Page 163 of The Pirate Queen

It has taken almost three years, but Bingham’s conquest of Mayo is near complete. Most chieftains have been lured by the promise of peace, by the English queen’s tactic of surrender and regrant. The cost of that peace, however, is one Grace is not willing to pay. She will not swear her fealty to Elizabeth, nor surrender her territory. The Queen’s promise is that her lands will be returned to her on the condition that Grace rule by English law and accept oversight from the Queen’s sheriffs. But Grace has seen what English sheriffs do. And this new world Elizabeth proposes is unacceptable to her. No more elected chieftains. No more power through strength. Only bloodlines matter. Titles given by the throne, not earned by might. All of it forcing Irish chieftains into immediate debt to the English queen. In all of Connaught, only Grace, Tibbot, and Edmund Bourke have resisted. And only because Clew Bay allows them a ready avenue of escape. Until now.

Once Caoimhe and the Róisín Dubh are reduced to smoke and flame, most of the larger English ships adjust their sails and move throughout the bay. The largest head for Westport, the smaller toward Achill. They are spreading a net that only a clever fish could wriggle through.

Grace reaches out and grabs Gutty’s forearm. She holds on to him so tightly her knuckles turn white, her nails dig into his skin. He hisses in pain, but she does not release him.

“You must ride for Burrishoole,” she says.

“Hook?” he asks.

Grace nods, but her eyes never leave the burning ships. “Bingham will come for Margaret. Hook must get her to safety.”

Donal O’Malley is waiting in the Great Hall at Westport Castle when Sir Richard Bingham walks in. The Governor of Connaught sent word in advance that he required this meeting. It was enough time for Donal to prepare, to move cargo, livestock, and grandchildren away from the tower house. Should this meeting be a ruse, Bingham’s men will find little of value to raid.

There are eight guards with the governor, each heavily armed, but currently at ease. They file into the Great Hall behind him and spread out like a fan. Bingham, for his part, looks like he’s dressed for a day of foxhunting. Breeches and jerkin, boots and gloves. His cloak is a thick green velvet, his cap fitted with a gray egret feather. He carries no weapon. He utters no threat, even as he takes a long perusal of the hall.

Nora slides her hand beneath the table and squeezes Donal’s knee in question.

What does he want? she asks with her eyes.

Donal’s fingers twine with hers, he answers with a light shrug.

“Bingham,” Donal says, but doesn’t rise to greet this unwelcome guest.

“They call you The O’Malley,” Bingham says, in Irish, as he paces before the great stone fireplace. He has learned their language out of necessity, though it’s clear he has no affinity for the rolling, lilted words. Bingham rubs at a streak of soot on the old gray stones, then grimaces at the sight. “But that isn’t really accurate, is it? You are chieftain in name only. Your bloody sister is the one who leads your clan.”

He can feel the tremble of Nora’s hand, the way her pinky finger taps his in fear.

Donal doesn’t answer, so Bingham continues.

“I have always wondered how she usurped you, the firstborn son. The rightful heir. The very definition of primogeniture.” Bingham pauses. Sneers. “That word means—”

“I speak Latin. I know what it means.”

“Well. You are a poor example of the word. I am disappointed. In no small part because—as The O’Malley—you have not accepted Her Majesty’s offer of submission and regrant.” Bingham folds his hands casually behind his back. “That leaves only you and two others as the holdouts in Connaught. Your nephew, Tibbot Bourke. And his half brother, Edmund.”

“Is that why you’re here?”

“Now is as good a time as any for you to bend the knee.”

“That isn’t going to happen,” Donal says.

“And why not?” Bingham leans forward, his gaze back on that streak of soot. He takes a thumbnail and scratches it carefully to no avail, so he turns to the soldier nearest him and—without asking—draws the dagger from a scabbard at the man’s thigh. Bingham picks at the soot with the point of the blade. “Has little sister forbidden you to surrender? The same as she’s done with her sons?”

“O’Malleys do not recognize your English queen. Nor do Bourkes.”

Bingham nods slowly, pondering this objection. “I think, perhaps, I have not given you reason enough to do so.”

“There are no reasons you could give.”

Bingham clucks his tongue, like some teacher scolding a delinquent student. “I wonder if threats would do instead?”

It is an effort not to glance at Nora, to have her leave the room and bar herself in the privy chamber. Or better yet, find a horse and flee. He had taken such care to get their daughters and grandchildren away. He should have done the same with his wife.

“What threats?” Donal asks.

“Arrest. Surrender or arrest, really. I am giving you a choice. Never say I’m not a generous man.”

“You would arrest me in my own home?” Donal laughs. “For what?”