Page 94 of The Pirate Queen

He lifts his chin toward Merrick. “And that one?”

“What about him?”

“I don’t trust him,” Finn says. “He’s an O’Flaherty.”

Grace snorts. “So are you.”

“I became an O’Malley the day you arrived at Bunowen,” he says, then walks down the steps.

Lough Creggan is little more than a large pond, by Gutty’s standards. Nothing like the loughs on the mainland. But it has fresh water and enough brown trout to feed the hundred Spanish sailors that Gráinne has hidden in the center of Clare Island.

Mendoza has followed her instructions well. There are no campfires burning tonight. If they’ve cooked their fish, they did so before nightfall.

“No. Fuego. Noche,” she had ordered the commander when they brought his men to the lough two nights ago.

Now they lie sleeping as Gutty and Gráinne and a dozen men walk into their makeshift camp. A loud whistle goes up by the watchman, and the Spaniards begin to rustle. Mendoza is on his feet first, cutlass in hand, but Gráinne approaches him, arms up, palms out.

“Amiga,” she says, and he lowers his blade.

“How are you going to tell them that we need to leave?” Gutty asks.

“I can only show them,” she says.

He watches as Gráinne sets one hand on Mendoza’s forearm, then uses the other to motion to his men. Then she taps her chest and points to the path they’ve just come down.

Mendoza nods. “Sí.”

She gives one final order by setting a finger to her lips. Quiet.

With so few supplies, it does not take the Spaniards long to break camp. If nothing else, these foreign sailors are good at following orders: be quiet and follow the woman. And so they lead their fugitives through the hills and around the bogs of Clare Island. The fields are lumpy and crisscrossed by streams and rills. They jump over these narrow waterways, splashing in the dark, whispering curses. It takes over an hour to make the trek to the dock where Niamh waits. They do not go through the village, instead winding around the tower house and across the beach. The tide is in, and any tracks they leave behind will be swept away.

When they reach the dock, the Spanish sailors seem to balk at Niamh’s lithe dark form.

They shake their heads.

Mutter, “No, no.”

Mendoza again takes control. A few quiet firm commands, and they step onto the dock and move toward the hold.

“What is wrong with them?” Gutty asks.

“Qui naufragium passus est, etiam in tranquillo mare timet,” she says.

“What the bloody hell does that mean?”

“He who has suffered shipwreck fears even a calm sea.”

“You’ve been shipwrecked,” he says, “and you fear nothing.”

“I cannot begin to tell you the number of things I fear,” Gráinne says, then boards Niamh.

If this were Caoimhe, Gutty would be first mate. But Gráinne travels only on Niamh, so Ultan assumes his place at the helm. “Where to, Gráinne?” he asks.

“Hook. My son-in-law needs reinforcements.”

“But Bingham—”

“Would be bold indeed to challenge us on The MacWilliam’s doorstep.”