Page 159 of The Pirate Queen

When he thinks back on it, Richard is certain that he was in love with Gráinne soon after they met. Within days, no doubt. Possibly hours. If pressed, he might pinpoint the exact moment to her second day at Rockfleet, when she met him in the cellar. But even though he has experienced it himself—this tumbling head over heels—he’s never witnessed it happen to someone else. Not until now.

His nephew—Walter’s only son—stands in the muddy village green of Ballinrobe staring at Gráinne’s daughter. And Margaret, for her part, is every bit as speechless. Though maybe not for the reason his nephew might hope. The girl is wide-eyed, utterly gobsmacked, because his nephew is covered, near head to toe, in blood and holding a scythe that drips more down his arm.

Richard came to Castle Bourke on Lough Carra to check on Margaret. Ostensibly he is here on clan business on behalf of his father, The MacWilliam. But, really, he is keeping a promise to his wife. Gráinne worries that Margaret is unhappy in her fosterage. She has received so few letters these last two years. So Richard promised to check on her. He likes his kind, laughing stepdaughter, is happy to do this task for Gráinne.

He escorted Margaret and Castle Bourke’s Bean an Tí to the village. A typical visit. Greet the tenants. Hold the babies. Listen to complaints. Remind them that their chieftain knows them and cares. The problem is, his nephew is covered in blood. And now he’s seen Margaret.

The girl looks so like Gráinne at that age that sometimes it startles him. The only real difference is her hair. The same startling red as her mother’s, but Margaret’s is straight as a stick and shiny as a mirror. It looks like streams of copper ribbon. And he’d slap the stupefied look off his nephew’s face if there weren’t more important matters at hand.

Richard moves through the muddy slop to his nephew. “What’s happened?” he asks, voice low and commanding.

The boy blinks a few times. “Ah, hello, Uncle,” he says, but continues staring at Margaret.

He nods at the scythe. “What have you done with that devil’s hook?”

“The English came at me first, was I supposed to let them kill me?”

“How many?”

“Three,” the boy answers.

“You kilt three men? By yourself?”

His nephew seems offended. “They were small feckers. Slow and stupid, with mouths full of bad teeth. And they swung first. Scythes are longer than swords. I had the advantage.”

“Where are they now? The bodies.”

His points to the south. “The barley field. They tried to burn it. So I stopped them.”

“Harvest is months over. What the feck were you doing out there with a scythe?”

It would seem the boy hadn’t thought he’d need to give an explanation. He clamps his lips shut. Scowls. Whatever he’d been up to, he doesn’t want Richard to know.

“Come with me,” he says.

“Where?”

“Back to Castle Bourke. You’ve made a mess and I need to get the Bean an Tí and Margaret out of it.”

“So that’s her name?” He smiles.

“Jesus wept,” Richard mutters. “Her name, and the rest of her, is none of your fecking business. Now wipe that blood off your hands and act like a gentleman, or I’ll finish the job the English couldn’t.”

An hour later, Richard has brought them all back to the castle. He’s taken his nephew directly to the chieftain and made sure the ladies are safe in the privy chamber. He’s on his way back to the Great Hall when one of the serving girls runs into him headfirst. She stumbles and apologizes and trips all over her words.

“There’s a man!” she practically screams. “Here to see you! He has news about your wife.”

“Where?”

“In the courtyard.”

Richard is running then, down, down, because he could feel it the moment those words were out of her mouth. Something is wrong.

Richard finds one of Gráinne’s twins pacing a rut in the muddy courtyard. His horse is breathing like he’s been ridden by Manannán himself. And Finn—he thinks it’s Finn, at least; he can never bleeding tell—is covered in blood and bruises, one eye swollen shut, and two fingers on his left hand bent at an unnatural angle.

“You must come quickly,” he says. “Gráinne has delivered the báb.”

Grace wakes in her own bed. She’s lying on her side, Tibbot in the crook of her arm. He has fallen asleep, lips open, milk dribbling from the corner of his mouth. He’s big. At least eight pounds, she thinks. And his hair a soft butter yellow. Long enough already to curl at the tips. He’s been bathed and clouted, and he’s scrunched into a ball at her breast, as though still in the womb. One dimpled, chubby fist is propped beneath his chin like he’s deep in thought. This first real glimpse at her son makes her laugh.