywelyn

Author:Morgan Llywelyn
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Publisher: Forge Books
Published: 2007-02-20T08:00:00+00:00

Richard Burke made no pretense of hiding his surprise at seeing her at Rockfleet. “If an O Malley deputation was coming to me, I would have expected Dubhdara to lead it,” he said.

“The Black Oak rarely leaves Belclare any more,” Grania told him. “The infirmities of age …”

“Yes,” said Iron Richard, who had seen enough of the infirmities of age in these last years with his mother.

“I was sorry to hear of the death of your mother. I bring condolences,” Grania began formally after they were seated in the handsome hall on the top floor of the tower. Richard signaled his servants to bring wine, and his rechtaire ordered a new log for the fire. They still have timber to burn here, Grania thought to herself. She missed the pungent smell of peat.

“That’s a grand fire,” she commented aloud. “Trees have never grown on Clare Island. We’ve always burned turf.”

“Every Irishman will come to it eventually,” Iron Richard predicted.

“I hardly imagine you with a spade, working in some drained bog to open a turf bank and struggling to keep a straight face.”

“A straight face?”

“A turf cutter’s term. The cutting bank must be vertical and clean or it makes the work harder for everyone.”

Iron Richard’s light gray eyes studied her. “A chieftain’s daughter lectures me on turf cutting? Where did you acquire such a skill?”

“I know how to do a lot of things,” Grania told him. “I’ve made it my business to learn. I don’t necessarily live the life of a chieftain’s daughter, but I assure you I’m very good at taking care of myself and surviving.”

“So I’ve heard,” he replied. His voice was deep and rich. Huw had made her sensitive to the timbre of a man’s voice.

They drank their wine, a harper played music in the corner, a long-limbed shaggy wolfhound came up the winding stone stairway with a great scrabbling of claws and settled itself before the fire. Grania noticed how in the hall of Rockfleet one could not hear the sea.

They spoke of the events of the season, making the polite conversation of people who were observing the forms but had little to say to each other. “It’s been a year for deaths and marriages,” Grania remarked. “You know my daughter was recently wed to your western neighbor and kinsman, and I hear from Iar Connaught that one of my sons plans to marry a Galway woman.”

“And what of you?” he asked her.

“I have neither died nor married,” she told him with a laugh.

“Do you plan to do either?”

She stopped laughing and gave him a long look. There was admiration on his face, and the way he watched her was disturbing. The last time they met his scrutiny had made her uncomfortable, but since then Grania had known Huw. Appetites had been awakened unexpectedly, and skills discovered. She found herself smiling at Iron Richard in a totally new way and enjoying the response she got.

Her condolence call lasted three days, three days she spent in Richard Burke’s company, covertly measuring both the man and his fortress with a speculative eye.

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