Page 110 of The Pirate Queen

Now they sail for Caher Island. Grace does not wear a dress. She no longer wears dresses on deck. Not since her introduction to the sea dogs of Portugal. On this ship, she is no longer the Bean an Tí. She is the captain. Ladies wear dresses, but pirates wear trews. Hers are sewn to the shape of her body and made of softest lambswool. She wears a short leine tucked into them, and a leather jerkin over the top. All of it belted. Grace carries a dagger there in a sheath, and another always tucked into her boot.

Her hair is braided and her face set like flint as she guides Niamh into the small cove on the northeast shore of Caher Island that afternoon. Three Galway hookers, bearing the distinctive red sails of the MacMahon clan, have been dragged to shore. Each of the fishing vessels can carry up to ten people with no cargo, so Grace feels certain she and her crew easily outnumber the MacMahons.

“Burn them all,” she tells her men.

Finn and Murray trudge through the low surf on either side of her.

“That will strand them,” Murray says.

“Only the ones that I let live.”

The boats lie empty on the beach, tilted to the side like drunken men. It is only a matter of dousing them in oil, then setting them alight. Within moments, black smoke begins to curl toward the sky.

Grace brought sixty men. Two to one, if the MacMahons have loaded their hookers full. She pulls the dagger from her belt and motions them all to follow. Caher is but a mile and a half long, and the small church is located near the center. There is a well-worn path through the seagrass, and their boots are silent in the soft sandy dirt.

The church has stone walls and a thatched roof. It is barely large enough to hold all these men who have come on pilgrimage looking for the blessing of St. Patrick. But the thirty of them have crowded into the small confines, and she can hear the melodic intonation of the priest as he offers the mass in Latin.

Grace lifts her arm and swings it in a circular motion. Her men spread out, surrounding the small church. Still the mass continues, the worshipers unaware of her presence.

She takes a deep breath, then calls, “MacMahon!”

Silence first.

Then a low rumbling of whispers.

Slowly, the wooden church door creaks open and the old priest fills the space.

“Send out MacMahon,” she orders.

“Who are you?”

“Gráinne Ní Mháille.”

The whispers increase in volume now, and she is pleased to hear the note of fear in them.

“This is a sacred place,” the priest scolds.

“All the better for a burnt offering,” she tells him. “Now send out MacMahon or we will light that thatched roof and every one of ye are dead.”

It is dark in the small church, and she can make out little but shadows and a bright candle flickering behind red glass. They are about to take the sacrament, then. Lucky for them, she cannot make good on her threat without violating the most sacred tenet of their faith. A moment later the priest is shoved aside and another man takes his place. He is older than Grace, but not so old as her father was when he died. Ruddy-faced and lean. His lips are thin and his ears comically large.

“What do you want?” he demands.

“Revenge,” she tells him.

His back stiffens and he takes a step forward, but so does Grace. She raises her dagger level with his throat, two feet away.

“I will make this easy for you,” she says. “Give me the men you sent to kill de Lacy.”

“He’s dead?”

“Don’t pretend you didn’t know.”

MacMahon scowls. “What was he to you?”

“A friend. Now send out his killers. All three of them. Or I will set fire to this church. And we will sing hymns as you die.”

“Friend? Do you often take your friends to bed?” MacMahon’s voice is near a shout. “We know how you—”