May 1546, AD
 
As for the lawes of England, they are surely most just and most agreeable both with the goverment and with the nature of the poeple: how falls it out then, that you seme to dislike of them…” 
Edmund Spenser 
 
        

 
         Philip was gone.
        A stone sailed through the salty air, arcing away from the sea wall and plinking into the outflowing torrent of the River Corrib. Another followed it, then another. Booted feet dangled over a drop of nearly twenty feet, drumming against the ancient stone masonry. The stones flew through space to become grist for the ocean’s mill, to become sand on the beaches of Connaught.
       Philip had sailed away on that sea. One morning he had received a message from England and boarded the first vessel he could find still taking passengers. He left with the afternoon tide.  And that, it seemed, was that. No note, no heartsick last good-byes and promises of reunion soon. Just gone. 
            Gale pulled her feet back from the edge of the rock wall. The rounded cap stones and the moss that grew between the seams made for surprisingly comfortable seating for one in a pensive mood. But she was finally growing numb in certain body parts and so she stood, brushing off her hands and shaking out her woolen brat as she did so. She sighed as she recognized that she had been away from the manor house long enough for people to begin to wonder. 
As she started to head back, she ambled past the Fish Market and pondered her melancholy. She realized it wasn’t the loss of her one and only serious suitor that really upset her, it was everything that had happened after that, everything she would be facing when she returned to her father’s house.
“My father’s house,” she mused, “now when did I begin to think of it as his home and not mine?”  Not too long after Philip left, she realized.
            Many of the young women she knew would have wept and moaned inconsolably at the loss of their ‘true love.’ It was the fashion. She felt mostly puzzlement. Why the earnest courtship over the last year if not for the purpose of marriage?  He had been the perfect gentleman, considerate and proper in all things. His appearance was well enough, a slight man with a warm smile. Her parents had approved.  She herself had been pleasantly lukewarm where he was concerned.  But she was of an age when her peers, all Anglo-Irish girls of good breeding and moderate wealth, had already married. 
She had observed the effects of wedded bliss upon these young friends. In general, it left much to be desired. At least Philip, who was a friend of her brother from London, had been gentle in manner and almost handsome, in a bony, English sort of way. She could have found him acceptable. But then he had left. And at eighteen years old, her father was no longer amused by her unique perspectives on life. 
      She sighed. She could hate Philip for leaving this way. It had forced the issue of appropriate behavior in young women overdue for marriage. She knew with certainty that Philip’s sudden departure had nothing to do with her ‘unseemly interests’ in such things as maps and navigation. She had been polite and gracious throughout his wooing. She had taken him to the manor observatory and showed him her favorite maps a time or two. He had seemed mostly charmed (if delicately bored), rather than offended by her interests. He probably regarded it as a maiden’s passing fancy, something that would evaporate with the advent of a husband and babies. For her part, she felt he could be managed. And she had been circumspect, even secretive, concerning her even less respectable interests in native Irish folk wisdom. 
 No, whatever the reason for Philip’s departure, it had much to do with the message he received and little to do with her. Nevertheless, upon hearing directly from the innkeeper’s lips that Philip had received a sealed communication and checked out of his room in a state of agitation, her father had locked the observatory as if his departure truly was all her fault.
     The beloved observatory, with its dozens of maps. There were practical, well-used, and scholarly maps of much of the known western European coastline, as well as fanciful ones of dubious veracity. They even had the new map by Oronteus Finaeus that showed a landmass on the extreme southern end of the globe! They heated her imagination in ways her everyday existence did not. Some days it was enough to simply look and wonder whether it was true that beyond a certain point ‘there be dragons.’ She found it doubtful. More likely some charlatan of a mapmaker was covering his ignorance with a titillating bit of fiction. But if there weren’t dragons, then what was there? 
     The observatory itself was a whimsical and expensive feature of the house. Elevated above the roof, and at a level just above the tops of the ornamental crenellated walls, the custom glass mullions formed a dome that gave one sight to the heavens. The climate of Galway City did not permit a great deal of unobstructed viewing, but when it did, so many constellations could be seen that it took young Gale’s breath away. It was in this same room that all manner of maps and portolans were kept, that her father had shared with her as a young child. They had fascinated her endlessly, a happy circumstance agreeable to both of her parents. It kept an inquisitive and energetic little girl out of their hair and out of trouble for hours at a time, especially in winter.  She would spend hours on the floor, on her back, after dark holding two pairs of her father’s eyeglasses a certain distance apart from each other to make the stars seem a little bit closer.
     In the summer, other activities became preeminent in her desire for knowledge and stimulation. She frequently chivvied her father’s secretary, and her mentor, Constantius, into sailing the coastline of their portion of County Galway and even into the O’Malley waters of County Mayo, there to survey and record their findings. An O’Malley pilot, Thighe, was usually pleased to accompany them when possible. He instructed them on the instruments used to calculate mysterious things called latitude and longitude. 
      It had been three years, however, since she had required the assistance of this kindly old salt. Just as well, for the said pilot had been promoted by the head of the Clan O’Malley to serve aboard a caravel bound for Spain on a series of trading missions. No matter, she had already mastered the mathematics and equipment herself. Also just as well, since Constantius no longer found journeys in a small boat to his liking. She sailed, she surveyed, she made notes and observations. She then brought these to Constantius, who gladly helped her draft new maps and portolans, always a vast improvement over the previous editions. The resulting accuracy meant that few of her father’s vessels ever went aground despite poor visibility, violent seas, and an occasional shortage of pilots. Her father had always seen the value in this, and had pretended not to know the true author of these maps, a situation that had seemed to suit everyone’s taste. Until now.
            Her father. What was she to do?  He had always been an indulgent parent. And yet, in the last year, his occasional bouts of ill temper, as unexpected as lightning from a blue sky, had increased both in frequency and fervor. His wrath would fall upon some hapless wretch, that wretch sometimes herself, for doing exactly what they had always been doing.
She could remember an incident quite recently. The scullery maid, Bess, an inveterate nose-wiper upon the sleeves of her shift, had been condemned by Gale’s father to wear an enormous frothy bib of no less than twenty handkerchiefs stuffed in the front of her blouse for one week. Although amusing to anyone in the house who had been offended by Bess’s unsavory sinuses before, she had nevertheless done it for years before attracting the master’s ire. A mild enough punishment, and appropriate to the crime, but indicative of a sudden interest in the minutia of the household that he had never displayed before. Consequently, Gale’s loss of a prospective husband must surely seem on a par with crimes against the crown.
            He had locked the observatory. He had instructed the fishermen and ferrymen not to oblige her desire to sail, even as passenger, and had locked the boathouse containing the small curragh that she had often used. Constantius had received a diatribe on the sinfulness of educating young women in anything other than household arts and was sternly admonished that it would no longer be tolerated. Constantius had blinked owlishly and said nothing. Her father had left her with almost nothing she considered meaningful in life.
      As she ascended the street toward the manor, she contemplated her options. Guile edged out other options as top contender. She was not particularly averse to deception when it won her much and did little harm to others. Various schemes were half formed and then discarded as she approached the manor drive. 
She was suddenly distracted from her plotting by a strange conveyance at the entrance.  She knew the horses and litters of her father’s business associates and the local magistrates and did not immediately recognize this contraption. She would have remembered a vehicle of such dubious purpose. The very few and very rough roads of Connaught and even Galway City did not lend themselves to frivolous vehicles of unwise design. Well, the visitor was probably fresh off the boat, and anxious to impress all of the local gentry. She laid odds with herself that the mahogany running boards inlaid with gold and ivory accents would be the first casualty of Irish roads and weather.
       She did not know that this ‘contraption’ was called a coach, introduced to England from Hungary by Anne of Bohemia quite recently, but did rightly surmise its limited usefulness in most of Ireland. Giving it no more thought, she entered the main hall and ascended to her chamber to freshen for dinner.
            Contemplation of her current situation resumed. She assessed her physical attributes in the costly wardrobe mirror brought from Spain. Blue-green eyes, well-shaped but slightly too small for perfection and a pug nose slightly too pug for the current fashion. Good skin with a smattering of freckles across the nose. Her skin tone was slightly more coppery than one would expect in an old Anglo-Irish family of Norman descent, a gift from her maternal Spanish grandmother Pilar. In the main, an acceptable face, pretty if not stunning. 
      That was discounting her crowning glory and source of her single vanity. Her hair. A deep glowing auburn, it sprang in tumbling waves from a pronounced widow’s peak in the center of her high forehead. It was the feature that strangers remembered about her the most. It tumbled in shimmering waves over her square, no nonsense shoulders and down to the small of her back.  Her mother had always commented that although her skin must have come from Gran Pi, her hair must surely be a gift of the Almighty himself. She wore it bound loosely, if bound at all, braiding it carefully only for seafaring and Mass. Tonight, however, the presence of unknown dinner guests caused her to begin braiding. 
      She did not feel like calling Aileen, her one-time nurse and now the house chamberlain, to do a fancy braid. She knew that brisk and efficient backbone of the manor would be personally supervising dinner preparations. She decided upon two simple plaits with green ribbons that she could manage by herself. That done, she pulled on her brown damask gown of simple cut and gold embroidered sleeves over her pale saffron chemise. This should be appropriate for the evening, being neither too casual nor too ostentatious. Her chemise was a gift from her best friend, Grainne O’Malley, in County Mayo to the north, and her outfit would therefore be equal parts Irish and English/Norman.
            She descended the stairs to the sitting room. A glance into the dining room had told her that dinner was sometime away yet. She paused in the hallway to listen. The conversation wafting from the sitting room was all male and all political. Thus alerted, she donned her dutiful daughter face, a carefully composed combination of shyness and attentiveness. She had the sudden droll thought that this persona was something like the concealed authorship of her maps; a subtle deceit which served everyone well.  
            “And a damn silly business it is, too.” John Butler’s broad, florid face, quick brown eyes and thick neck gave him the appearance of a good-natured bull, an advantageous countenance in a merchant. Tonight, however, Gale saw at a glance that his face was too red, his tone a little too emphatic. He was a little drunk, certainly well into his cups. This was very rare in a man who believed that strong spirits stole one’s wits, usually to be followed by one’s purse. As he turned in his chair to acknowledge her entrance, his face assumed its usual look of fondness. But only for a brief instant. It was quickly replaced by an uncomfortable and unaccustomed formality. 
      “Ah Gale, my dove, there you are. We were just discussing the latest idiocy on the part of the Galway Council. Please join us and give us your thoughts. My worthy guest here is not of the opinion that a woman’s wits are composed of cobwebs and moonbeams. Besides, introductions are in order. It is my pleasure to present Mssr. de Burgo, just here from Marseilles. He is a distant relative of our neighbors, the Burkes, and a direct descendent of the de Burgos’ who founded this fair city of Galway. He is also a new investor in my woolens enterprise. Mssr. de Burgo, my daughter Gale.” 
      Gale turned to face the man sitting opposite her father, puzzled. He never spoke freely about his dealings in woolen frieze cloth with strangers. And to refer to the Burkes as ‘neighbors.’ They were a clan twenty miles east! 
The gentleman in question appeared to be of middle years, with pale, waxy skin and thick lips. The watery gaze of his large blue eyes appraised her politely enough, and yet there was something else there. His wide mouth smiled in an overly familiar way. So familiar indeed that in a rare display of confusion, Gale neglected her curtsy and instead blurted out,                  “Have we met before, sir?” 
       “I am sure that we have not, mademoiselle, for I would surely have remembered a face so handsome as yours.” 
At this point Gale remembered to curtsy, ostensibly to cover a maidenly blush, but in reality to hide an angry scowl. Her mother was a ‘handsome’ woman.  Dame Bedford down the street was often described as a handsome woman. They were more than twice her age. Was this a dig at her own age? She managed to compose herself, curiosity triumphing over annoyance, and settled in the richly brocaded chair next to her father, discretely examining the odd man. 
            “Mssr. de Burgo has inquired into the exact nature of the Council’s decree concerning the transport of woolen goods, both raw and manufactured, from the port of Galway,” her father stated.  “I was explaining that the by-laws were actually enacted in 1528, but at that time the fine for exporting woolens from this port was confiscation of the cargo and a fine of 100 shillings. It was largely ignored by certain parties who knew how to grease the right wheels in the right places,” addressing de Burgo as he resumed his diatribe. “But, ridiculous as that seemed then, there was actually no enforcement. They now enforce the law rigorously and have raised the fine to 200 shillings! Do they truly think to subvert the trade of the Irish natives in this fashion! To the north of Galway, western Ireland is inhabited by scores of some of the finest mariners in the world. They needn’t be troubled with a little matter like exclusion from the illustrious port of Galway. Oh no, they simply sail directly to Ulster, Scotland, even France and Spain with their wares. Meaning that the only souls who suffer for this egregious piece of moronic legislation are poor, honest Galway merchants such as myself.”  
            “But surely, sir, you have circumvented, or should I perhaps say circumnavigated, that difficulty,” de Burgo smiled at his witticism, while eyeing Gale over the rim of his sherry glass.
            “You have caught me out there, sir,” John Butler nervously chuckled, “for I have indeed, lo these many years, taken some slight precautions along that line. In that vein, it is fortunate indeed that you have come to us just before the summer season. We will soon quit our Galway premises for our summerhouse on the island of Inishbofin. But I believe you know that. What you may not know is that we will be meeting with the O’Malley himself later this month to solidify the arrangements you and I are discussing even now. Black Oak is a fair minded and even-tempered man. He is also extremely fond of French wine. However, their voyages to France may be curtailed in favor of more frequent trips to Spain. By accommodating the O’Malleys and their soon to be in-laws the O’Flahertys, we help them to swiftly dispose of woolen products, while providing them with superior French wines. Wines that you, Mssr., can provide, and they can afford. Shipping from the port of Galway is now strictly regulated, but shipping from Black Sod or Clew Bay, is, shall we say, less so.” 
            “Are these the same O’Flahertys spoken of on the plaque over the west gate of the city?  Something about ‘from the ferocious O’Flahertys, the good Lord deliver us?’” inquired de Burgo. 
            “The very same, though they can be temperate in their passions when it suits them.  Through my connections with the O’Malleys, they will become our newest customers. They are excelled only by the O’Malleys themselves in seafaring skill, and they comprise an enormous clan, hungry for new markets for their cattle, herring, and woolens. In return, they have an appetite for silks and damask cloth that rivals the O’Malley’s taste in French wine, which is to say, quite bottomless.” De Burgo’s oily chuckle and glass raised in salute was interrupted by a tinkling silver bell that was the call to dinner. 
            Analise Butler stood quietly in the doorway. She had waited patiently to be noticed, as was her way. Her presence going unnoticed, she had resorted to her little bell during a pause in the conversation. Some wives might declare loudly dinner’s advent, or clear their throats, but not Analise Butler, to whom such outbursts were personally painful and socially intolerable. Her husband, knowing her reticence with strangers, leaped to his feet and to her rescue. 
      “Ah, my dear wife, you must be the harbinger of victuals,” Butler proclaimed grandly.  “Shall we then adjourn to the dining hall to see what our most excellent cook has for us this evening?”  Smiling shyly, Analise stood aside as her husband led their guest into the dining room, she and Gale following after. 
            Despite being asked to grace them with her keen intellect over dinner, Gale quickly realized that she would never be able to get a word in edgewise, even if she had wanted to, which she did not. Instead, she contemplated the curly and profuse black knuckle hairs on the back of de Burgo’s otherwise delicate hands. Did the hairs grow that way to compensate for the thinning on the crown of the head? Aesthetically, nature was a bit off base on that one, she decided waspishly.
Although her father was waxing large on his perpetually favorite topic, the stupidity of the Council, she sensed a curious and continuing tension. This seemed to affect everyone, especially her mother. Curiosity and annoyance were yielding to apprehension. Finally, an answer to the source of the tension was proffered.
            “What think you of the king’s health, when last you were in England?”  John Butler queried his guest. 
            “Not good, with a perpetually weeping sore in his thigh and always the gout in the legs.  The man’s former athletic physique is changed to extreme corpulence and lethargy. Many feel he will not see the end of the year.”
            The earlier savoir faire was now abandoned by her father. He stared at his hands for a moment, then said quietly, “and what then, think you?”
            “It is very hard to say, sir. Edward is a strange boy and likely the creature of his uncle, the Lord Protector Edward Seymour. They say this child is over pious and determined to convert his sister Mary to Protestantism. Physically, he is very slight and rumored to be sickly, unlike his half-sister, Elizabeth. Now there is a true heir of Henry. Shrewd, observant, yet she appears to be moderate in all things, but whether that is her nature or merely cunning…” de Burgo shrugged delicately with one shoulder. “May I ask you sir, as to what you personally believe Edward as king will mean to the good people of Galway City?”
            A pause ensued while John Butler, considered. “Some say that Henry has advanced the cause of The Pale to increase tensions in the west between the Anglo-Irish of Norman descent, such as ourselves, and the native Irish. This business of Surrender and Re-Grant, decreed by Henry, what, six years ago now, has expanded the lands held by the English in the east of Ireland considerably. But here in the west, why more than half the clans on this shore have steadfastly refused. Can’t say as I blame them. And if that weren’t bad enough, here we are, an island of virtual Englishmen in a sea of Gaelic Irish. Their homeland much longer than ours. We should extend the hand of friendship and make every possible accommodation to people who outnumber us a hundred to one. It’s good business and good politics. But instead, the foolish people of this simple-minded burg, in their infinite wisdom, see fit to allow the Irish to enter our fair city only during certain hours and on certain days. They then subject their cargoes to inspections we do not expect of foreigners, and forbid the Irish language to be spoken within the city precincts! All in the name of security. They are trying to establish a second Pale on this side of the country. It’s madness. Can Edward do much worse?” 
            Gale could see that her father had warmed to his favorite subject again. It was this umbrage at the English system that made him such a favorite with the Irish clansmen that he traded with. They knew, to a man, that he really meant it, not just providing lip service for the benefit of their continued custom. Indeed, the Galway Butlers had been almost more Irish than the Irish for several generations.
      Analise saw her husband’s face taking on its characteristic redness when overly exercised over deeply held beliefs. Seeing that this appearance might indicate an imminent moment of unwise speech, and that such speech would be extremely impolitic to voice in the presence of a descendent of the town founder, she coughed demurely into her hand. John Butler glanced at his wife and read subtle censure on her face. “Quite right my dear, quite right. There are much more amusing topics to be pursued, eh? Such as what the fops and dandies of London and Paris are wearing these days? I hear the styles become more outrageous every year, and that the young princess Elizabeth is often the most outrageous of all!  Is this true Mssr? Are starched lace collars now becoming larger than the head of the wearer?” 
            With an effete chuckle, the Frenchman proceeded to warm to a topic that he did indeed have some acquaintance with. Tensions were eased, and conversation flowed in much the same artificially casual manner as usual for these occasions. 
            Dinner itself was a masterful mix of the English and Irish fare that their cook was renowned for. Saddle of venison stewed with blackberries, roasted brussels sprouts swimming in buttermilk, eels stuffed with figs, mussels steeped in a whiskey and cream sauce, and a hearty brown bread, was served. All were delicious, but the hot chocolate served for dessert showed where the cook’s true talent and interests lay.
      It was Gale’s favorite, and she knew the cook had prepared it, not in honor of a guest, but as a small gesture intended to help lift Gale’s spirits. As always, she concentrated on full and round enjoyment of each sip. To do anything less was sacrilege, in her book. This chocolate came from Spain, where it was growing rapidly in popularity. It was a gift from the O’Malleys and intended for private use only, at the request of their Spanish connections. John Butler had always regretted honoring that request, since he felt that chocolate might be very popular and profitable in Ireland and England, given half a chance. 
      In her enjoyment of this beverage, it took Gale a little while to realize that the conversation had gone off in a direction that concerned her. She did not yet see that it was about to take an astonishing, and even more personal, turn. 
Many times in the past few weeks, she had wondered at the fact that none of her father’s dinner conversations had hinted at the true fount of his discontent; the religious policies of Henry VIII. As devout Catholics, she knew that her parents were becoming increasingly alarmed at the state of religious affairs in England, which had recently begun to spill over, into even this remote corner of the ‘British Empire.’ 
      Despite his high color, John Butler did not engage this visitor with any speculations concerning English religion and the politics of said religion. How did he view de Burgo, as an adherent of the tenants of a faith proposed 30 years earlier by Martin Luther? Was he a fair weather worshipper, or was he a true believer and therefore someone not to be trusted with certain pieces of information? She hoped such tidbits about de Burgo would be delivered in some fashion during the evening, or at least be hinted at to the point that she might gossip with Analise about their meaning. Her reverie on this matter was abruptly interrupted. 
            “Mademoiselle, your father tells me that you will soon be attending the marriage ceremony of the daughter of Black Oak O’Malley, a girl with a name unpronounceable to me.  Is it true that she has been seafaring this coast since the age of nine?” inquired Mssr. de Burgo. 
      Gale’s attention was wrenched back to the general discussion. “Yes, indeed she has, sir.  Not only Irish waters, but she has been to Spain and Scotland too.  Her given name is Grainne, but she prefers the name Granuaile, given to her by her brother.”
       “Tell me, do you know the story behind it?  People usually prefer petite noms to be shorter than the Christian name, rather than longer and more difficult.” 
            “It wasn’t her choice entirely. Well, here’s the whole story then. Grainne wasn’t always allowed to go about on the sea with her father. Oh, maybe an afternoon in the curragh here and there, but not on the big galleys or three-masted caravels. One summer that changed, though.  We were staying our third year at the summerhouse on Inishbofin.  I was then 11 years old, and Grainne was 9.  The O’Malleys came often to visit and conduct business. They would sail the short distance from their hold on Clare Island and stay with us for a fortnight, then I would sail back with them to Clare Island to play and sail with Grainne. Grainne’s father dotes on her, then as now, and tolerated a friendship that other families might have eschewed. Even though there is two years difference in our age, we became good friends quickly.”
      “Both a couple of wild tom-boys, the pair of them. Saw eye to eye,” her father interrupted.  Gale favored him with a disparaging glance and he held up his hands in a shrug.
“Pray continue, my dear” de Burgo urged, while his frog-like eyes fixed her like bug on a pin.
“On the first day in the second summer of our acquaintance, Grainne came up from the beach on the Inishbofin dock wearing the oddest woolen cap.  I teased her about it, wherewith she snatched it from her head with a furious gesture. Her previously waist-length hair had been hacked off to just above the ears!  I cried out, ‘who did this to you’ and she replied, ‘I did.’ And so she had. It seems as though she had been begging her father for two years incessantly to allow her to sail with him. He had hesitated, dubious, and told her perhaps someday. Her mother, Lady Margaret, accidentally forced the issue when she took a much stronger stance. She told Grainne that ships would never be an appropriate place for a maiden, whereupon Grainne stated simply that she could fix all that by cutting off her long hair and dressing like a man. Then no one would be the wiser. Her mother, thinking her impudent, sent Grainne to her room for her rudeness. She failed, however, to notice the missing kitchen knife, which Grainne had snatched up on her way out. When she emerged later, after the deed was done, her brother Donal and his friends where the first ones to lay eyes on her. ‘Grainne-mhaol, Grainne-mhaol,’ they shouted.  It means Grace the Bald in Gaelic. Soon all of the O’Malleys had heard the story and taken up the cry. Her father, seeing her determination, relented. She has been sailing with him to this day.” 
       De Burgo frowned slightly in puzzlement.  “Even so,” he remarked, “why adopt the unflattering name.” 
        “As a reminder of her means of achieving her heart’s desire. Grainne never takes the instruments of her success lightly, nor does she take success itself lightly.” 
            At this point, her father rose. The tension, which had nearly dissipated during the evening, was back in full force and writ large on his face. “Well, I have some accounts that I must attend to. Your mother and I will leave you young people to continue on without us. Gale, why don’t you repair to the sitting room and offer Mssr. de Burgo a brandy?”  He swiftly and awkwardly took his wife’s arm and with a sheepish look, departed.
            Gale’s inner alarms began ringing like the bells of St. Nicholas. Young people? In no sense could Mssr. de Burgo be considered young, not the way her father had implied. She stood, and a bit more stiffly than perfect hospitality demanded, ushered him into the parlor. Yet more stiffly, she poured a brandy for him and nothing for herself, and planted herself squarely in the middle of a settee, after offering him a chair opposite her. 
      ‘By great Brigid’s paps,’ she fumed silently, ‘have they all truly gone quite mad?’  She felt herself to be the victim of high treason, family style. She had a pretty good idea of the next few gambits on the part of the Frenchman. She attempted to school her tongue and failed.
            “Is your business here soon to be successfully concluded, sir?” she asked tactlessly.
“That is something I am fortunate in right now. I have decided to combine business with pleasure and accept your father’s kind offer of hospitality on Inishbofin. I was also hoping to get to know you better, as well, if you would permit me. I am a man of some means and I have seen much of the world. You are a woman grown, well-spoken and well favored. The pleasure of your company would make light work of tedious business dealings. And in return perhaps I could enliven your days with tales of the Continent, no?”
      “You are, of course, most welcome to accompany us to Inishbofin. For my part, however, I may prove to be less able to entertain than supposed,” she replied disingenuously. “You see, I spend the vast majority of my time on Inishbofin sailing around the western islands with Granuaile and her brother Donal.”
     She nearly bit her tongue on this, since it was not nearly as true as it used to be. Granuaile was often at sea alongside her father trading now, especially in favorable summer weather. Although she did plan on spending a good bit of time with her before and just after her wedding to Donal O’Flaherty, their lives after that would pursue different courses.
      Following the nuptials, Granuaile would relocate certain household goods and all of her dowry out of her parent’s dwellings and into her husband’s hold at Bunowen Castle. Setting herself up as lady of the manor, along with horses and kine, was anticipated by all to be so fulsome a project as to fully engage Grainne’s energies for the entire summer. Still, de Burgo did not need to know all of those details. ‘Salvage the poor man’s feelings withal,’ she thought to herself, something she had gotten good at over the years when faced with similar situations. 
            De Burgo had been studying Gale like a lap dog on the floor studies a pork chop on the table, drooling but afraid to jump due to unpleasant consequences. His expression suddenly changed to one of affected embarrassment upon hearing her statement regarding her summer plans. 
      “I guess that, well, rather, it seems that… I’m not sure how to state this! It’s just that your father suggested we might keep one another company because you would not be doing any sailing this summer. It is his wish that this be so. I am most sorry to blurt it boorishly, but I thought he had spoken to you before. So perhaps it will be that you will have more time to spend with me than you previously thought, no?”  His regained composure and renewed eagerness made him seem like a much bigger dog, eyeing a chop on a much shorter table.  
            Gale stared in silence. The silence stretched. She scrabbled at the seam of her gown with suddenly nerveless fingers. Rising unsteadily, she said with utter truthfulness, “I find that I am feeling a bit unwell, perhaps too much chocolate.  Please excuse me, I think it best if I retire for the evening.  I will call Aileen to show you to your room. Good evening to you.”