Page 200 of The Pirate Queen

“You can’t go to him like that,” the guard says. “Wash yourself. There’s a clean dress hanging on the wall. Leave your trews and shirt behind.”

Another door shut in her face. It is locked from the outside and it takes every ounce of her restraint not to throw herself into the tub headfirst.

FitzWilliam is displeased to see that they bring O’Malley in wearing shackles.

“Take those off,” he orders. “They aren’t necessary.”

“But, sir—”

“What is she going to strangle me with? Her hair? At least I will finally be free of my imprisonment from this damned country. Release her.”

O’Malley lifts her hands and the guard unlocks her shackles. She does not shift her gaze once they’ve left, nor when FitzWilliam offers her a chair by the fire. A glass of port. She receives it all with gratitude and pleasant manners.

“And here I thought you might have prepared one of your dirty limericks for me,” he says with a smile.

“I take requests,” she says.

“Are you hungry?”

“My next meal will not arrive until sunset.”

He waves toward a platter of cakes on the small table before him. “Those rules do not apply here.”

“I should hope not. Unless you truly are imprisoned,” she says.

“Only to the country. Not the castle.”

“Many men would kill for your position, Lord Deputy.”

“They are welcome to it. But please. You must be curious why I summoned you?”

“Rather.”

“You have been causing quite a stir.” FitzWilliam lifts a sheaf of papers from the end table beside his chair. Some are old and yellow, others new. All have bits of wax crumbling from their broken seals. “Correspondence,” he explains, “received by the Queen’s Privy Council. About you. Given that I am on said council, I am privy to all of it.”

The O’Malley woman sits tall in her chair. Feet crossed at the ankles. Hands in her lap. Her damp hair thrown behind her shoulders and her head tipped to the side. Those sharp gray eyes study his face.

FitzWilliam lifts the papers and sets them in his lap. “May I?” he asks.

“By all means.”

He reads from the first one. “There was sent unto me Granny Nye Male a woman of power and force, as a demonstration of Desmond’s loyalty.” He looks at her above the paper. “That was sent by Lord Drury, Governor of Munster. I believe he escorted you to Dublin?”

She nods. “He and Thomas Butler.”

FitzWilliam continues. “The governor had much to say about you to the council. Take this, for instance: ‘She is a woman famous for her stoutness of courage and person, and for some sundry exploits done at sea. She was taken by the Earl of Desmond a year and a half ago, and hath remained partly with him and partly in Her Majesty’s gaol of Limerick.’ ”

“I can confirm that is accurate,” she says dryly.

“My predecessor, Sir Henry Sidney, wrote several of these letters as well, after your meeting two years ago in Galway. You made quite an impression on his son,” he tells her. “It is a wonder he has not yet written some saccharine ballad in your honor.”

“If it’s saccharine, he was not paying attention.”

“Indeed. Your exploits are romantic only in the literal sense.” She sighs and he thinks it time to get to the point. “I have more to offer you than port and cakes, Grace.”

She watches him with that shrewd gaze, an invitation to continue.

“There are nineteen members of the Privy Council. It is our job to advise Her Majesty, and each of us has specific areas of expertise. I, as you can imagine, counsel the Queen on all matters relating to Ireland. There are only two other names you need to know. The first is William Cecil—also called Lord Burghley—who is Lord High Treasurer of England and Her Majesty’s most trusted advisor. The other is Sir Francis Walsingham, her spymaster. Both of them have taken a keen interest in you, Grace.”