Page 85 of The Pirate Queen

Maeve watches her daughter as they walk along the beach. Gráinne seems hollowed out somehow, slightly less herself.

“They didn’t cry, Mam. When I told them about their da. Not one of those children shed a single tear,” she says. “Not even Merrick. And he the most like his father.”

“It doesn’t mean anything.”

“Please don’t lie to me. At best, it means they did not love him. At worst, they are relieved he’s dead.”

“And what if they are?” Maeve asks. “The fault certainly does not lie with you.”

“Then who?”

Maeve is startled at the emotion in her own voice. “Me. I knew that O’Flaherty was the wrong match. Knew it in my soul. And I did not fight hard enough to change your father’s mind.”

“Have you ever met anyone that could?” Gráinne asks.

“If ever there was, it would be me. And I failed you. I am sorry.”

They walk barefoot in the gentle surf. Rocks and sand scratching the arches of their feet, but they pay it little mind. A great lumbering wolfhound trots beside them, stopping every so often to shove his snout into piles of dried kelp.

“Is that one of Bran’s?” Gráinne asks.

“A grandson, I think. But we’ve kept the name. It fits. They’re all Bran as far as we’re concerned.”

Her daughter’s eyes soften at the memory of Donal’s beloved childhood dog.

“No wonder the children love it here,” she says. “Their father never let them have a pet.”

Maeve takes Gráinne’s hand. “If his children do not weep for him, then that is his own fault.”

They walk on for some time, quiet, before Maeve points to The Mary Fortune. Gutty and the Murray twins are busy sanding off the painted lettering of her name.

“What will you call her?” Maeve asks.

A pretty smile flashes across Gráinne’s face. “I thought it would be nice to give her your mother’s name.”

“Caoimhe?”

“I think it’s the name she already has.”

“Well, she certainly is short,” Maeve says. “And fat.”

“I would have described her as a mother hen.”

They wander on, laughing. After a while Maeve clears her throat. “It will be hours yet before your father is done meeting with the clan.”

“I wish they would not exhaust him.”

“Don’t begrudge him these final duties. ’Tis what he was born to do. And in the meantime, we must discuss Young Eóin.”

“What of him?”

“ ’Tis time he goes to fosterage.”

“I know.”

“Then why haven’t you sent him?”

“I didn’t want him to become more of an O’Flaherty than he already is.”