Page 87 of The Pirate Queen

Gráinne turns on her heel and marches back toward the castle.

Eóin sits before the hearth in his Great Hall later that evening. He allowed Donal to help him down the stairs, but insisted it be done before the clansmen entered for the feast. One by one, they came and paid their respects, all the leaders and bards, clergy and brehons spread throughout his lands. Every sept and minor chieftain. Now, gathered together, they will declare their new O’Malley.

Eóin watched them all day, heads bent in small groups as they nodded and whispered. As they debated. Fierce negotiations cropped up hourly as this lesser chief or that proposed an alternative. Eóin’s choice, they argued, was controversial. Possibly weak. He watched but did not interfere as they formed a consensus. Finally, they have a name. And it is his duty to declare it.

The feast is over. All have drunk their fill, but few have gotten drunk. That will happen later, after the declaration, once the gathering has spread onto the lawn and the fires are lit.

It takes all Eóin’s strength to gather himself and rise to his feet. There is no need to call them to attention. The room falls silent and every head turns in his direction. Time slips away and for the length of one breath he feels young again, like he did when his own father stood and passed the torch. Forty years, gone in a blink.

Another chair flanks the roaring fire and he takes two shuffling steps forward until he stands before it.

“I will be the first to declare my loyalty,” he says, and his voice wavers enough to bother him. “But I will not be the last.”

Eóin sweeps his arm wide to indicate the packed room, the countless standing men. Then he lowers that hand to the head of the man who sits before him.

“By the sea god Manannán and the tides that guard our shores, I swear my fealty to you, my son, Dónal na Píopa Ó Mháille, the true-chosen Chief of the Name of the clan O’Malley, now lord of my lands. With my will and my sword, I swear to defend our clan, to sail under your banner, and to uphold the honor of our name against all enemies that come against us, by land or sea. My blade and my oar are yours to command. You have my allegiance until death or your word releases me. I declare you The O’Malley.”

“The O’Malley!”

The call rises in unison throughout the room as Eóin bows his head to his one and only son. For once, Donal’s emotions are hidden behind a stoic facade.

“I receive your oath,” Donal says, and then offers the barest trembling smile. “Da.”

One by one, the men gathered rise to form a line and repeat Eóin’s words. He knows that his face is streaked with sweat and pain, but all the men present give him the honor of returning to his seat by his own strength. He looks up in search of Maeve. But her head is bowed and her eyes are closed. Gráinne, however, meets his gaze directly, her stormy eyes filled with tears.

“Dance with me, Gráinne.”

Donal holds his arm out and motions with his fingers.

He knows that she wants to refuse him. His sister is exhausted by this long day, this even longer week. He can see the strain of two full decades wearing on her tonight. She would like nothing more than to crawl into her old bed in the garret room and fall into a well-earned sleep.

Gráinne has a role to play, however, and the clansmen are watching closely. Some of them had floated her name instead of Donal’s. He knows that. Eóin knew it would happen as well. Some in the clan argued that she not only deserved the title by right of descent as Eóin’s legitimate heir, but has earned it by her actions at Bunowen. By now they’ve all heard the story of Hen’s Castle, and many others, thanks to the O’Flahertys who came with her. Should Gráinne refuse this dance, it will be seen as opposition to his leadership. Perhaps even a direct challenge.

Eóin instructed them even in this.

Powerful by land and sea.

So his sister bows her head and takes his hand and allows herself to be led to the front of the line. Dancers stretch across the lawn, tapping their feet, waiting. They will not begin until The O’Malley is in place.

The rinnce fada, the long dance.

It is tradition that he lead it.

Men on one side and women on the other, and when the music starts—pipes and lutes and lyres—Donal and Gráinne step into the motions they were taught so long ago during their fosterage. He is pleased that his mind and muscles remember the steps, how to kick up onto his toes, then swing out again, how the dancers pinch together in groups of four, the fingers of their left hands touching at the center.

“I did not think Da’s plan would work,” Donal whispers into her ear when they come together again.

“You doubted him?” she asks.

“Never. But I do not trust the clansmen. Too many of them opposed my selection.”

“That is the process. They push and provoke, looking for weakness.”

“I did not hear the word weakness mentioned when your name was offered,” he says.

Gráinne shakes her head. “Only because my name would have never been seriously considered. The law forbids it.”

“The law can be voided. The English queen taught us that.”