Page 122 of The Pirate Queen

Maiden, 1543

“Fosterage”

Grace is thirteen years old

She is offered a hand as she steps off Niamh’s deck and onto the steps of Rockfleet Castle. That quickly, she finds herself on solid ground, preparing to meet David Bourke, The MacWilliam of Connaught.

Grace allows herself one longing glance backward to the smaller confines of Rockfleet Bay, then the broad expanse of Clew Bay beyond. It is the golden hour, and the green hills of those sprawling drumlin islands are burnished copper. And if the sinking sun appears heavy, or the horizon a deeper blue, then it must be her imagination, her own sadness getting the better of her. So she clenches her teeth. Grace will not let anyone see her cry. She will save that for later. For darkness. And the privacy of whatever bed she is to be given in this place.

“Céad míle fáilte!” A booming voice and a cheery greeting pull her attention back to where it belongs.

The owner of the voice is the largest man Grace has ever seen. Larger than her own father. This man, David Bourke, is a great bear, all brown hair and brown beard, and in this light his eyes also look to be brown. Then he moves closer, gripping her father’s arm in greeting. “Dubhdara!”

“MacWilliam!”

Now Grace can see that his eyes are blue—though so dark she cannot decide whether they are menacing or only intense.

Like her father, this man is dressed for the occasion: worsted wool trews and a vest of tanned leather with a clean leine beneath. Long woolen cloak fastened with a gold pin. Hobnailed boots and leather belts at their waists that showcase their sgian-dubh with stag-antler hilts. Formal, but not elegant. They have left it to their women to show off the elaborate plumage. Thus Grace in her blue silk gown and Maeve in one almost the color of ivory. The MacWilliam’s wife has gone for a green the color of fresh moss.

When the dark eyes of David Bourke turn to Grace, she forces herself not to retreat a step. The MacWilliam takes her measure head to toe, flicks a glance to Maeve. Comparing them. No doubt gauging how Grace will age. Based on the ghost of a smile—just a slight turning at one corner of his mouth—she seems to pass inspection.

“My daughter, Gráinne,” Eóin says, drawing her forward by the hand.

There are no curtsies expected, only a slight dip of the head, a lowering of eyes to show respect. Grace is elegant with her movements; she has been trained for this. Maeve took great care in recent weeks to ensure that she practiced every greeting and gesture.

“I am pleased to be here,” she says.

David Bourke grins. “And ’tis an honor to have you.”

Eóin moves forward again, this time with his hand at the small of Maeve’s back. “And of course you know my wife.”

Maeve steps into The MacWilliam’s embrace with a smile. “Dia duit, old friend.”

“But this would be the first time you’ve met my son,” Eóin continues, then waves him forward. “Dónal-ne-Píopa.”

“We’ll have the pleasure of two Donals, then,” Bourke says, and Grace thinks there is a note of cunning in his voice.

“How so?”

“The O’Flaherty has beaten you by an entire day, Dubhdara. His son is also Donal.”

There is frost in her father’s voice when he replies, “It was my understanding that O’Flaherty chose to send his son to the Joyce clan for fostering.”

“You are misinformed. I have always found the Joyces to be rather hostile.”

Whereas David Bourke has a voice that booms, the man who has just spoken can barely be heard. But all heads turn to him nonetheless. He stands in the tower door, arms crossed, eyes locked upon her father.

Nothing about him should cause the reaction he elicits. He is of middling height. Not thin, but certainly no mountain of a man. An average face. Muddy eyes and a nose that might be too large. Or perhaps it has been broken too many times. So Grace cannot fathom why her father stiffens, why his jaw clenches. Or why The MacWilliam angles to the side, unwilling to let this man near his back.

“O’Flaherty,” Eóin says by way of greeting.

“O’Malley.”

They neither embrace nor clasp arms. There are no honorifics between them.

Three young men stand in the doorway behind O’Flaherty. They look as like their fathers as Donal does Eóin. Younger versions of Bourke and O’Flaherty.

“My sons,” The MacWilliam says, pointing first to the older, then the younger. “Walter Fada and Richard-an-Iarainn.”