Page 67 of The Pirate Queen

“Come now, be reasonable. You are widowed and I am chieftain. I can ensure that you maintain the life you are accustomed to, while protecting your children. ’Tis what Donal would have wanted.”

“Damn it all to hell,” Finn whispers. “This cunting shite again. I’ll kill the fecker with my own fecking hands.”

Murray looks to the ceiling as though pleading with the Almighty, and when that doesn’t work, he looks to the floor, seeking assistance from below.

“You did not know your cousin very well at all if you imagine he would take pleasure at the idea of you sharing my bed,” Grace says.

“And why not?” He laughs. “Your husband took all the pleasure he wanted, in half the beds across this county. I will have an heir—it only makes sense for you to provide it. There will be less for us to quarrel over.”

“You are not a very romantic man if this is your proposal, Rory. Nor are you the first to do so today. And the answer is no regardless. I will not marry you. Nor Seán Joyce, who beat you to it by sixteen hours. But be clear on this point: Bunowen belongs to my son, to Young Eóin, not you.”

“And how is a boy of fourteen going to stop me? Surely not beneath the skirts of his mother and a few dozen men? My offer is generous. I will even give you a night to consider it, though I will be lying atop you in that soft bed upstairs.”

“You will not—”

“Be quiet. These are my terms: you will marry me or, as chieftain, I will exercise my right to evict you from these lands.”

“I am the Bean an Tí. You can do no such thing.”

“You were the lady of this house. Now you are only a widow, who may live here by my good grace.”

“Brehon Law may not allow me to become chieftain, but it does allow me one-third of my husband’s property. And I claim this tower and all its lands, all the rents it collects. I claim his ship and one-third of his livestock.”

“Denied.”

“You cannot!” It is her turn to yell now, and Finn’s hand is tight at her wrist, preventing her from pulling the dagger from her boot.

“You know that all claims to dowry fall to the chieftain to decide. And I deny your claims. You might take it up with the new O’Flaherty, but I doubt that he will entertain them, as you have just prevented him from assuming control of Cock’s Castle.”

“Then I will appeal it!”

“To who? The English queen? You think she will hear the pleas of a Gaelic widow? A woman known to dabble in piracy? No. Take my offer or go, Gráinne: that is your choice.”

Rory O’Flaherty leans back against his chair like a king, like a god. She had not heard the laughing and cheering until now, so focused had she been on his words. But the heckling grows louder, his men drunk on whiskey and power.

“Marry me,” he orders.

“No.”

“ ’Tis the only reasonable choice.”

“I have no plans to marry again. But if I do, it will be on my terms.”

“You have no terms. You have nothing.”

“I would sooner have nothing than become your wife,” she spits.

“Then that is what you shall leave here with. I claim everything in this tower as mine. Every item of your clothing will be held in trust for my future Bean an Tí. Every piece of jewelry. Every linen. Every dish and spoon and wall hanging is mine. But most importantly, I claim Scian Catha. ’Tis the flagship of this clan and it is, by rights, property of the Taoiseach.”

Rage, hot and sour, builds in Grace’s throat. She might cry. She might vomit. “Perhaps,” she says. “But you cannot take my men. You do not own my people, Rory. They are not slaves.”

“Your people? You mean those who go by the O’Flaherty name? You might leave here with your cook and with these two dour guards of yours. Perhaps five more if you are lucky. But the rest are loyal. They will stay here and serve me, as is their duty.”

One hundred and fifteen people follow Gráinne through a narrow track in the hills to the west of Bunowen. Not just Cook and her serving girls. But every other member of the Bunowen household as well. The steward and the brewer. Every servant. The dairy maids. Both bakers. The weaver. The gardener. The herdsmen. Every soldier from the garrison—though half of them have families and have split off to collect them. Word is spreading that the Bean an Tí has been evicted from Bunowen but that she is willing to take with her any who are willing. Even Pig is with them—though no one seems more surprised than the surly bastard. He alternates between cursing Rory to a life of oozing cock blisters and cursing Gráinne for being too stubborn to know they are as good as dead. Pig carries some toddler on his shoulders, a child who could not keep up with the woman beside him, who struggles along with a babe in arms.

They skirt the village of Baurawalla and Finn watches several men peel off, running for various cottages. But still, the group marches forward without speaking. Occasionally someone curses or points out a rock or root that needs stepping over. Occasionally there is a whisper or muffled sob. Somewhere, at the back, a baby cries. But mostly Finn hears the soft pad of tired feet.

He knows that Gráinne slept three nights ago. Then the messenger arrived and several hours of frantic planning followed. He isn’t sure if she slept once she sent him by horse to Westport for her brother. But he does know that she has had little rest since. Not on the way to Cock’s Castle, not during the battle, and not on the journey home today. So when she stumbles, he reaches out to steady her on instinct.