“’Tis well,” said he; “but what I am come to tell you is not a thing to be proclaimed from the tops of our towers.”
Stirred by a host of thronging fears, I waited, keenly apprehensive of his next words. They were heavy enough, although the misgivings I had felt had not left me altogether unprepared for tidings of the kind.
“Grace O’Malley,” said he, in a low tone which thrilled me through, “is virtually a prisoner in Galway. The Mayor, or rather, I should say, his daughter, has made herself answerable to the Governor for her. While your mistress is apparently free to come or go as she pleases, she is in reality deprived of her liberty, as she will discover if she tries to leave the mansion of the Lynches.”
“Grace O’Malley a prisoner?”
“That is what she is,” said Richard Burke. “She is not bound, nor is she locked up in a room. Her every movement, however, is watched by Sabina Lynch. While she may think herself a guest, and an honoured guest, the hospitality is a mere pretence.”
“But why, why?”
“There are many reasons, as you well know,” he replied. “The mind of the Governor is set against allowing any of the ancient customs of the land; he is endeavouring quietly and skilfully—for he is not a blustering bully as some others are—to reduce the power of the chiefs and to make them pay tribute to the Queen. Where he does show his hand plainly it is always to strike a deadly blow.”
“Yes, yes,” I said, impatiently. Grace O’Malley a prisoner, and I sitting quietly in my ship! The thing seemed impossible—yet it was true.
“No need for haste,” said he calmly. “Listen to what I have to say, and then you will grasp the matter more surely. Sir Nicholas will offer no violence if he can gain his point without it.”
“What is his point?” I asked.