Page 198 of The Pirate Queen

I will not cry, Grace thinks when she sees the look on her mother’s face. Wonder and pride and grief. It swells with the rise of her chest, the hard swallow.

“You look lovely,” her mother says, choking back a sob. “Come, then. ’Tis time.”

There is no speech and no hug. Grace had expected more—perhaps that her mother would try to encourage her in some way. Instead, she only extends a hand and Grace is too scared to reject it. She is led out the door and down the stairs, her dress and Nora trailing behind.

The instinct to lower herself to the bottom step outside the privy chamber is so strong that Grace nearly stumbles. But they go on, down another floor and into the Great Hall, where a feast has been set. A bright fire roars in the hearth. There are candles on every surface and the room glows with golden light.

Her brother is there.

And her father.

But Grace comes to a standstill at the sight of The O’Flaherty, and his son, standing at the head of the table with savage smiles. A priest stands beside them.

And suddenly Grace understands. This is not her betrothal dinner. It is her wedding day.

Mother, 1579

“The Bermingham Tower”

Grace is forty-nine years old

She is shackled—hands and feet—inside the gaoler’s wagon. The sturdy wooden cart has a roof, at least. No small mercy in all this rain. Every day for the last week and a half it has drizzled. Sometimes for hours. Sometimes minutes. But there is no staying warm or dry. Grace is surprised that the Governor of Munster and his accomplice—Thomas Butler—have bothered to escort her all the way to Dublin. Though, if their constant searches of the tree line are any indication, they expect her men to attempt a rescue. Which would explain the fifty armed guards.

Such trouble for a pirate.

Such trouble for a woman.

“Do not look so dejected, Grace. We are almost there. We entered the Pale hours ago.”

Black Tom has drawn his horse alongside the wagon. He peers at Grace as if she were some insect caught for display. And what a sight she must make. A wild woman, dressed like a man. Filthy sailing trews and boots, leine and jerkin. She has been in the dungeons of Limerick Castle for over a year. No telling what muck covers her body. Her hair.

“I thought you’d tired of my company, Tom?”

“Only your foul mouth. It is hardly befitting a lady.”

“A lady, am I?” She tips her head toward the governor. “He thinks me a scamp.”

“No. He thinks you a pawn, and a valuable one at that. Though he cannot quite determine whether you are an O’Flaherty, an O’Malley, or a Bourke. There seems to be some disagreement on that matter.”

“He can strike that first option off his list.”

“So, a Bourke, then? Does it bother you that your husband has not made an attempt at your rescue?”

“Does it bother you,” Grace asks, “to betray your own country?”

Thomas Butler, the tenth Earl of Ormond, rolls his eyes. “This again? I thought we hashed it through days ago.”

“There are no excuses you can give me for your loyalty to the English, Tom. Did you know that the clans call you Black Tom for reasons other than your hair?”

Her cart hits a rut and Grace is thrown sideways, her face hitting the narrow metal bars. Her lip stings and she can feel a bead of hot blood gather on her lower lip. She wipes it away with a dirty sleeve.

They go on a while longer in silence and she lays her head against the back of the wagon. Closes her eyes. She listens to the muddy slop of hooves on the dirt track. The snort of horses. Coughing men and bleating sheep. The light patter of a baltic rain. Once the boredom overtakes her again, she turns to Black Tom.

“Why have you come? This seems a terrible waste of your time.”

“It is my job to keep the peace in Munster, Grace. It was only a few years ago I had to put down the first attempt at rebellion by your captor. Now Desmond means to prove his loyalty by handing you over to the Lord Deputy himself.”

“And you think escorting me will keep the peace?”