Page 62 of The Pirate Queen

Gráinne holds her hand out, palm up toward Murray, but she doesn’t look at him. And he doesn’t take an eye off The Joyce while he pulls the dagger from the scabbard at his side and sets it in her hand. She prepares to throw again.

Seán Joyce keeps careful watch on the three of them as he backs away, careful not to trip over the ram or his fallen men, wary not to slip in their blood. He continues backing up, all the way down the steps. His men notice his retreat and maneuver toward him, forming a half circle of protection.

The Joyce sets his shield at his feet and pulls Gráinne’s dagger from the soft flesh of his shoulder. It slides out with a wet whoosh, the blood running freely from the wound. He lobs the blade up the steps so it lands at her feet.

“In case you change your mind about my offer,” he says. Then his voice rings out above the battle. One word, shouted in desperation. “Retreat!”

As The Joyce and his men run toward the rocky shoreline and throw themselves into the cold water, Murray hoists his sword into the air and shouts, “Hen’s Castle!”

“Hen’s Castle!” Finn shouts in response.

“Hen’s Castle!” the others join in.

“Hen’s Castle!”

“What are we to do with the bodies?”

It is still raining the next morning, though the worst of the storm has passed. The lightning is gone, though it will be hours before the rain follows suit, leaving a day that’s wet but not dangerous.

“How many?” Grace asks Pig.

He thinks for a moment before answering and she winces at the apparently laborious effort.

“Thirty. All the living swam for it. Or at least they tried. There are a few floaters on the lough.”

In all her scheming, she had not considered the inconvenience of so many corpses.

“Search them for weapons,” she tells Pig. “Put whatever you find in the armory. Then have the bodies loaded on the deck of Scian Catha.”

He frowns for a moment, then nods and heads back onto the lawn, where he begins shouting orders. No one has bothered to move the great table away from the wall, so Grace sits on a bench beside it and watches as her men drag bodies toward the shoreline. The laugh that bubbles out of her is half exhaustion and half disbelief.

Finn shoves a dry oatcake into his mouth, chews around the crumbs, then says, “They’ll make a bloody ballast.”

“Would you rather dig thirty graves?” she asks. “Or spend four days burning them? We’d use every turve of peat on this island and still not finish the job before the stench drove us away.”

He grunts his agreement as crumbs tumble from the corner of his mouth. Finn has gone straight for ale instead of milk this morning. He takes three long swallows before saying, “We’ll need rocks.”

Grace nods. “And sheets.”

“I’ll check the cellars. See what’s there.”

“Nets will work in a pinch,” she tells him. “Though it would be a shame to lose them. Be quick about it, though. We don’t have time. They’ll come for Bunowen next.”

His hand goes to the hilt of his sword. “The Joyces?”

She shakes her head. “Those loyal to my husband.”

An hour later Grace stands at the bow as the ship sluices through dark, cold water. More falls from above, making the deck slick, and she carefully maneuvers her way to Pig’s side. She does not want to dump the bodies all at once; the men row Scian Catha deeper into the lough, and Pig instructs them to drop one overboard every few minutes.

There was no linen in the cellar. No sheets or blankets or extra sail. But they found enough nets to cut and wrap small boulders to the bodies. They will sink—quite literally—like stones to the bottom of the lake, where the fish will do the rest. She is grateful that Lough Corrib is fifty yards deep, that there is little chance any of the corpses will rise again.

Pig is muttering about the rain. About the chill and the bodies and Grace specifically. If she didn’t know better, she would think his insults were a sign of affection.

“Where are you from, Pig?” she asks.

“Carrigglas.”

“Never heard of it.”