––––––––
What they next found was a wind barely strong enough to tickle a maiden’s seam. The day drew uncommonly hot, the sun strong enough to scald those fairer skinned. Brendan took to worrying at his scarf, using his hat to mop the sweat from his brow. Many sheltered within the shadows of the sails, leaving Fitzgibbon grousing about their not keeping a steady eye out for a catch. Only Kelleher seemed inured to the beating rays, standing at the ship’s bow without a notion of removing his heavy clothes or boots. It was a day when no man teased him for having Armada lineage. “After all,” sniffed Old Paul, “your typical Spaniard’s a handsome devil. Wouldn’t begrudge a young lass lying with such a fellow given the chance.”
“She’d be condemned from the pulpit, banished to rot in a laundry.”
