Stately, plump Earl Murchad came from the stairhead, bearing a bowl of lather on which a mirror and a razor lay crossed. He looked into the mirror and stared at his aging, jowled face.
The Earl of Dublin had not slept. He was up all night fretting about his unwed eldest son, Domnall MacMurchad, who seemed to have little interest in the opposite sex. And rather too much interest in inheriting from his father.