Page 127 of The Pirate Queen

“Donal!” Eóin O’Malley shouts, and two heads turn in his direction.

He can feel the open glare from the O’Flaherty boy and knows he will have to stake his claim to their shared name with more than words. It will likely come to blows by the end. But for now he only looks at his father with a questioning glance.

“Play us some music,” Eóin demands, then turns to The MacWilliam. “It’s pipes he plays, and damn well.”

If Eóin had kissed his forehead in front of everyone, Donal could not be more surprised.

Pipes! Pipes!

Now the call rings out across the room.

He has never played publicly before, and rarely for anyone other than Gráinne or his dog. He has no formal training, only a love of the music. But he dare not refuse his father. Better to be humiliated by his own lack of skill. Particularly now. Eóin has been in his cups all night. Donal can see the glassy sheen to his eyes, the color in his cheeks. The good humor that runs through every crack and line on his father’s face. He might not be drunk, but he certainly isn’t sober. And Donal has long since learned that the drink strips away his father’s roughness. Which means that look of pride is real, not pretense.

Donal nods. “One song,” he says. “Any more than that and you’ll be begging for mercy.”

Everyone laughs and he slips away to the room he’ll be sharing with Bourke and O’Flaherty. The pipes are in his trunk and he tries in vain to tune them away from his audience. Everyone is seated and expectant when he returns to the Great Hall, and he laughs first at himself and then in despair before setting the reed to his lips. The sound that erupts is joyful though artless at first, but everyone is merry and their cheers drown out the worst of his notes. Their clapping encourages him to keep going, and after a few moments his nerves settle and the notes smooth. It is a pretty tune by the end.

They are not content with the one song and demand another. He is winded as the third draws to a close. But his father is pleased and Gráinne is the happiest he’s seen her all night, so he ducks his head and deflates the bladders, then tucks the instrument beneath the bench. Donal slips to the back of the room when the harper is called forward, grateful to no longer be the center of attention.

Donal is halfway through a cup of mead, gulping down the sweet cool liquid, when he looks up to find Maeve standing before him.

“You played well,” she says.

If the words pain her, she doesn’t let on. They seem genuine enough.

“Thank you.”

Maeve clasps her hands in front of her and looks to them. Frowns.

“Is something wrong?” he asks.

“No,” she says. “Or rather, yes, in fact. I have been wrong and I am sorry.”

“For what?”

“For hating you.”

Donal says nothing, only watches her, waiting to see if she will meet his gaze. After a moment she does, offering him a weak smile.

She winces. “I had no good reason for it. Only…”

“My mother.”

“Tá. I won’t stop hating her, however, so you’ll have to be content with what little remorse I have.”

He thinks she is done now and expects her to leave. Donal drains the rest of his cup, afraid to turn his back lest she think him rude. He already feels the heady effects of the mead.

But then Maeve speaks again. “She will have to marry one of them. Gráinne, I mean. Tall Walter or Donal of the Battles.”

Gráinne stands near the fire, flanked on either side by a chieftain’s son, and her look of chagrin has returned.

“Why only those two?” he asks.

“I had thought it was already settled between Eóin and The MacWilliam.” Maeve shrugs. “But it seems The O’Flaherty has decided to stake a claim. So that puts two in the running.”

“Well, good luck,” he says. “She hates them both already.”

“It isn’t them she hates.” The expression on his face must betray his doubt, because Maeve snorts. “Do not think that you know my daughter better than I do. She might not care for those boys. But the thing she hates is being here in the first place. She would rather go to Spain.”