Page 140 of The Pirate Queen

Richard in Iron. The old byname he earned as a child for never taking off the chainmail shirt that he wears even now. The sobriquet sounds odd coming from the priest’s mouth, as though he were trying too hard to create an intimacy that does not exist between them.

“Father MacKenna,” Richard says. “I am glad you could join us this evening.”

“A fortuitous accident, given your announcement,” he says, then turns to her. “Gráinne. It has been many years. I had not expected to see you at Rockfleet again.”

“And I had hoped you were dead,” Grace says, her voice dry. She is pleased to see the shock register on his face.

“It is a wonder you are not,” MacKenna replies, matching her tone, “if the rumors about you are true.”

“ ’Tis not very Christian of you to pay rumors any heed, Father.”

“Gráinne.” Richard tugs her hand. “Don’t provoke him. That’s never ended well between the two of you.”

Two decades have passed and Father MacKenna is still nothing but doom and glower. Old and stooped now, he peruses her with the same disdain she remembers from their Latin lessons. Every Monday for three years she was forced to endure his presence. She half expects him to brandish that same polished stick, to rap her knuckles as punishment for bad behavior. But all he does is laugh.

“And how long before these happy nuptials? I expect that I shall have the honor of administering them?”

Richard lifts the hand that holds hers. “I’m afraid not. We are to be married according to Brehon Law.”

“God would frown upon such a union,” MacKenna tells them, his lips curling around his yellowed teeth in an attempted smile. “It would be better that you abandon this idea and marry the mother of your child instead. Atone for your sins by giving her another that is legitimate.”

When Grace stiffens, the old priest turns to her with barely controlled glee. “Does she not know?”

“Of Aoife and Edmund?” Grace asks.

MacKenna twists his lips to the side, pinches them into an angry knot, then turns to Richard. “I see. Perhaps it is wise, leaving yourself a way out of such a marriage.” He bobs his head but doesn’t say farewell to either of them.

Once the old priest shuffles away, Richard turns his attention to the next man in line. He is uncommonly short and mostly bald but moves like made of springs, eager and bouncing.

“Richard!” the little man booms, with a voice much larger than his body.

“Bald Alec. My brehon,” he explains to Grace, motioning toward the older man. When he notes the look of suspicion on her face, he throws up his hands. “I didn’t call for him, if that’s what you’re thinking. He’s come for the feast.”

“And why would she think you had called for me?” Alec asks.

“Because Gráinne has requested a trial marriage,” Richard explains, “and you are the only man within fifty miles who can arrange the terms.”

“And when would you like them drawn?”

Richard shrugs. “Tonight, if possible.”

“Tonight?” Her mouth falls open.

“I have not brought my parchment or quills,” Alec says.

“There are plenty in my chambers. If you are amenable to writing them. And if she”—Richard motions toward Grace—“is amenable to signing them. Tonight.”

A choice, then, and not one that can be put off. Grace pauses long enough to look around the room, at all these strangers. A Winter Solstice feast that has turned, quite suddenly, into a wedding feast.

“I would not be here otherwise,” she says.

Bald Alec grins. “Then it would be my honor to write them.”

“Good man,” Richard says, thumping him on the back so hard that he stumbles forward a step. “I’ll have Brian send up a tray while you work.”

“Will you promise me one thing?” Grace asks as she watches the brehon cross the room.

Richard lifts a wary brow. “And what would that be?”