“MacGuire!” said Skye. “Set a course for the Lord of Lundy Isle’s castle. It’s the only safe landing on the whole of the island. Adam de Marisco is the master there. He’s the last of his line and, I am told, as much a cutthroat as anyone. But de Marisco makes his living giving sanctuary and selling supplies to privateers and smugglers. We’ll find a haven on Lundy for our ships.”
“You’ve thought this all out, haven’t you, Niece? Dubhdara would be damned proud of you-but then, he always was. Do you intend to sail with your ships?”
“Nay, Uncle. MacGuire will head up these expeditions, and I trust him to chose responsible young captains who’ll not be recognized by others. Neither you nor I, Uncle, must be involved because we are easily recognized. The ships must sail without any identifying marks or flags. I have already thought out a means of communication during the piracy, a system that will totally confuse our victims. But we’ll discuss that later.”
“I’ll go change the ship’s course,” said MacGuire. “If you’d like to get out of those skirts, you’ll find all your old things in that chest across the room. I stored them away myself,” he muttered shyly. “Why, MacGuire, you’re getting positively kindly in your old age,” teased Skye.
The weathered captain eyed her boldly. ‘They’ll probably be a bit tight in the britches, and across the front,” he noted. “You’ve grown a bit. I’m noticing.” He went out, chuckling over having had the last word.
Chuckling too, Skye opened the small sea chest. There, lovingly stored amid small bags of lavender, were her sea clothes. She lifted a silk shirt, and shook it out. Her double-legged skirt, her long, soft, woolen hose, her thigh-length doeskin doublet with its staghorn and silver burtons, her Cordoba leather boots, and her wide belt with its silver and topaz buckle were all there.
Seamus O’Malley saw the quick tears shining in his niece’s beautiful eyes. “I’ll be on deck getting some air, Skye. Perhaps you’d like to take some time to change.”
As she heard the door close behind him she began to undo the fastenings on her gown. Off it came, and her petticoats, and silk stockings, and the small, ribboned corset. The trappings of Her Ladyship, the Countess of Lynmouth, lay in a heap on the cabin floor. In the mirror she watched, fascinated, as the O’Malley of Innisfana was reborn before her eyes. MacGuire had only been half right, and she solved the problem by leaving the top button of her shirt open.
In the bottom of the trunk she found her small jeweled dagger and-good Lord!-her sword of fine Toledo steel with the gold-andsilver-filigreed handle. She buckled it on, sure that Adam de Marisco wouldn’t be impressed simply by a well-turned leg. A knock sounded on her door, and her uncle reappeared. “We’re about to land, Skye.”
“Send MacGuire ashore to contact Lord de Marisco, and set up a meeting between us. I will wait aboard until he is ready to see me.”
“I take it,” said Seamus O’Malley, “that de Marisco is not expecting a woman.”
“He’s expecting the O’Malley of Innisfana, Uncle,” said Skye with a smile. “It’s not my fault if he doesn’t know that the O’Malley is a female.”
The bishop laughed. “Let us go topside, Niece. There’ll be no real dark this night, as it’s Midsummer’s Eve. We’ll get a good look at the island. I imagine its inhabitants will be celebrating the holiday with pagan fervor.”
They left the cabin together, and after Seamus O’Malley had given MacGuire his instructions, the two O’Malleys stood at the ship’s rail. Lundy got its name from the old Norse word, Lunde, which was the word for Puffin, a bird. The island loomed above the ship, great granite cliffs towering darkly into the lavender half-dusk.
The place had a barbaric beauty about it. The island was covered in pasturage upon which herds of sheep grazed. It also served as a breeding ground for sea birds. At one end of the island was a lighthouse. At the other stood the ramshackle ruins of de Marisco Castle, with the only landing place on the island.
MacGuire’s boat bumped the quay. Securing his craft, he quickly walked the length of the stone pier. At the end of the pier a ship’s supply shop had been set up alongside an inn. The inn was not crowded yet. MacGuire sat down at a table. A very buxom serving wench in a soiled blouse leered over him. “Wot’s your pleasure, Cap’n?”
“I want to see de Marisco.”
“Everyone does, dearie, but he don’t see just anyone.” “He’ll see me. I’m expected. From the O’Malley of Innisfana’s ship.”
“I’ll go ask,” said the girl, walking off.
O’Malley looked about him. The walls of the inn were the original stone walls of the castle, and they were damp with green mold. The rushes on the floor had seen better days, and were matted down and mixed with old bones for which several scrawny dogs now snarlingly vied. The few tables were none too clean, and both the fireplace and the tallow torches smoked.
The wench returned. “He says you’re to follow me.” MacGuire got to his feet and hurried after the girl. Anything was better than this hellhole. The serving wench led him up a flight of open stone steps, stopping at the top to knock on the massive oak door. “In there, Cap’n.” MacGuire pushed through into the room, and his jaw dropped in surprise.
The room was positively opulent, the most splendid the Irishman had ever seen. The walls were hung with velvet and silk tapestries, the stone floors covered by magnificent, thick sheepskins. A huge fireplace bumed with sweet-scented applewood even on this Midsummer’s Eve. On the long oak table were two large golden, twisted candelabra burning beeswax tapers.
In a great thronelike chair at the table’s head sprawled a giant. Though he was seated, MacGuire could see that he must stand at least six foot six inches tall. His hair was as black as night, as was his full, well-barbered beard. His eyes were a sensuous smoky blue. He sported a gold earring in his left ear. His doublet was of fine, soft leather, his white silk shirt was open, revealing a thick mat of hair growing upward from his navel. His hose were a dark-green wool, and his huge brown leather boots rose well over his knees. In his lap sat two pretty young girls, both naked from the waist up, who were feeding dainties from silver platters to the lord of Lundy. “Sit down, man!” came the booming command. “Glynis!” Adam de Marisco dumped one of the girls from his lap. “Serve my guest.” The girl good-naturedly picked herself up off the floor, rubbing her prettily rounded posterior as she did so, and poured a goblet of wine for MacGuire. MacGuire swallowed hard at the close proximity of the girl’s big breasts. The nipples were as large as Spanish grapes. “She’s yours for the night,” chuckled de Marisco, and Glynis cheerfully plumped herself into the Irishman’s lap. MacGuire grinned, delighted. “I like your style of hospitality, by God I do, m’lord! If the O’Malley doesn’t sail tonight, I will gladly accept your gift.” He raised the goblet to his host. “Your health, sir!” De Marisco nodded. “I’ll see your master as soon as he comes ashore. This will be a busy night, with many celebrations. Would the O’Malley and his men like to join us?”
MacGuire hid a smile. “I’ll go immediately, and take the O’Malley your invitation.” MacGuire stood, dumping poor Glynis. De Marisco was bored tonight. As the Irishman left the room, he wondered if the O’Malley’s visit would herald any excitement. He doubted it. But several minutes later his smoky eyes widened with surprise as the captain returned with the O’Malley. “Christ’s sacred bones!” he swore. “A woman!? What the hell kind of a joke is this, MacGuire?”
“My lord, this is the O’Malley of Innisfana.”
“I don’t do business with women,” came the flat reply.