Page 188 of The Pirate Queen

The letter is written in Latin. And not from Elizabeth, after all. It is from William Cecil, Lord High Treasurer of England, on the Queen’s behalf.

“He did say that he had questions,” she mutters.

“What sort?”

Grace holds up a finger, ordering silence as she reads. Cecil has gotten to the point. Few formalities. She lays the papers on the small weathered desk when she’s done reading.

“There are eighteen questions,” she tells him, “that the Queen requires I answer before she will decide whether to grant me an audience.”

He scowls. “What are they?”

Grace looks at the papers again. “Complicated.”

Some of Elizabeth’s questions are easy enough to answer:

Who is your father and mother?

Who was your first husband?

What sons did you have by him?

And others are irrelevant to her current situation. The English queen is curious about Grace’s relationship to several Irishmen at court who own lands and estates in Connaught. But sprinkled among them Cecil has laid pretty traps, any one of which might spell her doom if she steps in them. He wants to know the specifics of Irish law regarding the financial arrangement for widows. There is much interest in the various lands and castles associated with the O’Malley, O’Flaherty, and Bourke families. The most troubling question, however, has to do with how Grace has provided for herself since becoming a widow for the second time. She could lie and be pressed for details. Or she can admit to piracy and be delivered to the Hanging Docks.

“He is clever. I’ll give him that,” Grace says.

Ultan glares at the papers. “What will you do?”

“Answer very carefully,” she tells him. “Lest the both of us end up garroted and hanging over the Thames as well.”

It takes Grace the better part of the day to answer William Cecil’s questions. She is careful to write with her left hand so that the letter is clean and clear. Legible. She answers, word for word, in Latin.

My father was called Eóin O’Malley, chieftain of the O’Malley clan…

My mother was called Margaret O’Malley…

My first husband was Donal O’Flaherty, and during his lifetime chieftain…

The fourth question burns, still, even though she has read it over and over.

What sons did you have by him?

Her answer:

My first son, Eóin, was murdered…

Her hand begins to move, almost of its own accord, as she transcribes the story of Eóin’s death. She gives every detail she knows. Every bit of Bingham’s treachery:

That night Eóin was apprehended and tied with a rope with eighteen of his chief followers…John Bingham caused the said eighteen persons without trial or good cause to be hanged…The next night Eóin was cruelly murdered, having twelve deadly wounds…

On and on she goes, answering each interrogatory to the best of her ability, laying out her case for why Bingham must be permanently removed from office. Why her lands must be restored to her. Why the Queen must grant this audience.

“You aren’t so canny as you think,” a small voice tells Ultan as he leans against the tilted wall of the Town at Ramsgate later that evening. “I can see the tip of your boots stick out from the shadows.”

“Perhaps I wanted you to see,” he tells the little serving girl.

She snorts. “I’ve been dodging grabby hands since I was eight. And I can smell a pipe a mile off.”

“Then why have you wandered down this alley?” he asks.