Page 161 of The Pirate Queen

Finola drops it to the mantel and wipes her hands on her skirt, then continues her path around the room. Every once in a while she looks to the bed, a hungry expression in her eyes, as if she’d like to grab Tibbot and run.

It pains Grace to know that this child will not have a real granny. The news came—three months after wedding Richard—that Maeve passed in her sleep. She’d eaten dinner and gone to bed early, hale and hearty. Then never woke up. Though she cannot be certain, Grace thinks that Maeve waited long enough to know that she was happy and secure, that she had finally found love. Grace wept her way through the funeral, then puked for an hour afterward. That was how she’d discovered she was pregnant with Tibbot.

Grace sips her milk. Butters a thick slice of bread. She offers nothing to this unwelcome guest. But since she’s forced to endure the company, there are things she’s curious about.

“Why did you have your brother kill Walter Bourke?” Grace asks.

Finola is nearing sixty, but still has all her teeth. A vain woman who takes extraordinary care of herself. She flashes them at Grace now. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Of course you do. You were the one who wrote it down,” she says. “I read your letter. And I was there, in Moycullen, when it happened. Does The MacWilliam know that you had his eldest son killed? Or have you kept that detail from your husband?”

Finola blinks at her. Two slow shutters as the realization settles. “That is why you didn’t send word of your marriage. Or the coming child? You’ve kept a grudge because of some old imagined rivalry?”

“Oh, my grudges are quite legitimate,” Grace tells her. “And they began right here, over twenty years ago, when you conspired to have me married off to Donal O’Flaherty instead of your son. I want to know why.”

Finola shrugs. “My brother was…resistant to the idea of killing Walter. It took a bit of convincing. And you, dear, were the price.” She shrugs. “Donal agreed on the condition that you were to marry him instead of Walter. Those were your choices after all, or have you forgotten?”

“Oh, I have forgotten nothing. Nor have I forgiven. Did I not factor into this at all? What I wanted?” Grace demands, her voice near a shout. She flinches when Tibbot lets out a small cry and wriggles against her chest. Her next question is whispered. “What Richard wanted?”

“Don’t be stupid,” Finola snaps. “Any slag could provide Richard an heir—as he has proven well enough with Edmund’s mother. Your happiness was not my concern. Nor was his. I only cared that Richard become The MacWilliam. That would have never happened with Walter alive. You both have me to thank that it is now inevitable.”

Grace sits very still, one hand resting at the top of her deflated belly. “Your brother was only concerned about winning. Not being any kind of husband. I paid the price for that.”

Finola’s hair has gone mostly silver now, the black long bleached out by time and bitterness. “You should thank me, girl. I provided the opportunity that you clearly made the most of. Now here you are, matron of three powerful clans. Though I regret that I underestimated your ability. Had I known what you were capable of back then, I would have brought you to heel and kept you closer so I could have been a stronger influence. Together we might have known true power.”

Finola sighs, and one would think she has missed her chance at being the Queen of England.

The serving girl returns carrying a second tray heavily loaded with milk and toast for Finola. Apologizes and bobs and curtsies and she’s rushing off again, relief evident in her eyes.

Finola pours herself a glass. Butters a piece of toast and eats the entire thing as Grace watches. Once she’s washed it all down with two sips of milk, she says, “I’ve been told it’s a boy. He’ll be named David, after my husband.”

“His name is Tibbot,” Grace snaps.

Finola dismisses this with a wave of her wrist. “Richard will of course train David to be tánaiste instead of Edmund. You have better lineage than that village girl.”

“Get. Out,” Grace says. If only she could stand and knock that cup from Finola’s hand, she would make it fly into the hearth and shatter.

Finola only smiles when she notices Grace’s fierce concentration on the little cup. She sets it on the tray. Stands. “We will have to work on those manners. But yes, I was quite wrong about you. I think you’ll do nicely.”

“I will do nothing. Not for you.”

Grace hadn’t noticed the cane when Finola came in, nor how heavily she leans on it. But she sees it now as Richard’s mother hobbles to the door. “You still don’t understand? Stupid girl. What you want no longer matters. You have married The MacWilliam tánaiste. You are the Bean an Tí of Rockfleet Castle. The mother of his heir. You no longer have any say in this. You belong to the Bourkes now. And you will advance our agenda.”

There are two ships docked at Rockfleet when Richard arrives. Niamh. And some foreign galley. Dark and slender. The boat is shaped like a scimitar, all strange lines and pointy ends. It is beautiful and terrifying. He cannot read the name emblazoned on the side. Or what’s left of it. Already, Gráinne’s crew is sanding away the name.

So. His wife has added to the fleet.

Richard looks to Finn for answers, but the exhausted toad of a man is already leading both horses toward the byre. He has no idea how long the man has been awake, but he’s barely capable of speech. No doubt Finn will lie where he falls.

When Richard goes to pull the castle door open, he finds it shut tight. Three more unsuccessful yanks prove the door has been locked from the inside.

“What?” Richard asks, then pounds his fist on the heavy wooden planks.

There is no answer from within. No response.

“Let me in!”

Nothing.