Turning away from the roiling ocean waves, Blackie walked back toward the hamlet, his mind settling on the book he had just finished. Father O’Donovan had lent it to him. It was a book about the Tudors, an English royal family from the past.

Blackie loved history, churches and cathedrals. History fed his keen mind; churches and cathedrals fired his ambition to be a builder, a constructor of wonderful buildings. Elizabeth I had been a brilliant queen, a queen who had built a country to become its very best, better than ever before.

He smiled to himself, wishing he had lived then. Suddenly he thought of the Spanish Armada, which had foundered on the Irish Sea, in front of the dark eyes of the Queen herself. She had been wearing a silver breastplate and was mounted on a white stallion, waiting on Plymouth Hoe for her greatest enemy, King Philip of Spain.

Blackie laughed out loud as he thought of this long-ago event, his brain focused on the Queen. He was positive she had been well aware that the harsh wind, which had unexpectedly blown up, had pushed those great Spanish galleons away from the shores of her beloved England. There was no invasion of her land after all.

Her enormous victory had been called an Act of God by the people. He bet she had known the ships had capsized because of a change in the weather, and not Divine Intervention. She was too clever to miss that. A wry smile flickered. The vagaries of the weather were powerful; he knew that.

Black Irish, that’s what I am, so called because of my black hair and dark eyes, he thought, as he contemplated those Spanish sailors of the Armada who had made it to the shores of Ireland and lived. Hundreds had stayed and married the beautiful Irish girls.… He truly was descended from them and proud of it. Sure and he was, very proud.

Blackie was tall for his age and well built, with a wide chest and broad shoulders even at thirteen. He had an inbred sense of purpose, which gave him a certain self-confidence, even an air of authority. It would be the underpinning of his life, a blessing.

This young man who had known much sadness, had grieved for his father and mother, Niall, his brother, and finally his sister, Bronagh. They were all buried next to one another in the church cemetery … buried in the earth they had been the victim of … killed by hunger and grinding poverty.

He sighed under his breath as he walked on. He genuinely understood that life was hard. Mrs. O’Malley had told him that many, many times, and he had already experienced unendurable pain and sorrow.