Page 120 of The Pirate Queen

Always, always her path leads back to this hostile city. This time, Grace and the other chieftains have been summoned to a meeting of truce by Lord Deputy FitzWilliam.

“It would not be the first time an Englishman laid a trap for you, Taoiseach. What better way to end a rebellion than kill a dozen chieftains at once?”

Ah, Ultan with his cheery outlook.

“I grant such methods would be temporarily effective,” she says. “But they’d only further inflame tempers across the country. FitzWilliam comes in the name of the English queen. He’ll not threaten her rule over this island with treachery and slaughter. Certainly not while meeting in a church. It would only pull Munster and Ulster into this conflict as well. That is too great a risk.”

Ultan offers a noncommittal grunt in response.

As usual, her guard of four keeps close. Ultan is at her elbow today, with Gutty and the Murray twins spread through the crowd around them, watchful eyes searching for danger. They leave the harbor and pass beneath the Spanish Arch, then northeast along the quay. It is a rare sunny day. Almost too bright. Grace finds herself squinting into the sun, then setting a finger to the corner of her eyes, measuring the lines that now stretch to her temple. What a strange thing, time. It gives years and takes beauty. When she catches a glimpse of herself in a shopwindow, a fierce woman stares back at her. Hair streaked with silver, mouth full but firm, cheekbones sharp. Good. She’ll need every ounce of severity for what’s to come.

Quay Street is narrow and cobbled, lined with shops and homes and merchant stalls. They wander on to the intersection of Shop and Abbeygate and pass Lynch’s Castle on their right. She gives the stately manor a glare. It was the Lynch family who bought the Aran Islands from the English queen. As if they had any right to buy or sell them. Those lands belong to Irish clans. Always have.

Before long, the triple naves and great central tower of St. Nicholas Collegiate Church come into view. They slow their approach. Grace steps into a shop doorway, with Ultan not far behind, as the others search the area for trouble. She studies the great wooden doorways of the church. Each stands half open, allowing the midday sunlight to wash across the limestone floor. A man strides through. She knows him. One of the Erris Bourkes. Grace scoots farther into the shadowed doorway and listens for shouts or screams from within the church. Nothing. She relaxes.

“If they struck, wouldn’t be until you were all inside,” Ultan growls.

“Oh for feck’s sake,” she says. “They might kill us all one day. But it won’t be here.”

He shrugs.

Grace gives her men five minutes to surveil the area. Once Gutty and the Murray twins come loping toward her again, she straightens her back and tucks her leather satchel securely under her arm. “Let’s get this over with,” she says.

As she approaches the doors, a memory finds her. It’s just a tickle at the back of her skull. Grace and Donal, forty-six years ago in this exact spot. Keep an eye on your sister, their father had ordered Donal before he let them wander the city with Ultan on hand to guard. It was the last day of her youth, of real freedom. And they’d found themselves on this very doorstep.

She looks to the right side of the tooled limestone doorway, its arch rising above her into a point. There, at eye level, the vague lines of an old carving. A dragon head etched in rock. Grace spreads her fingers and sets her palm against the carving, the same as she did all those years ago.

Donal can practically feel his sister enter the room. A hush falls when she steps through the arched doorway, as if all the other chieftains were waiting for her arrival. Her men drift away and find seats at the back. They spread out in pews, but do not relax. They could reach her in seconds if something went wrong. So no wonder she has such confidence as she moves down the center aisle.

Gráinne wears a dress today, and a pretty one too. Green silk trimmed with lace. Interesting. Donal wonders what kind of image she intends to present to the Lord Deputy.

“Did you bring the book?” Donal asks when she settles into the pew beside him.

“Tá. And the letter.”

“The chieftains of Sligo have brought their book as well. Bingham has much to account for.”

There is a banging and shuffling in the vestry. Then Sir William FitzWilliam, Lord Deputy of Ireland, steps into the chancel, dressed in all his finery. Red velvet and crisp white silk. A nice cap and a trimmed goatee. Two armed guards follow him, hands ready at their hilts, but otherwise at ease. This small retinue cuts the static in the air. Donal can feel the shift, like a sigh.

He leans close to Gráinne’s ear. “And what of your Spaniards?” he whispers.

Her voice is soft and measured—like a heartbeat—when she answers. “Captain Mendoza and his men have been delivered to Lisbon. As promised. We returned a week ago with a hold full of that tawny port you like so much.”

He chuckles. “Only you could turn a mission of mercy into one of profit.”

“I’ve never seen a reason to choose between the two,” she says.

The room settles as the other chieftains find their seats. Donal listens to the creak of leather and the rustle of wool. Throats clearing. With muttered prayers and whispered curses, the men around him prepare themselves. His sister is the picture of calm, however, hands folded in her lap, face set to a pleasant expression of curiosity.

“Thank you for coming,” FitzWilliam tells them. “I will not waste your time with dithering. Her Majesty wishes an end to these conflicts and I am prepared to negotiate on her behalf. As I indicated in my letters to each of you, Her Majesty has but two conditions to implement this truce. And it is my understanding that you have two as well?”

“Are you prepared to recognize The MacWilliam?” This from one of the Erris Bourkes, on his feet already, shaking a fist.

“Oh for feck’s sake,” Donal mutters. “That’s what they lead with?”

Grace says, “They’ll have to work it through before they agree to anything. Elizabeth has been meddling with the succession for years. Choosing chieftains of her own. Men who will answer to her.”

“We’ll not agree to anything unless we know our choice in MacWilliam is secure!” Another Bourke.