Page 149 of The Pirate Queen

Tonight is All Hallows’ Eve—a day that Grace has been looking forward to, if for no other reason than she is allowed off castle grounds.

“Most days your job as Bean an Tí will be simple,” Finola tells her as they mount their horses. “You will manage your husband’s household. The preparing of food and the upkeep of whatever castles he might have. You will entertain his friends and allies. It is your job to be hospitable. Keep a cheerful home and a warm bed. But there are other days”—here Finola gives her a stern look—“like today, that will require something else of you entirely.”

Grace situates herself in the saddle, then takes the torch that the steward hands her. Brian gives her a look as though he expects her to light her hair on fire immediately. Finola receives a torch as well, and their small party rides through the courtyard and out the gate. It is Grace, Finola, and four guards with loaded saddlebags. She maneuvers her horse, Enbarr, so that she rides parallel to Finola.

“And what must I be today?” Grace asks.

“Likable,” Finola snorts. “Charming, even, if you can manage it. Your job on nights like this is to earn the loyalty of your husband’s people.”

I have no husband, Grace thinks, nor do I want one.

It is a thought she keeps to herself.

The village is small. Only ten cottages sprinkled through a small wood of Scots pine. It is milking time and most of the women sit on stools with a bucket at their feet while children run barefoot in the road and men work to prepare the bonfire. A great stack of dry wood and bramble has been erected in the middle of the village, and the men stand about, hands on hips, commenting on their handiwork.

It is a small, happy place and Grace finds herself envious of these women and their simple lives.

“The Bean an Tí,” one of their guards announces loudly, and everyone turns to look at them.

Grace hands her torch to a guard so she can dismount. And then she is presented.

“Gráinne Ní Mháille,” Finola tells them. “My foster daughter. We have brought a flame from our hearth on this summer’s end to offer light and warmth to your homes as we enter the darker part of the year.”

Finola motions Grace forward and together they tip their torches into the kindling. Once they’re certain the fire has taken hold, they hand their torches off for safekeeping for the ride home.

Soon the village women move forward, wiping hands on their aprons, then reaching out to embrace Grace. She is welcomed. Petted. Fawned over.

“Please,” she says. “There’s no need.”

She looks to Finola for help, but finds none, for she, too, has been swept into the arms of delighted villagers. There is a great hubbub now, with children running up to get a closer look and men coming forward to greet her properly. She is offered fresh milk and oatcakes, both of which she receives graciously and consumes before them, as she’s been instructed. The sheep’s milk is frothy and warm and rich. Better than goat’s milk. Not as sweet as cow’s. The oatcake is plain but satisfying and clearly from yesterday’s baking, but it matters that they see her eat it.

And now, her turn.

She pulls a heavy sack from a saddlebag and hands out fistfuls of warm roasted chestnuts drizzled in honey to the children.

See and be seen, that is their mission today. Share the fire from their hearth. Honor tradition.

“ ’Tis good for you to come,” one of the women tells her. “You might be our Bean an Tí one day.”

“I—”

“Walter, yes? That’s who you’re meant to marry?” The woman pinches her cheeks and Grace blushes. “You’ll be a pretty bride, no doubt.”

When she looks away, she finds Finola staring at her, eyes pinched tight. So Grace laughs and gives the woman a noncommittal response. How exactly is she supposed to charm anyone? Are there lessons for such a thing?

“I am honored to be here,” Grace says.

They stand beside a low stone fence; a flock of sheep graze farther up the hill. The woman assesses her blatantly, running her gaze up and down Grace’s figure. “You’ll be a good breeder, I think.”

Grace is thankful for the dying light, that her blush is hidden by the gloam.

“Finola only has the one child,” she whispers. “But I think you’ll do better.”

Grace doesn’t know where to look. After a startled laugh and a frantic search, she settles on her clasped hands.

This seems to delight the village woman even more. “Ah! I’ve embarrassed you, I see.” Another pinch to the cheek. “Isn’t much to it. You’ll be fine.”

Though none of the other women are quite so bold, they all mention Walter. They tease her and, once it’s grown fully dark, give her cups of mead and meaningful looks. Some time later, Finola bids the village farewell and a torch from each household is thrust into the bonfire and taken to their own hearths. A warm glow fills each doorway.