Page 4 of Breath From the Sea
He shrugged. “Aye.”
“Hmm.” Antónia eyed the door, considering that very suggestion. Oh, but she would love to see the look on these idiots’ faces as her gallowglass warrior shredded the pretty wood.
Sweeney nudged her elbow. “I will if ye like.”
Antónia laughed softly. “I would like that very much, but I will not require it.” Flapping open her fan, she held her head high as she glided over the floor, the crowd parting easily when they took one look at the warrior behind her.
The footmen standing guard of the gallery widened their eyes at her approach. They subtly shook their heads, warning her with their eyes to stay back, but she ignored them completely.
“I have waited quite some time to speak with Her Majesty. I require you to announce me. Now.”
One of their mouths dropped open, the other cleared his throat. “My lady, if you would wait, you will be called when requested.”
“Now would be good,” Antónia said with a sweet smile, though her eyes held no room for argument. “I do not think you understand, sir, but I have come on behalf of my grandmother, Lady Grace O’Malley, I believe she is well known to court.”
The footman whose mouth had popped open before swayed on his feet, while the one she’d been conversing with swallowed hard. She had to keep herself from glancing down to see if they’d wet themselves yet.
The only footman able to form words stared up at Sweeney behind her. “I shall return in a moment.” Keeping his eyes on her guard, he reached behind him and opened the door, fairly falling through in his hurry.
Antónia let out an annoyed sigh and glanced back at Sweeney. Though his scowl was fierce, his eyes danced with humor.
The footman left on his own looked ready to bolt, or faint. Antónia offered him a pleasant smile, but the way he peeled back his lips from his teeth looked more like a man ready to piss himself than a return of civilities. Well, she was used to that. Most of the men she met looked at her that way. Of course, most of the time she had the blade of her cutlass at their throat, or the barrel of her blunderbuss pointed at their heart, or simply Sweeney glowering promises of death behind her. No matter, she wasn’t brandishing any weapons at the moment. Must have been something in the air around her.
Or the fact that her grandmother was the Irish pirate queen.
Or Sweeney. One never knew.
A moment later, the gallery door opened once more and the footman was ushering her in. Though his face turned an ugly shade of purple when he did so, he held his hand up at Sweeney’s follow.
“Nay, there. You must remain behind.”
Sweeney bared his teeth, prepared to, no doubt, tell the slight guard what he’d like to do with him and as entertaining as that would be, Antónia had to stop him.
“’Tis fine, Sweeney. I shall return in a moment. The gift please.” She held out her hand and Sweeney reached into his sporran, pulling out the small velvet pouch.
Antónia clutched it and motioned for the footman to show her the way.
He led her through the gallery where a few courtiers stood, whispering in corners, their eyes shifting over her, some with curiosity, others with animosity. Oh, how she would have liked to storm these halls with her crew. The lot of these English would writhe with fear. The aging baron was still there, too, looking ready to lay down on the ground in his exhaustion, as he conversed with another courtier.
The footman opened another door, leading into the throne room. More opulence. More glitter and a fluff.
“The Lady Antónia Burke, on behalf of Lady Grace O’Malley,” he announced.
The room, and gallery behind her, fell silent.
Antónia stood tall and sailed inside the room, gliding over the floor much like her ship glided over water. Her eyes locked on Queen Elizabeth, who sat in a cushioned throne chair, her face painted thick with white. Bright red hair, much the same color as her own, was curled and set just so on top of her head.
Her gown was finer than anything Antónia had ever seen. Velvet, crusted in shining jewels and lace. Every finger held a large stone. Her dark eyes were weary as they studied Antónia and she beckoned her forward with one gnarled finger.
“Come here, child. You’ve grown much these last eight years.”
“Your Majesty.” Antónia bent at her knees, deftly perfecting the curtsey she’d been practicing behind the locked door of her chamber aboard the ship.
When she’d first met the queen, her grandmother had refused to curtsey, claiming she did not recognize her as her monarch, but Granuaille had been adamant that Antónia bow before the sovereign now, else all Uncle Tibbot’s careful plans be laid afoul.
Queen Elizabeth held out her hand, expecting Antónia to kiss her ring. That was a matter entirely different than bowing, for she, also, did not recognize the queen. In fact, just this month, there had been a massive battle waged between the English and Irish, and her father could have been killed.
She must have deliberated too long because those in the room began to grumble. Queen Elizabeth, however, laughed.
