Page 123 of The Pirate Queen

Tall Walter.

And Richard in Iron.

Appropriate bynames given that the older Bourke son is even taller than The MacWilliam and the younger wears a chainmail shirt that he has yet to grow into. The lúireach is old and devoid of sleeves, just a vest worn over his leine as though it were normal to wear battle attire to dinner. Grace is staring at this bit of armor when the other young man steps forward.

“Dónal-an-Chogaidh,” The O’Flaherty says.

Donal of the Battles.

Younger than Walter, older than Richard, and eager to make an impression if his puffed-up chest is any indication. Grace decides right then that she has room for only one Donal, and as the spot already belongs to her brother, she will find another way to address this imposter who should not even be here. Grace can see that her father does not want him here.

“Come!” The MacWilliam booms. “You must be hungry. Let us eat and settle the terms.”

The low trestle table is heavy with food and Grace is escorted to her place at the far end, between Walter Bourke and Donal O’Flaherty. Her parents sit to the right of The MacWilliam, who presides over this feast from the head of the table. To her, they feel as far away as Spain. As far away as every promise her father has ever spoken. The MacWilliam catches the longing gaze she throws in their direction, and she sees a flash of triumph in his eyes before he turns away.

So it is a game, then, and she is the prize.

To her right sits Tall Walter and to her left, Donal of the Battles. She is trapped. Grace seeks out her brother for rescue, but he is on the other side of Walter—and he likely wouldn’t notice her regardless, if the dumbstruck look on his face is any indication. When Grace follows his gaze, she sees the reason.

The serving girl looks to be a year or two older than her, but not remarkable. Or, at least, not at first glance. Grace hadn’t known she was there at all until she saw Donal. The only word for her brother’s expression is wonder. As if this is the first time in his life he’s ever seen a woman. Despite her plain homespun clothing, the serving girl carries herself with dignity, like she should be sitting at the table rather than standing behind it. Her eyes match the chestnut hair tucked into her cap. A complexion of cream and cheeks pink from the effort of serving dinner. There is a soot smudge to the side of her nose and a large stain on her apron, but neither detracts from her appearance.

Grace does not want to draw attention to her brother or this girl, so she turns away and surveys the feast spread before them. The MacWilliam is clearly trying to make an impression. She has never seen so much food in all her life. Platters of roasted beef and boar, venison and mutton. Hens straight from the oven and salmon so fresh their heads are still attached. A bucket of steamed oysters and two wheels of hard cheese. Oatcakes and barley loaves. There are bowls of boiled cabbage and roasted onions. Red dillisk soaked in butter. Blackberries and cream. Hazelnuts still smoking from the fire and wild garlic cooked until sweet and golden. Jugs of Umhall mead and whiskey. Port. Bottles of French and Spanish wine. Her stomach growls and then she is cheering right along with everyone else as The MacWilliam welcomes them all with a speech and leads them in a toast. Cups rise and they cheer to the three years of fosterage ahead.

Grace has been swept up in some great jovial wave and she cannot help but smile. When she looks to her brother, hoping to share this moment with him, she sees that he is still staring at the serving girl.

And the girl is staring back, her cheeks pinker now and her eyes wide. Time has stopped for the two of them. They are frozen, together, in some moment of their own making, and Grace feels like a thief just for witnessing.

Then The MacWilliam’s cook whispers something in the girl’s ear. She blinks twice and turns away to go down the back stairs, no doubt for another tray of food.

Donal looks bereft. Finally he turns to Grace and knows that she has seen what just transpired. If he is embarrassed, he does not let on. His eyes are pleading.

Help me, they say.

And so she nods, determined to assist her brother in winning over this girl, only the second thing she has ever seen him want.

“Why has The O’Flaherty not brought his wife?” Maeve whispers in her husband’s ear. “Does he not have one?”

The rival chieftain sits directly across the table from her, deep in conversation with Finola Bourke.

“He has a wife,” Eóin tells her, “though I’ve never known the woman to leave Connemara.”

“You’ve met her?”

“Just the once. Many years ago. They wed before he was twenty.”

“What is she like?”

“Mary’s her name, though I cannot remember much about her. She made little impression.”

“Have they other children?”

He laughs. “Tá. Finola Bourke is their oldest child and The MacWilliam’s second wife. His first died birthing Walter. Together they have only Richard.”

Maeve tries to do the math. Finola does not look much past thirty, and Richard is slightly older than Gráinne. “That complicates things,” she says. “Will Finola do the bidding of her husband or her father when it comes to Gráinne?”

Eóin picks a bit of meat from his teeth. “It depends if marriage has shifted her loyalties.”

“They seem evenly split to me, given that her brother now has an equal chance with our daughter.”