Page 57 of The Pirate Queen

“Perhaps. But they’ll have their scouts out now. And the western shore is only half a mile away, whereas the north is three times that. There—” She points to a copse of ash trees, their thick knobby roots sipping directly from the cool water. “That’s where I’d put lookouts. They’ll know we’re here, will have reported our movements to The Joyce by now.”

Finn leans against the battlement, hairy forearms pressed against the worn stone. He scowls at the tree line as though it is a mortal threat that he alone can vanquish. Below them on the grass, a dozen soldiers mill about, tending the four campfires spread across the small sloping lawn and gutting the fish they’ve caught for dinner. Pots dangle over the glowing coals, their contents simmering. There are an additional four braziers lit on each corner of the tower. There is little more that Grace can do to announce their presence on the island. Anyone with eyes will know it is full of O’Flahertys tonight.

With nothing to do but wait, they settle into a companionable silence. Some time later, when the light is fully gone, Finn’s gravelly voice startles her. “Do you think he swam?”

Grace looks at him but can find no meaning in the shadows that stretch across his ill-fitting face.

“The messenger, I mean,” he says.

“Well, I don’t think he flew to Bunowen.”

“I mean, how did he get to shore after being injured? He didn’t ride a horse across the lough. And why send an injured man with word of your husband’s death when there were twenty others without a scratch on them?”

“Why does it matter?” she asks.

Finn worries his cheek again. Poking it with his tongue and scowling. It makes his face even less attractive than usual. “Seems odd, is all.”

“Be glad he made it,” she tells him. “Otherwise, we wouldn’t have gotten here in time.”

This small finger of lake, an oblong offshoot in the northwest corner of Corrib proper, controls the approach to Maum. There is no other inland shipping route from Galway to Connemara. Whoever maintains this castle can tax every ship that passes. Every fishing vessel, galley, and rowboat that drifts under the watchful eye of this tower pays a fee that goes directly to her husband’s coffers. To hers now, in fact. Its importance is such that it has been contested for three hundred years. Her husband is not the first man to die defending it, nor will he be the last. Though Grace is determined not to lose any of hers tonight.

The island and its castle were originally known as Castlekirk, until her ill-tempered rooster of a husband took it many years ago. Now it is Cock’s Castle, though the island it rests upon is still referred to by its original name. It is only half an acre in size and the shoreline is steep and rocky, surrounded by deep waters. There is but a single pier that is currently occupied by the Scian Catha. Her husband’s ship is a brooding silhouette against the inky sky. While she maintains the position, no other boat can dock on this island. The Joyce soldiers will have to come as close to the rocks as they dare and disembark one by one, in line of sight for her archers.

The remaining O’Flaherty men had not denied her access to the island when they saw she came with food and reinforcements. But then she assumed command of the fortress, backed by men loyal to her, and those who resisted were escorted to the rocks and told to reconsider. Stay and fight for her, or swim to shore and survive a journey home through Joyce territory. All had chosen loyalty to their clan. It does not mean that they are pleased, however. Wary glances follow her every move. Murmurs echo her every command. She ignores them all. This will work or it won’t, but either way she will have proved her point. The Bean an Tí is not a woman to lie down and accept defeat. She’d done that often enough in her marriage bed. But those days are long over.

Now she waits.

“When will they come?” Finn asks.

“They mean to take us in our sleep.”

He turns his ugly face to the dark sky. Inspects the vast cloudless expanse, then nods. “A good night for it. Will rain afore long.”

She almost smiles. “Rain?”

“Tá. The air smells of loam.”

“All I smell is moss and fish and shite,” she says.

But that isn’t true. There is another smell that has grown stronger throughout the day: the wet scent of petrichor. She can feel it, a tingling, as if someone creeps along out of sight.

“You are right that I did not love my husband,” she tells him. “But that does not mean I ignored him. I listened to all he told me of this castle and our enemies and the battles he fought. And I met The Joyce myself, once, in Moycullen.”

“He is dead now,” Finn says. “His son has the title.”

“Tá. And that is good for us.”

“Why?”

“Because the old Joyce would remember me. But his son will not,” she says, then turns away from the battlements.

“Wait,” Finn calls after her as she ducks into the stairwell. “Where are you going?”

“To see how well these men can follow instructions.”

Finn follows her down three flights of stairs, muttering under his breath all the while, as she marches out the front door, down the steps, and onto the lawn.

“I want these fires built high enough to withstand the rain,” she orders.