Page 203 of The Pirate Queen

“I am no threat to the Queen.”

“We will determine that.” The usher nods and two more guards step forward.

They do not ask permission before lifting her arms away from her sides. She glares at Butler.

“You could have warned me,” she whispers.

He shrugs.

The search is quick but thorough. Hands run along her arms, down her ribs. A similar sweep is done of her legs and back. There are few places to hide weapons inside such a gown. But then a hand stills along her left boot.

“Lift this side of your dress, please,” the guard orders.

Butler’s eyes are wide as the guard tucks his hand beneath the leather and draws out her knife. His mouth falls open and the room fills with whispers.

“Oh,” Grace says with a startled laugh. “I have carried that on my person for decades. I had not even thought of it.”

The guard steps away with a scowl and lays her knife on a small tray beside the door.

“I will have that back afterward,” she tells him. “ ’Tis of great sentimental value.”

“Grace,” Butler hisses. “Be careful the orders that you give here. Even to servants.”

“I will have it back,” she tells him.

The usher indicates that they should make themselves comfortable while he alerts the Queen of their arrival. But Grace cannot sit. She stands at the window instead, so she can look into the courtyard below. Finding sun and sky and a distant glimpse of the river is the only way to settle the hard drumming of her heart.

Grace thinks of the day she and Donal got lost in the hills behind Kildavnet Castle on Achill. She thinks of the day he first visited her at Bunowen. Of the look on his face when he saw Nora at Rockfleet.

She thinks of giving birth to Tibbot in her cabin, alone on Niamh. Of her son’s wild yellow curls and the smile he shares with Richard.

Grace thinks of all that she has lost at Bingham’s hand. Young Eóin dead and buried. Margaret in hiding. Merrick a traitor. She has only her daughter and Tibbot and Donal, Niamh and a handful of men. Even her lands have been ravaged by the governor. There is nothing she will not do to save them all.

“Mistress O’Malley,” the usher calls, and she turns to where he stands. “They are ready for you.”

One breath. Long on the inhale, short on the exhale, and she turns.

The doors leading to Queen Elizabeth’s presence chamber are far grander than any she has seen thus far. Painted white, with gilded carvings. The knobs are golden and twist silently, then the doors are thrown back in a broad sweep. A dozen heads turn her way, but only one lifts. The Queen, seated on a plush red velvet chair, directly in front of her.

“Your Majesty!” the Gentleman Usher calls. “May I present Captain Grace O’Malley, Lady Bourke of Connaught, and her escort, Your Majesty’s trusted kinsman, the Earl of Ormond.”

Finally, Grace thinks as she takes a step forward, her eyes on the Queen. Standing nearby is William Cecil, Lord Burghley. Grace had anticipated—even hoped—that he would be in attendance today. The one ally she has in this complicated court. But the smile she’s only just begun to form falters when her gaze settles on the only other familiar face in the room. He is short. Dark. Dressed for court. His beard has been trimmed and his hands are clenched at his sides.

The smile that Sir Richard Bingham offers her in return is the furthest thing from friendly.

Elizabeth is dazzling. Grace has never seen such a gown. Velvet, black as night, with cream brocade sleeves. A collar of starched black lace. Waist cinched so tight that Grace can scarce understand how she is able to sit, much less breathe. Two great pearl drop earrings. Seven strands of pearls around her neck, and so many jewels sewn into her dress and adorning her hands that Grace cannot count them in the twelve steps it takes to reach the slight podium where her chair sits. High above the Queen, strung from the ceiling, is a tasseled canopy the same red velvet as her chair. Surrounded by opulence, confident in her power, the Queen surveys Grace with curiosity.

When Grace comes to a stop, there is a great inhalation in the presence chamber, a unified drawing of breath, then the rustle of fabric all around her as every man bows.

She remains upright, utterly still, her gray eyes focused on Elizabeth’s brown ones. They are the color of rust, the same as the curled wig heaped atop her head. This, more than anything, surprises Grace. She thought the Queen of England would have blue eyes.

Grace stares at Elizabeth and Elizabeth stares back. The room falls utterly silent now, in a kind of shock. Grace has not bowed, nor curtsied, nor shown the required signs of respect. She simply looks. And waits, her fingers clasped at her waist.

“You do not bow?” Elizabeth asks in English.

Grace responds in the Queen’s own language. “It is not fitting for one of my position, Your Majesty.”

“Is a captain so great in your country?”