Page 132 of The Pirate Queen

“I think she would have killed me,” Gráinne says. “Donal’s mother. She would have killed me if he hadn’t been there. She hates me.”

“Maybe. But that isn’t why she thinks you’re a threat.”

“It isn’t?”

“No. You’re a threat because she’s afraid of you. The people who fear you will always be the biggest danger to you.”

Again, that smile. But this time the light flickers to life in her eyes and he can see them now—a stark clear gray with a dark limbal ring around the iris. Eyes like stormy weather, he thinks. How fitting.

“Are you afraid of me?” she asks.

More than I’d like to admit, he thinks.

Richard returns her smile. He motions her forward with two fingers. “Not when you hold your knife wrong.”

Mother, 1566

“Richard in Iron”

Grace is thirty-six years old

It is Winter Solstice and Grace has come to Rockfleet Castle uninvited. She thought it a good idea this morning when Nora told her the news about Richard. So she came on her own, but now, she thinks, perhaps she’s made a great mistake.

It has been years since her time in fosterage, but the steward’s pale eyes light with recognition when she steps onto the stone landing.

“Gráinne?”

“ ’Tis good to see you, Brian,” she says.

“Have you come for Richard?” he asks, extending a hand to help her up the steps. It’s been snowing all day and the rock is slippery and she is cold, so there’s no reason for him to notice the sudden flush in her cheeks. He certainly didn’t intend the words the way that she heard them.

“Is he home, then?” she asks. “I feared he would be at mass, given the day.”

“Indeed he is, but”—Brian squints at the dark winter sky—“the Advent service is over by now, and they’ll all be back for the feast soon enough. Come inside.”

Overhead a skein of wild geese fly low over the tower, yelping and honking to one another, shouting directions in their own language as they move south for the winter. Grace thinks this a fortuitous sign—the gray goose is a symbol of bravery. So she brushes the snow from her hair and fortifies herself with a deep breath.

The steward watches this curiously. “Let’s get you to a fire. I am too old to stand out in this beastly weather,” he says, then motions Grace toward the arched wooden door. It is decorated with a garland of crab apple branches, the green leaves and red fruit bright against the weathered stone.

Brian leads her into the tower house. Grace shrugs out of her heavy traveling cloak and hangs it on a peg in a long line near the door. She is disappointed to find that her clothes are all damp beneath. She shivers and Brian takes her up the spiral staircase. Around and around until they reach the Great Hall, which bustles with activity. Servants rush hither and yon, stringing kissing boughs over the doors and between the ceiling beams. The greenery adds an immediate festiveness to the room. They light candles and stoke the fire. Set the long trestle table with trenchers and bowls and goblets. There are bouquets of wintersweet and Christmas box scattered about the room, their heady scents thick and sweet, mingling with those of juniper and beeswax. The floor is covered with new rush mats. The fire roars. Tapestries drape the walls, and the smells of baked bread and roasting meat waft up the stairs.

“Here, sit,” Brian tells her, motioning to one of the heavy wooden chairs beside the fire. “I can’t believe you sailed across the bay by yourself.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time.” She laughs.

“You were a strange girl then, and you’re a stranger woman now,” he says with a fond smile, then reaches into a woven basket on the hearth and pulls out a thick woolen blanket. He drapes it over her lap. “G’wan. Warm your bones and I’ll bring you some mulled wine.”

Then he’s gone and Grace finds that she is exhausted. The wind was strong today and it was difficult to sail the yawl on her own. She holds her stiff hands out to the fire and flexes them, trying to warm her fingers. Her arrival seems to be cause for curiosity among the servants. When Grace notices them whispering, they duck their heads and make themselves scarce.

Oh. She must look a wreck. And what will Richard think of her request if she appears like some wild banshee? She smooths the bodice of her dress and pulls the hair from her braid, combing the tangles with her fingers until the fire’s warmth reaches her scalp. Then there is the steward again, with a pewter goblet in his hands. The warm spiced wine tastes like a memory of her youth, and she settles in for the wait.

Richard Bourke stomps the snow from his boots and hangs his cloak. He hears the steward calling for him but cannot see the old man, so he heads up the stairs in search of a warm fire.

Mass went long this morning. Father MacKenna took the opportunity of a full chapel to wax eloquent about something or other during the homily, droning on for over an hour. Richard hadn’t paid any attention. But he sang the hymns and recited the liturgies as expected.

“Richard!”

The steward again. He stops his ascent to the second floor and looks first up the stairwell, then down, finally seeing Brian’s silver hair. The steward limps toward him, mischief in his eyes.