Page 77 of The Pirate Queen

They walk to the tower house, Bran padding along quietly behind them, sticking his nose into cobwebs and cow pies alike. He seems so happy to be free of the stake that he does not mind the mess. Twice he presses that dirty nose into Grace’s palm in gratitude.

They take him to the byre and beg the stable master to give him a bucket of milk before they go into the tower house. As instructed, Donal tosses the extra bit of rope into Cook’s hearth fire before they both abscond with a roll and head upstairs.

Donal moves to stand beside the large banquet table in the Great Gall.

“No,” Grace tells him. “He wants to see you upstairs.”

Her brother looks to the heavy wooden planks twelve feet above as though they are the heavens, as though he does not have the first idea how to ascend there. He makes no move to follow her.

“Come on.” She motions with one arm and moves to the stairs.

“Your mother…”

“She knows,” Grace says. “And is not so violent as yours.”

It is unfair of her. Unkind. Probably untrue. And she regrets the words as soon as she’s spoken them. The fact is, she has no idea what her mother will do when she sees Donal. But none of this is her brother’s fault and she’ll not let anyone—not even Maeve—harass him for doing their father’s bidding.

Donal follows her up the stairs into the privy chamber, looking all the while like Bran, like a dog who has been tied up and kicked too many times.

“Why are you bleeding?” Maeve asks. The color is high in her daughter’s cheeks, and the collar of her dress is stained red. She can see the trickle of dried blood on her daughter’s neck. Maeve whirls on the boy, fury in her voice. “What did you do?”

Donal stumbles backward. Eyes large, hands up in surrender. “I didn’t—”

“Mam,” Gráinne says, drawing her attention. “It was Aisling.”

Maeve glares at her husband, but he is watching Gráinne and Donal, his eyes sliding between them in some calculus she does not understand.

“I will kill her,” Maeve spits. And she’s already on her feet, already moving toward the door, when Gráinne steps in front of her.

“No, you won’t.” Gráinne sets one hand on her shoulder. “Aisling is his mother. He loves her.”

“She’s a geebag! That woman would shite on the table just to keep flies off the sugar!”

Gráinne’s hand grows firmer even as her voice gentles. “Enough, Mam. I amn’t hurt. Donal stopped her.”

Maeve surrenders as her daughter guides her back to the bench. She sits. Looks to her husband again, and he is up now, near the door, putting on his boots.

“The two of ye will come with me,” he says, offering no other explanation.

Donal doesn’t answer. He stands near the door, entirely still except for a gaze that roves over the privy chamber, no doubt taking note of every luxury he does not have. The whitewashed stone walls. Woven rush mats. Tapestries. Fine dishes littering the table. Has Eóin brought the boy here to see what he might claim one day?

“Where?” Gráinne asks.

“There’s something I want to show the both of ye.”

Eóin walks out the door then, without a word to Maeve, without a glance. Gráinne follows in similar fashion. It is only Donal who turns to Maeve, abashed, and says, “I am sorry. And I will never let it happen again.”

“You never should have let it happen in the first place.”

He turns those sad eyes away and then they are gone and Maeve is alone, her breakfast cold, her milk now tepid like pond water. She does not understand what has just happened. Nor does she understand who her daughter has become. So tall and beautiful and defiant. Almost a woman, certainly a force. Maeve fears they are strangers now, separated by some divide she cannot cross.

The ketch slides through smooth water.

Today Eóin has put Grace in the bow and Donal at the mizzen mast while he works the tiller and maneuvers the small boat deeper into the Atlantic, away from Clare Island. Donal looks unhappy, but then he’s never pleased to be on water. That isn’t the reason for the shadow in his eyes, however. Even though he faces forward, he is not focused on the horizon.

“Where are we going?” Grace calls over her shoulder.

Two gruff words are all Eóin gives in response. “You’ll see.”