Page 49 of The Pirate Queen

“Three years, I think.”

“When?”

He shrugs. “Don’t know. Da hasn’t said a word about it, but my mam says it’s coming soon, that I’ll be taught all kinds of things when I’m away. Sword fighting and Latin. Chess. Horse riding. She says it’s how Da will find me a wife.”

“Do you want one?” Grace asks. “A wife, I mean.”

“Not one that he chooses.”

Donal is not afraid of Eóin O’Malley. Yet Grace thinks that her brother doesn’t like him much. There is a wariness to Donal on days like this, when they are pulled away from Clare Island to attend business with their father.

“Are you sure we’re meant to go this far?” Donal asks as they tromp deeper into the woods west of Achill Sound.

Herb Robert is in bloom, its pink flowers and fernlike leaves bright against the dark spring soil. Grace picks a sprig and sniffs the bitter scent, then tucks it behind her ear.

“He’s in his cups now,” she says. “Him and the shepherds. He won’t look for us until sunset, and they’ll be pissed long before then.”

“Swearing now, are we?”

“Pissed only means ‘drunk.’ Bloody is swearing. Same as fu—”

“Where did you hear those words?”

“I pay attention.”

“Well, maybe pay a little less, or Da will get after you.”

Grace sticks her tongue out at him. “Da will be too pissed to notice.”

Donal tips his head to the side. “Oh.”

“What?”

“You have to be good. All the time. Proper. So this”—he waves a hand at her to indicate the swearing—“is a safe way for you to misbehave.”

“Why’s it only misbehaving when girls do it?”

“Because girls are expected to be better than boys.”

“Well.” She grins. “I expect to be better at swearing than all the boys I ever meet.”

Donal laughs, and they move on.

Eóin is haggling over wool prices. Bartering for ewes and lambs. Shearing season is upon them and rents will be due for the shepherds—in wool or coin—soon afterward. So their father has made his way to Kildavnet in Achill Sound to meet with the men who provide his wool.

“G’wan, play.” Grace gives him a pointed look. “There’s no one in those woods to tell you to put your pipes away. So you can be as loud as you please, Dónal-ne-Píopa.”

Her brother has finally earned his byname—the descriptive that will differentiate him from all the other Donals in clan O’Malley, and the rest of the country, for that matter. Grace loves that it was his beloved pipes that earned him the moniker. Donal of the Pipes. As fitting a byname as she’s ever heard.

The sound erupts in front of her. Much like an old door swinging on rusty hinges, the pipes first give an asthmatic wheeze and then the rude grumbling of passing gas. Grace is used to this, but still she laughs. Donal’s pipes always provide an accompaniment to their wanderings—when they are lucky enough to be left unattended for an afternoon. Once a month Eóin ferries them away to one of his tower houses. Insists they take note of his business. Yet he can always be counted on to let them go exploring for an afternoon. Keep an eye on your sister is his refrain, and Donal always responds with an obedient nod. They have earned their father’s trust by never returning late.

Donal’s hands glide over the bag and bellows of his pipes, then those nimble fingers move on to chanter, regulators, and drones. He pumps and pats and prods. Then it all comes into tune and Grace catches the hint of melody, some old Celtic ballad. He plays well enough for a few seconds but then the song is lost in a wheeze and Donal curses. They march on, small creatures scattering at the frightful noise.

“I don’t want you to leave,” she says quietly.

Donal doesn’t hear.

The forest floor is carpeted with old damp leaves and mossy stones. Fallen branches. Ferns. Tufts of yellow flowers everywhere. Dandelion and daffodil, cowslip and buttercup. Yellow is the color of spring in this country. Grace picks handfuls of the flowers, sniffing, rubbing the soft petals between her fingers until they’re stained, then casting them aside as she moves on to a different plant.