Free The Wild Irish - Robin Maxwell Page A

tossed about and injured. Later, when I was older, he ’d allow me topside, but lashed me to a fat mast, for he knew that if the sea ever claimed me in this way—if he were not also killed by the storm—he ’d surely be killed by my mother.
    My father at the wheel had the look of a Fury, black mop of hair clingin’ wet to his skull, eyes blazing, spitting curses that he should be forced to do battle with his old friend the sea. I’d watch the brave sailors manning the decks, waves breakin’ over ’em, time and time again.
    Owen’s courage and the steady hand of Providence would always protect us, and it was in those terrible storms I lost all fear of the water and came to see it as my home. You could say I was bred to the sea, and though there were times in my life when I was kept from her, the saltwater was always there in my blood.
    Like I said, ’twas my father who taught me to fight. He ’d carved a couple of wooden swords—mine he ’d made to fit my small hand. He was skilled as a swordsman, but the size of him, and the passion with which he wielded his blade made him a deadly force to reckon with. Not havin’
    Owen’s size I at least inherited his passion and became an able fighter, surprising more than a few men who crossed their swords with mine.
    When we ’d dock in the foreign cities, I’d go down to my father’s cabin, open the cupboard holding my belongings, and strip off the garb of a cabin boy. I’d give myself a good scrub, wash the salt from my hair till it shone black again, and put on a pretty gown, likely somethin’ Spanish that my father’d bought me on the last trip, that I’d now grown into.
    Owen’d take my hand and march me down the plank into town. He was so proud with me by his side. We ’d go round to the homes of the factors who purchased his goods for selling at a higher price. These were great villas filled with gorgeous wares and oddities from every corner of the world. There were the long teeth of elephants that I marveled at, skins of African horses with black and white stripes, tapestries from the east, bolts of silk in fabulous colors I never knew existed. There were walls full of weapons of every shape and size, curved scimitars and short daggers with jeweled handles. As I wandered round, peeking at these treasures, I could hear my father striking his deals with the factors. He always got the best price for his goods, hides and tallow, cloth and fish.
    The more he made the more he ’d have to spend on wine—that commodity for which he was best known—to import back to Ireland.
    But lest you think my whole childhood was spent aboard his ships or in exotic lands—though I would have been quite content had that been the case—the better part of my time was spent in Connaught, in one of my father’s castles near the sea, or in Clare Castle on an island of the same name.
    Mind you, these were not castles as you know them, but four-square, storied keeps. They were built hundreds of years ago by O’Malley chieftains for strongholds against their enemies, and were truly impregnable.
    Nothin’ but big gray stone boxes, you would think to see them. Tiny slits for windows—narrow as a skinny lad turned sideways—and only one door of the heaviest oak, girded with iron. The ground floor was a stable in winter, the second an armory, the third a storehouse and larder.
    ’Twas only on the topmost floor that the family lived, and in close quarters, to say the least. We were luckier than most, for Owen would bring back from his travels all manner of lovely things for my mother to outfit the place. Turkey carpets to warm the floor and cover the always damp stone walls. Draperies of heavy velvet, fine leather chests, and carven cupboards.
    The winters in my father’s castles were a struggle for me, and I braved the weather, except at its fiercest, to be out of doors. For the great stone towers, surely the best in western Ireland, and even the bawns —the stone courtyards