Page 72 of The Pirate Queen

“Tá. They are. Those same men who volunteered to bleed and die for you on land. What difference does it make if it happens at sea?” he asks.

“It wouldn’t have been me that killed them.”

“You are the most stubborn woman I have ever known,” he tells her and extends one hand, “but even you do not command the sea. Nor its God.”

Gráinne reaches for him.

He helps her to her feet and holds her by the shoulders while she steadies herself. Her eyelids flutter and he can see the pain race—back and forth—in those gray depths, like gulls chasing one another on the wind. She groans and mutters something about being dizzy; then her eyes catch on his face, her pupils constricting as she gains her balance.

“How bad is it?” Gráinne asks.

“Bad.”

“Will they sail again?”

“Tá. But not for at least three months.”

“And the Gallowglass? How will we get them to Mayo?”

“The old-fashioned way,” he says. “By land. I doubt you’ll be hearing them complain, though. Not a one will ever set foot on a ship again. To hear them tell it, they will live—or die—in Ireland.”

“ ’Tis not that easy, Ultan. If I don’t get permission for their passage, they’ll all be dead sooner than the two weeks it will take to march them to Mayo.”

Four days later, Grace stands before the Hughs. O’Neill and O’Donnell. Two of the most powerful Ulster chieftains. Once the formal greetings are over and a mug of cold mead has been set in her hands, Grace assesses them.

Hugh O’Neill, younger, new to the chieftaincy with his father dead but a year; and Hugh O’Donnell, intractable—made of piss, vinegar, and old rivalries. The men are separated by thirty years and seventy miles. Joined only by O’Neill’s foresight to marry the daughter of his sworn enemy. His young wife, Clara, is present as well, seated in a high-backed chair beside the fire at the other end of the Great Hall, a pile of knitting heaped atop her swollen belly. A spring baby, then, Grace thinks. Every few moments, Clara looks up and catches Grace’s eye, curious about her place among these chieftains. The girl says nothing, but listens closely.

“What is it you’re after, then, Gráinne?” O’Neill asks. He takes a long draught of beer. Wipes his mouth with the back of his hand.

“I need safe passage for my Gallowglass. Through your lands,” she tells him, then nods at O’Donnell. “And yours. From here to Mayo. I need assurances that your war bands won’t attack them.”

It is raining softly and the Great Hall of Dungannon Castle is dark this afternoon. The mood is darker. Grace listens to the rain tap, tap, tap against the tall narrow windows as silence stretches into the room.

Finally, O’Donnell laughs. Just laughs, then reaches across the table and pours a big glug of whiskey into his cup. He levels her with a hard gaze as he lifts it to his mouth, tips his head back, and drains it. O’Donnell has the look of a man who enjoys the drink. It is not yet three o’clock and his eyes are bloodshot. He has a nice smile, though, and uses it, grinning at Grace like she’s some beggar come to ask his favor.

Across the room, Clara sighs. The metal tips of her knitting needles clack together. And when Grace looks at her, she sees that Clara is glaring at her father.

“And why would we grant such a thing?” O’Donnell asks.

Grace turns to O’Neill. Raises an eyebrow but doesn’t bother to make her case. Not before she’s heard their excuses, whatever conclusion they’ve decided in advance.

He shifts uncomfortably. Looks to his father-in-law. Glances at his wife. Says nothing.

“You think this war will stop at Connaught’s borders?” she asks. “You think Bingham won’t kill your son next?”

“You can’t know it’s a boy.”

All heads turn to Clara. She has set down her knitting. Placed both hands protectively on her belly.

“You’ve the look of it.” Grace shrugs. “And wouldn’t I know? I’ve had three sons myself. You’ll have a boy. And before April, if I had to wager. Then it’s you and every other mother in Ulster who will have to worry about their sons going into the ground like mine.”

“I was sorry to hear of Eóin’s fate,” O’Donnell says.

O’Neill clears his throat. The younger man’s eyes soften. “I counted your son as a friend. Our years in fosterage together were some of the best I’ve known.”

Grace hardens her gaze and leans forward in her chair. “The English are coming. More every year. Their queen grants them rights that violate the laws we have lived by for centuries. Years ago, she began taking chieftaincies from those rightfully chosen and giving them to men loyal to her. Now she declares Bingham governor of all Connaught, and me his subject? What is to stop her from doing the same in Ulster? Right now they have me and mine in their sights. But once they’ve plowed through us, it will be you and yours. If we’re to stop them, it must be by force. My Gallowglass can help. But only if you let them through to Mayo.”

“You expect the farmers and cottiers of Ulster to ignore three hundred Scottish mercenaries traipsing through their fields and forests? You think those mercenaries of yours can mind themselves well enough not to rape and pillage as they go?” O’Donnell asks.