Page 165 of The Pirate Queen

“As I cannot read your mind, you will have to be more precise,” Grace says.

He points to the empty dock alongside Rockfleet Castle, the place where she keeps her prized possession. “Niamh.”

“I couldn’t say—” She waves a hand toward the bay. “Perhaps you should have your fat, slow carracks go looking for her. They seem bored out there, squatting in shallow water.”

“You’ve hidden her.”

Grace shrugs.

Bingham continues, “I will find it. Sooner or later. And when I do, it will be confiscated and put to better use in Her Majesty’s navy. As a matter of fact, I will personally ensure that she be assigned to guard these waters.”

“Then, by all means, don’t let me stop you. Feel free to be on your way.”

“You misunderstand me, Grace. I am here for more than that rotten ship of yours. This castle, and the lands surrounding it, are now mine,” Bingham says.

Her hands tremble and she spits two desperate words at him. “You cannot.”

“It is already done. Who is left to stop me, Grace? Now let’s finish this business.”

He points at Tibbot and flicks his wrist. A dozen soldiers move forward, drawing their swords. “Arrest him.”

Grace tries to step in front of her son, but the young man bars her with an arm. Interesting. Her other whelp seemed happy enough to let her fight his battles.

Bingham ignores her. “Tibbot Bourke, you are under arrest for treason.”

“I have done nothing,” the young man argues. He takes a step backward, both arms outstretched to protect his mother as the guards move toward him.

“You have plotted with the northern clans to make war against Her Majesty. There is a man in my custody who has sworn to it. His testimony is more than enough to sustain these charges and bring you to trial.”

Tibbot’s sword is little good against twelve men and he wisely does not draw it, nor the dagger at his side. The boy is smart enough to weigh his odds, to hold his hands up—if not in surrender, at least in caution. He is not so rash as his mother.

“And I suppose this man offered such testimony willingly?” Grace says through gritted teeth. “What did you promise him? My lands?”

Bingham urges his steed down the rocky slope toward Grace. He bends low in the saddle. Grins. “Oh, he was quite resistant,” he whispers. “Half the skin was flayed from his back before he implicated your son.”

“You will never get away with this,” Grace says.

Bingham takes the butt of his riding crop and shoves it against her chest. He watches with delight as she stumbles backward a step.

“I have already gotten away with it. Your son will join your brother at Athlone Castle.” He grins at the stricken look on her face. “Oh, have you not heard of his arrest? I oversaw it myself, just this morning. Your brother is already in a gaoler’s wagon headed east. But don’t worry, I’ll make sure they rot in the same cell. Then I will see them hanged. And I will make you watch. I did promise you, Grace.”

She looks gaunt and frightened, every one of her years stretched into the lines around her eyes. She watches her son be bound, her eyes welling, her hands flexing at her side.

“ ’Tis okay, Mam,” Tibbot tells her, his voice low and steady. “He can’t kill me without a trial.”

Let the boy think that. Grace knows the truth. Bingham has already killed one of her sons, no trial necessary. If he didn’t relish her fear so much, he might order his guards to run the boy through with their swords right in front of her.

They pull Tibbot away before Grace can get her arms around him. Bingham will allow her no farewell today. They lead him toward the gaoler’s wagon and Bingham can see the shift in her eyes, the assessment as she scans the hills looking for reinforcement. But there is none to be had. He has seen to that. He has picked and winnowed and scattered her followers—she has perhaps twenty soldiers left, plus the four men she keeps closest.

“Where are they?” Bingham asks. “Those mutts who follow after you, licking at your dirty boots.”

“That is none of your concern.”

“You have made it my concern with your stubbornness and your treason and these rebellions you are so fond of igniting.” Richard Bingham has seen this woman angry and spiteful and vindictive. But he has never seen her scared. It delights him.

“Did you really think you could win?” he asks.

Her dress is soft and simple, her hair falling in waves to her waist. There is grief in her eyes but determination in the lines around her mouth as she says, “You make the mistake of thinking I have lost.”