Page 59 of The Pirate Queen

“Wait for my signal,” she instructs the archers.

By her count, there are ninety-nine Joyces to her seventy O’Flahertys. So this first volley must level the playing field or she will have no chance at all. It takes eight of Joyce’s men to carry the battering ram across the lawn, and they halt before the broad stone steps that rise ten feet toward the castle door.

Grace watches The Joyce lift an arm. His men stop and take defensive postures, shields ready, waiting for his command. The rain does not cease, but it seems to Grace that all grows still, that time slows even as her heartbeat stutters rapidly in her chest. She fills her lungs in a long draw as Seán drops his thick arm.

“Ó Flaithbheartaigh Abú!” she cries.

O’Flaherty to victory!

The call is as old as the clan, uttered by every Chief of the Name. But it has never been shouted by a woman. Even though her voice carries across the battlements and does not waver, she can see the surprise ripple through her archers. Even the twins jerk their heads in her direction, wide-eyed.

Then the Joyces are upon them, and the first booming crash of the ram hits the door, shuddering through the castle. Everything happens at once.

Out on the lawn, the oiled skins are thrown back and Pig—along with the other three hidden men—races toward the campfires with swords in one hand and iron hooks in the other.

Her archers let loose the first volley into the crowd of men below, their arrows driving home before the strings have finished twanging.

As they are nocking another round of arrows, ten soldiers step to the battlements beside them and heave bucket-sized rocks over the edge. The sound of cracking bone is not so different from that of breaking rock.

And the O’Flaherty men stationed at each corner of the battlements move forward in teams to lift the gurgling cookpots from their hooks above the braziers.

Hot molten lead, stripped from the eaves of the castle, is their best and most brutal defense. Her men are careful as they carry it by tongs to the ramparts.

Grace kneels and draws a dagger from each boot. “On the next swing, throw it out to catch the men beyond the steps,” she shouts.

The soldiers grimace as they draw the first iron pot backward, then heave again so the smelted lead flies out in a lethal golden arc. The air is filled with the angry hiss of cooling lead as it scatters apart in the air, falling hot and ruthless onto the men below. The scent of burning flesh and hair rises on the next gust of wind, along with shouts of torment.

One after the other all four pots go into the wind, claiming the eyes and ears and hands of dozens below.

The sound of their screaming is the sign for her men on the lawn. They run with their own iron pots toward the waiting currachs along the shoreline. Each pot holds enough lead to set two boats alight. The damp wood is no match for the liquid fire, and all along the rocks Joyce boats go up in flames. Only four remain when they are done, and her men cut the ropes that anchor them to shore.

Confusion now from the invaders as they turn to watch their escape route either burn or drift away.

Boom! BOOM! the battering ram sounds, and then the cracking splinter of wood.

The archers on Scian Catha join the men who’ve torched the boats in a line along the shore, firing at the rear flank as the wounded Joyce men stumble away from the castle walls.

“Fire at will!” she orders those at the arrow slits, then she turns and runs for the stairs.

“Where are you going this time?” Finn demands, stumbling after her.

“To meet The Joyce.”

Grace is through the door and down seven steps before the twins make it to the entrance, shouting and cursing as they run after her.

She ignores them. Knives in hand, she speeds toward the Great Hall, where the rest of the men are gathered. Forty soldiers are crowded around the door, swords drawn, breathing heavy, waiting for the inevitable.

“Gráinne,” Finn gasps, breathless, as he slides to a stop at her side.

He reaches out to pull her back to safety, but she steps away from him.

“How many? Between the archers and the lead? How many did we get?” she asks.

“At least thirty of them down so far,” Finn tells her. “Whether dead or alive, I can’t say.”

She nods, then turns to those manning the door. “Remove the crossbar.”

“They’ll break the door!”