Page 44 of The Pirate Queen

“Tá. But please do not ask what kind, Gráinne. You are the only person I have time to liberate today.”

There is a small part of Grace that wants to look over her shoulder at the tower. But no. She has been locked up in that cursed Norman fortress twice already in her life and is determined not to endure a third stay. So she keeps her eyes on the gate and the rusted portcullis that hangs above the opening. It feels like walking toward a gaping, toothy maw. They’ll be dead if anyone releases the chains and drops that spiked barrier on them.

“I did not take you for a superstitious man,” Grace says as they pass beneath.

Hook turns that big scowling face at her in question.

“You’re holding your breath.”

He lets it out in a huff. “Superstition has kept me alive this long. No point fighting it now.”

Once they are beyond the portcullis, Grace braves a glance behind her and finds Bingham standing just inside the gate, watching them leave.

“He followed, didn’t he?” Hook asks.

“He’s stopped now.”

“Bingham will try again, you know? It was foolish to go after his brother.”

“And what would you have done if he’d your son killed?”

Hook nods, considering. “I would have let the scythe rust before I used it to cut his throat.”

Beyond the walls, Hook does not let go of her wrist and she does not pull away. He is tense. Waiting for an ambush. Or an arrow. Or shouts demanding that they stop. Downhill now as the ground shifts from smooth cobbles into a muddy lane that leads north. Past St. Werburgh’s Church, its stone walls proud and defiant amongst the smaller wooden structures that surround it. Hook pulls her this way and that, guiding her around the carts and cattle and merchants that crowd the lane. East on Skinner’s Row, then by Christ Church Cathedral.

“Where are we going?” Grace asks, hoping he will say an inn, hoping a proper bath is in her future.

“Niamh. She lies at anchor.”

The possibility had not even occurred to her.

“Ultan?” she asks.

“And Gutty. And those damned twins you’re so fond of. Ugliest fecks I have ever seen in my life.”

Small thatched houses and open gutters and the smell of river where the Liffey and Poddle converge. Fish and manure and leatherworks. It smells of city and people and sewage and Grace only now allows herself to remember the scent of open ocean and green grass. Hope comes slowly. Slower still, the realization that she is finally free.

When they reach Winetavern Street, Hook turns north again and heads downhill toward the river. Grace scans the doorways of each building they pass, looking for the telltale signs of women lingering out front, advertising the bawdy house within.

“Don’t even think about it,” Hook says. “Not if you want to get out of this city alive. I told you, we don’t have time. The brothels aren’t our concern.”

Ladders and carts and cranes. The merchant district bustles and everything is for sale. Goods and people. Grace will never understand cities. Nor could she ever live in one. There, in the distance, she can finally see the Pale—that great stone wall surrounding Dublin City. Everything within is civilization, they say, and everything without is barbaric. Grace has seen the world they call civilized. Give her “barbarism” any day. Give her a life beyond the Pale. Woods and waters and endless skies.

The road is steeper now. Rutted. Her left knee aches from the descent.

“And how is my daughter, then?” she asks. “I assume you’re treating her well?”

“Tá.” Hook laughs at this sudden change of subject. He smiles and the affection transforms his face. “I know well enough that you’d cut my throat if I didn’t. She’s another báb on the way. Two more months, I’d guess, based on the size of her.”

Grace has ten grandchildren already. This will be the eleventh. She hopes her daughter is getting a girl. It is important, she thinks, that every woman make a version of herself. To pass on the part of her that a son will never understand.

They reach the Liffey a few minutes later and he leads her toward the wooden quay, then beyond, where she recognizes two ships anchored farther out near the river’s mouth, ready and waiting.

“You brought Saoirse?”

“I’ve a pregnant wife to get home to. And I’d no idea where you’ll be headed after this. I sail home today.”

Grace knows exactly where she’s going, but doesn’t tell him. Not after he’s gone to all that trouble with the Queen’s spymaster.