Page 17 of The Pirate Queen

A boot lands in the small of her back, and before Grace can register the lightning strike of pain, she is on her knees, then on her face, spitting out a mouthful of greens. She can taste chickweed and dandelion. A bit of willowherb. Cold and wet seeps into the front of her dress as John puts a knee between her shoulder blades while his men tie her at the wrists.

John cuts the leather satchel from her shoulder and yanks it away. She sees him digging through it from the corner of her eye. Rough hands roam her body looking for more weapons; rough jesting accompanies the movements as they flip her over and continue the search.

It never stops, does it, no matter a woman’s age? All this pawing. For forty years she has been groped by men like this.

“How old is she?” one asks.

“Old enough to be your mother.”

“My mother doesn’t have tits like that.”

Laughter.

“Bet her cunt is dry as chalk. Cliffs of Dover between those legs.”

“Shut up,” John tells them. “This one is no granny. She’ll cut your throat before she asks your name. Don’t think otherwise.”

“She only had the one knife.”

John looks her over, head to foot. “Are you sure?”

“Yes. Unless you’d like us to strip her naked?” The guard sounds hopeful.

Grace glares at him.

“We don’t have time.” John pulls the letters of safe conduct from her satchel. He squats down and waves them over her face like a fan.

“Did you think my brother had any intention of honoring this?” he asks.

“I never thought your brother had any honor at all.”

John rips the letter in half. Then rips it again. And again. He drops the torn pieces and grinds them into the grass with the toe of his boot.

“Get her in the wagon,” he orders his men.

Grace is lifted, then heaved onto the rough wooden slats. The rope burns her wrists and she thinks her lower back is bruised from their boots. Not to mention her pride. There is a twinge deep inside one knee. Half her body will be sore by morning.

She has been beaten on more than one occasion, but never kidnapped. What would her father think of this? Richard? Other concerns gallop through her mind. Ultan and Gutty and the Murray twins, for starters. No doubt they have spread out like a flock of startled gulls. They will follow Bingham and his men back to their camp, then go for help. She is thinking of her son, who lies in the dirt near Bunowen Castle. He was only thirty-five years old. How has she survived this long and his life is over? Grace will cry again for him later. But mostly she is thinking that all men—not just the English—are stupid. They did not search her boots. Therefore they did not find the dagger she always keeps tucked inside.

“I did say that I would see you hanged. Said it the last time we met, didn’t I, Grace?”

Sir Richard Bingham. Englishman. Naval commander. Governor of Connaught. He has let her wait in this cell for three days, forcing her to watch the construction in the courtyard below. Timing is everything, and he wants her afraid.

Bingham can smell the freshly sawn pine of the gallows. Sap drips down the two main posts and the crossbeam in angry streaks as the timber’s lifeblood drains away. He will make a show of this. He instructed the carpenters to build a wide platform with a trapdoor. He is a civil man, at least. Let barbarians like Grace use a cart or stool to knock their enemies’ feet out from under them.

“Now look at what I’ve built for you.” His words dripping honey, like he’s just bitten from the comb. Sickly sweet and insincere. He feels no remorse.

She slides her gaze to the side, then down slightly. “You have built nothing, Bingham.”

Oh, he hates the sound of her voice. All that certainty, that confidence. What right does this woman have to wear the mantle of chieftain, to speak to him at all? She is nothing. And he will remind her of it.

“Are you blind as well as stupid?” He pinches her chin with two long, smooth fingers and turns her to the window. Forces her chin down. Then, with his free hand, he points at the gallows that rise above the uneven cobbled stones of Dublin Castle’s upper yard. The fortress is busy today. Carts and wagons and livestock. Merchants and dirty children. Women in their town dresses and servants with lowered eyes. Yet all who pass through the courtyard keep a wide berth from the grim structure.

She turns to look him in the eye. “We both know you’ve never built a thing in your life. Your hands are soft.”

He can feel her try to shift out of his grasp, so he pinches tighter. He knows she would like to swat his hand away or, better yet, scratch out his eyes, but her wrists are bound behind her back. He has long since learned to keep this banshee shackled. The irons are practical. But he also enjoys the sight of her helpless. Grace jerks her head out of his grip and hisses when his thumbnail catches the point of her chin. An angry welt rises to the surface.

Grace doesn’t bother to hide her disdain for him, the scorn in her eyes.