Page 121 of The Pirate Queen

“Get comfortable,” Gráinne tells him. “They’ll not move on from this point until it’s settled.”

As usual, his sister is right. It takes near an hour for the Bourkes to make their case. They threaten to walk out. They threaten greater rebellion. Shout. Curse. And all the while Donal watches FitzWilliam. The Lord Deputy is impatient. Frustrated. He dislikes the spectacle, and the Bourkes in particular. Donal sees in the man’s large dark eyes that he always intended to give this concession. But the Bourkes must believe they fought for it.

“We’ll not be governed by English laws! We demand the Brehon system! We have chosen our own MacWilliam. And he must be recognized by Queen Elizabeth, or there will be no truce.”

FitzWilliam rises from his bench. He makes a show of pacing back and forth across the chancel, as if deliberating the merits of their demand. He gnaws at the inside of his cheek. Nods. Finally, he comes to a stop before the assembled group.

“Her Majesty is prepared to accommodate this request in exchange for the promised cessation of hostilities.” His voice rings throughout the church, and Donal thinks he has practiced these words, that he relishes the sound of them in this space. “Now. What is your other demand?”

Gráinne times it perfectly.

She had slipped her book from the satchel while FitzWilliam paced. Now she stands and takes three steps toward him. Then throws the book to the stone slab at his feet.

“Our second demand,” Grace says, voice loud and authoritative, “and the most important”—here she glares over her shoulder at the assembled Bourkes—“is that Sir Richard Bingham be removed as Governor of Connaught.”

Grace can see FitzWilliam struggle to form a response. She is technically neither chieftain nor lady. But he recognizes her, that much is certain. Those dark eyes flicker across her person, tightening at the decorative scabbard that hangs at her waist, and the dagger therein.

“Mistress O’Malley,” he says finally. Grace can feel the men around her bristle at the inadequate moniker. “It is good to see you again.”

“There is no need for lies between us, Lord Deputy. You are not pleased to see me. Nor I, you. But here we are, because your man Bingham has brought violence to the province he was meant to govern. It has been five years of bloodshed and murder and treachery. That book”—she points to the volume at his feet—“is a record of his crimes. It begins with the murder of my son, Eóin O’Flaherty, at his command.”

The new O’Flaherty comes to stand beside her. “And it ends with the murder of mine,” he says. “Hanged at Athlone Castle not one month ago.”

Grace can see FitzWilliam flinch at that, so she presses her advantage. “There are countless names and dates on those pages, Lord Deputy. Your governor has committed murder, he has ordered men tortured, overseen the slaughter of entire villages, women raped and children killed. He has hanged men and burned towns. If that is what your queen calls justice, we want no part of it.”

“Bingham is a hard man. There is no question,” FitzWilliam says. “But I find it hard to believe these accusations.”

“Then believe this,” Grace tells him as she pulls the commission from her satchel. She gives it to the Lord Deputy. “Written by Bingham’s own hand.”

Once he has read it with those large startled eyes, she says, “You will note there is but a single signature at the bottom. Such a mandate would require your signature as well as Bingham’s, would it not? At Bingham’s instruction, the sheriff of Mayo slaughtered the entire town of Mulranny, his men raping and gutting as they went. That crime started this rebellion, Lord Deputy, and unless your man is removed as governor, we have no intention of ceasing our efforts to rid our lands of his presence.”

“I knew nothing of this,” FitzWilliam tells her.

She extends her hand and he places the commission back in her palm. “Our terms are simple. Acknowledge the Bourke chieftain, and remove Bingham from his position. Those are the conditions by which we accept a truce.”

Grace ought to have seen it before, his lack of distress at their second term. But she sees it now. Oh, she thinks, he wants Bingham gone as well. We could have asked for more.

FitzWilliam gives his eagerness away with a quick swipe of his tongue across his lower lip. “These terms are amenable,” he says. “As long as each chieftain in this room is willing to bow the knee to Her Majesty and swear that they will forthwith deliver, to myself, any members of the Spanish fleet that they have kept quartered among them.”

Grace turns to the men behind her and inquires with a look. One by one they nod.

“Those terms are agreeable,” she says.

“Then let us be done with this business,” FitzWilliam tells them. “I have drawn terms of truce. The chieftains will kneel before myself as Her Majesty’s agent, and then they will sign.”

Grace looks at her brother and they speak, as they always have, without words.

This means nothing, she tells him.

I know, he says. It’s all for show.

Donal O’Malley, chieftain of clan O’Malley, rises first. He bends the knee to the Lord Deputy of Ireland and puts his name to the document. One by one, the Bourke chieftains of Corraun, Burrishoole, and Tirawley get in line. They are followed by the Clandonnells and Clangibbons.

The O’Flaherty goes last, and when he passes Grace he says, “I underestimated you. That was a mistake.”

“We are allies in this, Murrough,” she says. “But do not think that I have forgotten what you took from me by aligning yourself with the English queen. Our reckoning is yet to come.”

She watches them kneel and sign their agreement to abide by the terms of this truce. But because Grace is not technically a chieftain—not according to the laws of God or man—she is required to do neither.