Page 115 of The Pirate Queen

“And how old when you killed a man yourself?”

“Not long after.”

“Did you scream then too?”

Gutty laughs. “No. But I spewed my breakfast afterward.”

This seems to hearten Young Richard, and the boy stays close to Gutty’s elbow as they move up the beach. They’re spread out in a V formation, like geese, knees bent and bodies close to the ground. Quiet. The village is deathly quiet as well, except for the distant bleating of sheep. A bad sign.

Gutty’s fears are confirmed once they reach the village proper. The sheriff has razed it to the ground. Everything burned. Every man, woman, and child slaughtered. The sheriff and his men have left the bodies strewn about the small village green. Hands tied, throats cut. The youngest victim looks to be a suckling infant, dead beside her brother. A dozen thatched roofs smolder around them, every woman left in a state of indecency. Their ravaged bodies bloodied, dresses torn off entirely or skirts shoved up. Blood and bruises everywhere, most of them left naked beneath the sky.

“I’ll kill every one of those English bastards,” Young Richard says, teeth clenched, then spills his guts onto the torched grass.

Gutty lets him finish, then grabs him by the shirt and pulls him to his feet. Shakes him, hard. “You’ll have to leave a few for me.”

“You—” Gráinne points at the Murray twins. “Look for survivors.”

While they move through the grim scene, she has Ultan and Young Richard search for tracks. It only takes a few minutes to find two dozen sets of footprints heading north.

“We do not have time to bury these people,” Gutty tells her. “Not if we want to catch the sheriff. If they’ve gone into Erris, we have to kill them before they join the rest of the army. We can’t fight off near three hundred men.”

Gráinne doesn’t look at him. Her gaze is fixed on the small, grubby fist of a child who lies at her feet.

“I can’t stomach the thought of leaving them to nature. Or animals.”

“How long would it take to bury seventy people, Gráinne?”

“And how much worse will the job be in three days? Or ten? Or however long before we can make it back?” she asks.

The men are restless, shifting from foot to foot, looking north, lust for revenge in their eyes.

“Five men,” Gutty suggests. “One as lookout for Niamh and the rest to dispose of the bodies. That’s all we can spare.”

She nods. “Choose them. Quickly. We must stop the sheriff before he reaches Ballycroy.”

The sheriff and his guards are sprawled around a handful of fires. Eating and drinking. Laughing. It isn’t raining yet, but it will be soon, and these Englishmen are taking their warmth while they can get it.

Gráinne and her war party surround them carefully, spreading out like a net until the small campsite is encircled. These bloody English have chosen a decent spot, at least. Nestled inside a copse of Scots pine. They’ve a lookout too, but his blood is dripping from the end of Gutty’s blade and his body is lying face down in pine needles twenty feet away.

“Leave the sheriff alive,” she told them an hour ago. “I’ll need my answers before we’ve rid Mayo of him.”

The Murray twins had argued for a few moments, but in the end decided arrows would be the best way to begin their assault. Kill as many as they can, as quickly as they can, then dispatch the rest by sword.

“Stay beyond the light of their campfires,” she instructed. “And don’t let them hear you coming.”

Closer, closer they’d crept until now they can see the men, sprawled out, boasting of their exploits in Mulranny.

“I hate it when they fight,” one of the Englishmen complains. He gingerly touches the side of his face where two long scratch marks etch a bloody trail down his face. “But hell, that little Irish cunt was soft. I’d do her again if she wasn’t dead.” He elbows the man next to him. “I told you we should have brought a few of them along for sport.”

“Sheriff said no.”

“That didn’t stop him from lifting a skirt himself. How old was she? Eighteen, maybe? Our good sheriff bent her over a wagon and fucked her bloody.”

An arrow through his throat stops the resounding laughter of his fellows.

Grace doesn’t like battle—is damn tired of it, in fact. She is too old and too sore to still be leading men like this. But there is one part that she loves—a singular joy in all this horrid mess. She loves the moment after the first strike, that quick breath between surprise and shouts of alarm. The certainty that her enemy has been caught unaware. Everything that comes afterward—the fear and pain and all the beastly noise—she could do without. But this, the length of one breath, is why she hasn’t appointed a captain to fight her battles for her.

The campsite erupts into chaos. Seven arrows, maybe eight, find their marks. A few more render their targets maimed. The English soldiers who get to their swords in time form defensive groups back-to-back. The others thrash and flail on the ground as her men stab and hack and unleash the fury they’ve held tight—like hot coal—since Mulranny. Murder an Irishman, and it will cost your life. Slaughter an Irish child, and they’ll make you beg before they let you die. But rape an Irishwoman, and they’ll take your manhood before cutting out your tongue.