Page 206 of The Pirate Queen

“It is why I never had one,” Elizabeth says. “Children are a liability.”

“No. But they are a vulnerability,” Grace concedes.

“I could grant you new Irish nobility. All that you ask, in return for your fealty.”

“I would not be a vassal to any crown,” Grace says, “but remain as I am. And I will not surrender my birthright for a man such as Bingham.” It is not a bow that Grace offers, but an acknowledgment of respect. She tips her head slightly to the Queen and says, “Terra marique potens. That is what we have in common.”

When Elizabeth speaks again, many minutes have passed, and it is in English once more.

“It is clear to me, Mistress O’Malley, that you have, at times, lived out of order. You have skirted rebellion—if not tumbled directly into it. But I do not see how your actions constitute a threat to England.”

“Your Majesty, I must—”

“Be quiet, Bingham.”

“I cannot grant all that you require,” Elizabeth continues. “By law you have no claim to the lands your husbands held.”

Grace feels her stomach hollow out.

“But those lands do legally belong to the sons that you bore—both O’Flaherty and Bourke. Therefore, they shall be returned in full and financial provision made to you from each estate. Lord Burghley, please see to it that the amounts for Mistress O’Malley’s maintenance be deducted from the crown taxes on those lands.”

“As you say, Your Majesty.”

“She is only a woman!” Bingham shouts, his voice addled with rage. “She deserves nothing.”

Elizabeth looks down her angular nose at him. “Do tell me, Governor, what it is you think that women deserve?”

His strangled voice is barely audible when he says, “I beg your forgiveness for the interruption.”

The Queen continues scowling at Bingham but speaks to Burghley. “In addition, please note that the governor is ordered to release the kin of Mistress O’Malley—one Donal O’Malley and one Tibbot Bourke—immediately. He is not to delay in this matter, lest he risk his position as governor. The continuation of which”—she turns to Grace now—“will be taken under consideration by the Privy Council when next we meet.”

It does not seem possible that Grace should shed the weight of one hundred years having only lived sixty-three, yet they fall away with a breath. “You have my utmost gratitude, Your Majesty.”

“And you shall yet have the chance to prove it,” Queen Elizabeth tells her.

Grace should curtsy. She knows that. But she has the sense that Elizabeth would respect her less if she did. So strong and straight she remains, gaze locked on this most improbable of saviors.

“I shall remain in your…service as long as I live, Your Majesty,” then adds quietly, in Latin, “As long as I sail.”

“Let us hope it is a bit longer, for the both of us. Now. As interesting as these minor dramas of the Irish coastline have been, there are real matters for me to attend to. You are dismissed.”

Grace O’Malley glances at the Queen of England one last time, over her shoulder, before leaving the presence chamber. Those burnished eyes bore into her from across the room. And then the doors close.

Other supplicants wait in the guard chamber now. Butler is at her shoulder. Bingham is at the door. And Grace cannot get back to her ship fast enough.

“How did you do that?” Butler demands. “She granted your requests without requiring a single thing in return.”

Grace does not explain that his assumption isn’t entirely true.

“Elizabeth always requires some favor, some surety as payment for clemency. Yet you walk from that chamber and she asks for nothing?”

“ ’Tis you I have to thank for that,” Grace tells him as they move toward the door.

“I cannot see how.”

“It was you—wasn’t it—who let Bingham know I had been granted the audience?”

Butler’s mouth drops open. “You knew he was in London?”