Page 118 of The Pirate Queen

The ships are quiet as seals when they slide into Gregory’s Sound between Inishmore and Inishmaan. Tall limestone cliffs tower above them on either side, and Grace watches the crags warily for any sign that the lookouts have spotted them. But she hears no call and sees no signal fires. So they move on and circle left into Killeany Bay. Her ships fly no banner, give no outward indication of loyalty, and as they approach the harbor she sees only a smattering of guards on duty. It is raining steadily by the time they dock. There are six English ships anchored in the small harbor, a fleet at rest, soon to be victim of their master’s laziness.

“Kill the guards,” she tells her men quietly as they move on deck, looking for all the world like simple merchants. “The Róisín Dubh has her orders. They will burn the English ships while the rest of us disembark. Then we sack the castle. Any goods and supplies we find will be taken for spoil.” She looks at them in turn, then gives a firm command: “Kill only the English.”

“And the English lord? What if he’s in residence?” Ultan asks.

“He is never in residence. He wants to own our land, not manage it. I’d wager Niamh that Sir Thomas LeStrange is at his city house in Galway. But if you find him, remind him of what I said many years ago: Irish lands are not for sale.”

Sir Richard Bingham has taken his whiskey early today. The distilled alcohol is the only thing he enjoys about this godforsaken country. The whole damned island is populated by dirty, uncouth heathens. And yet, they have managed to create a rather astonishing way of passing a dreary afternoon. Given that it has been raining every day this April, Bingham has spent most afternoons in a pleasant haze in his study at Athlone Castle. Aqua vitae, the monks called their accidental invention. The water of life, indeed.

He doesn’t bother to look up from his desk for a knock at the door. “Come in,” he calls absentmindedly. Probably the maid again, looking for a bit of encouragement in her endeavors at seduction.

Her quiet voice answers. “Lord Deputy FitzWilliam to see you, sir.” She bobs so low that he can hear her knee tap the wooden floor.

Richard Bingham has been a soldier his entire life. He is grateful for all those years standing in ranks and learning his place. For his body responds before his brain can understand that the Governor of Ireland is standing in his study. He’s on his feet quicker than a lightning strike.

He bows stiffly at the waist. “Lord Deputy. Please come in. I did not know you were coming.”

“That is because I did not alert you,” FitzWilliam says.

The Lord Deputy is not a handsome man. He does not have to be. He is powerful, and in the Tudor court, power is all that matters. FitzWilliam holds his soaked cap in his hand and Bingham can see the wide expanse of his bald head, the ring of silver hair that stretches from one ear to another. Silver brows. Silver goatee. Large brown eyes that always manage to look startled, though he is shrewd as a house cat.

Bingham clears his throat. Comes around his desk and motions to the chairs beside the fire. “What a pleasant surprise,” he says, then calls back the maid, “Anne!”

A moment later and there she is, all curtsies and blushes. “Sir?”

“Bring us some ale.”

“And whiskey?” she asks.

“Yes.”

He’ll need more if he’s to get through whatever is coming. FitzWilliam is dressed for travel. Trousers and boots. Wool cloak and gloves. He peels the latter off and drops them in a heap beside the fire.

“They said it would take three days to make the trip from Dublin,” he tells Bingham. “But it took six. Blasted rain. It’s worse than England.”

“It is worse than England in every way,” Bingham agrees. “For my part, I prefer Cyprus—”

“I am not here so that you can regale me with your prior military exploits. I want to know why you have so profoundly failed your current assignment. As does Her Majesty.”

“If you mean that rebellion led by the O’Malley woman, I—”

“But she is not leading it, is she? It is not Grace O’Malley who has cut a swath from Connaught all the way to the gates of Galway. No, that would be the Bourkes. And O’Flahertys. And a few others thrown in besides.”

“All of whom answer to O’Malley in some way or another. Do not discount her influence.”

FitzWilliam stands at the mantel, surveying the bits and bobs Bingham has displayed from his travels. He picks up a cannonball and weighs it in his palm. “I’ve met this woman on more than one occasion,” he says. “I have never once discounted her. Unlike yourself.”

As though bored with his surroundings, FitzWilliam lowers himself to one chair and waves a hand at the other, indicating Bingham should join him. They sit in strained silence for all of two minutes and then the maid knocks at the door again. Bingham rushes to help her into the room. The girl’s cheeks are so red they might light a fire.

“Dear God, Bingham, have you been bedding the help again?” FitzWilliam asks once the girl has left.

“No,” he answers between clenched teeth, and pours them each a cup of ale.

“Keep your mitts to yourself. I don’t have the purse to pay off another jilted servant. I fear word has gotten out that someone is willing to offer good coin to make your bastards disappear.”

Bingham clears his throat. Feels quite suddenly sober. “As you were saying, Lord Deputy? About the O’Malley woman?”

“Oh. Yes. I’m sure you’ve heard she sacked the Aran Islands? All three of them? That she burned all of LeStrange’s crops and spoiled him of every head of livestock?”