Granuaile by Morgan Llywelyn

Author:Morgan Llywelyn [Morgan Llywelyn]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781847173867
Publisher: The O'Brien Press
Published: 2012-09-17T04:00:00+00:00

Always,

Granuaile

She is awakened before dawn. ‘Arthur Wilton de Grey, the new lord deputy of Ireland, has consented to grant you an audience,’ a gaoler tells her. ‘Prepare yourself.’

Her clothes are rags, and filthy. ‘I cannot insult the lord deputy by appearing like this!’ Granuaile cries. With an effort, she stands erect and forces her rusty voice to sound strong. Commanding.

Her gaolers exchange glances. They are not accustomed to being given orders by a prisoner. But there is something about this woman …

At last one of them fetches a peasant’s gown of coarse homespun that he has taken from some other captive. Granuaile looks at the garment with a mingling of distaste and relief. At least the gown is not badly torn.

She demands that the gaolers leave her cell while she dresses. This they will not do. Turning her back, she strips off her old clothes and pulls the gown over her head. Long months spent out of the sun and air have made her skin too sensitive. Tugging the rough fabric over her body is painful. She bites her lip until it bleeds.

Because she has nothing else she washes her face with her drinking water. Her broken fingernails must serve as a comb. She drags them through her tangled locks. It has been months since she paid attention to her hair. She is startled to discover the raven tresses are streaked with silver.

An armed guard takes her from the cell and leads her through a warren of passages. She tries to memorise the way in case she can break free. It is hopeless, however. Months of captivity have taken the strength from her legs. Besides, the guards have fastened shackles on her ankles as well as her hands. Even if she had the strength she could not run, only shuffle.

Granuaile is taken to a roughly plastered, low-ceilinged chamber with several windows set in one wall. In front of the windows stands a long oaken table. She can see very little because the light dazzles her eyes. She fears her sight may have been damaged by months of near-darkness.

One of her guards prods her in the back, pushing her forward. When she stumbles, someone laughs.

Squinting, she tries to make out the features of the person who faces her across the table. He gets to his feet as she approaches. He is a thickset man with pale eyes. Eyes as colourless as water in a cup.

To be a leader one must be a good judge of men. Granuaile has spent years reading the character of men from their faces. Lord Grey is newly arrived in Ireland, a place he has never visited before. His features are stern, but there is a certain watchfulness in his pale eyes that hints of uncertainty. He is a man who has yet to find his sea legs in a new situation.

I can do this, Granuaile tells herself with a sudden surge of confidence. I can play this game.

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