Page 36 of The Pirate Queen

“Take it like a man, O’Flaherty!”

“The fecking Joyce cheated! They always cheat!”

Grace looks to the sky. Shakes her head. Those who were seated on logs have jumped to their feet, jeering, chanting, fists pumping the air. Everyone is up except for her and The Joyce. He seems content to sit here in the knowledge that his son won the last contest and will win this one too.

And he does.

It takes five minutes, but when the spectators in front of her drop back onto their logs, she can see her husband, pinned face down in the grass, bleeding from at least three different places.

“My Seán is better at boxing too,” The Joyce says with a laugh.

Bodies shift. People laugh. When a jug is passed to Grace, she hands it to The Joyce and watches as he tips the whiskey back and takes a deep swig. She watches Richard settle in for the remainder of the games. She watches Walter leave the field. Watches her own stupid, vain, idiot husband limp away.

Eyes back to Richard. He is watching her now, and why should this make her want to cry? Why should she care?

It is a refrain now, reminding her: You are married, Gráinne Ní Mháille, and not to him. So she forces her attention back to the target and the new set of contestants. She does not look at Richard again during that match or the three that follow. She doesn’t look up until the sun slips toward the horizon and the knife throwing is over. When she can no longer resist the urge, she sees that Richard’s seat is empty.

The crowd begins to disperse and Grace stretches her aching back, her stiff legs. Once she’s up and steady on her feet again, she holds out a hand to The Joyce, offering to help him up. He looks at her for a moment, head tipped to the side, then lifts a gnarled hand to his guards, who have all stepped forward. He accepts her help. The Joyce is lighter than he looks. Frailer. But he is also a great deal taller and she finds herself looking up at him, even though he leans heavily on his cane.

“I thank you, Gráinne,” The Joyce says and grins as her expression wavers. Then he leans close and whispers, “Tell your husband that I’ll be taking my fecking castle back.”

Richard has had too much whiskey. He knows that. There’s no other reason for him to go looking for Gráinne.

She is married, you eejit, and not to you, he thinks. She’s bloody pregnant too.

But he knows Donal O’Flaherty. Knows the fool will be in a rage now that he’s shown his arse in front of the clans. And Gráinne saw it all. Richard tells himself that he won’t talk to her. Won’t interrupt her evening. He only wants to make sure that her useless husband won’t punish her for his own shame. This is how Richard Bourke convinces himself to creep through the darkening encampment.

The games are over for the night. Families are drifting back to their campfires. Bottles are passed. Children put to bed. Husbands and wives going to bed as well. He grinds his teeth at the thought.

“I won’t talk to her,” he promises himself. “She won’t even know I’m there.”

But he also won’t let O’Flaherty hurt her.

Gutty thinks knives are stupid. Why use such a small blade when there are bigger options? Swords, of course, are best. No fighting at close quarters. But he’s seen the thing they call a cutlass—knows they’re carried by sailors. Something between a dagger and a sword, with a wicked curved blade. Still, he watches the entire knife competition. Keeps an eye on Gráinne. The boy doesn’t like that she’s been left alone today. Doesn’t like that her husband never came back to camp last night. His Bean an Tí is pregnant. She shouldn’t even be here, much less wandering alone in the heat all day.

And so he followed her. But at a distance. Sees that she’s been shown kindness by other women. Sees them feed and water her. And yes, the knife throwing is entertaining, even if Gráinne’s chosen a seat by that man no one else wants to be near. A Chief of the Name, he thinks, if those guards are any indication.

Gutty watches the young O’Flaherty chieftain embarrass himself before the entire crowd. Watches him lose, then fight, then lose again. He’s ashamed, though he doesn’t know why. He has no love for his master, after all, only his mistress. Gutty stands at the far edge of the clearing until Donal O’Flaherty wanders off the field. And he can’t say why he follows, really, other than curiosity about what that fecking eejit will do next.

Gutty knows how to hide in the shadows, how to be invisible. He’s done it his entire life. Been where he isn’t supposed to be. No one realizes he was never given his job at Bunowen. He just found a way to stay fed and took it. One day, there he was, throwing turves of peat onto the kitchen fire, and Cook never asked where he came from or who he belonged to. Nor did anyone else, when he started carrying peat throughout the tower house.

A floor beside the fire is preferable to the forest floor. A meal of any kind preferable to none. He was eight when the Bean an Tí came to Bunowen. Twelve when she took him on Niamh. So if he’s loyal, who can blame him?

He follows Donal O’Flaherty away from the cheering crowd, deeper into the wood. He follows him and sees that his chieftain is following someone else. A tall man. Dark. Bearded. One of the brothers who competed first. A Bourke, stumbling just a bit from too much drink.

Gutty watches as O’Flaherty pulls a dagger from its sheath. Watches as he holds it by the blade tip. The sun is low and the shadows are long and the crowd far behind them.

Donal O’Flaherty raises his arm.

Gutty blinks.

And the blade is let loose. It flies end over end. Slowly at first, as if suspended by time, then faster, a steely blur. Another blink and the dagger lodges into the back of that man’s neck. The Bourke falls, clawing at the blade.

Gutty watches O’Flaherty run, then throw himself onto the felled body. He yanks the knife from his victim. Lifts his head by the hair. Runs the blade across his throat.

The Bourke brother is dead then, never having uttered a sound. Blood seeps onto the forest floor.

Gutty doesn’t intend to scream, but he does, and hears the horror in his own voice. He has never seen a man killed before. A bird startles overhead. Takes flight. And Donal O’Flaherty turns to him, his knee still in the dead man’s back, one hand gripping a fistful of black hair, the other dripping blood.