Page 186 of The Pirate Queen

Grace pushes her chair back from the desk. She brushes a hand across her skirt, smoothing the wrinkles in her lap. “And yet a woman is on the throne.”

Grace had not thought she would be escorted through the front entrance, into the central courtyard, across the house, and into the gardens. She assumed that William Cecil would receive her in his office, as had Black Tom. Perhaps sequester her in one of the corner turrets of his mansion on the Strand. She expected their meeting would be encumbered by pomp and procedure, that she would be required to curtsy. Instead, she finds herself standing at the back of the three-story brick house before a half-dressed man tending a beehive. Gone are Lord Burghley’s official crimson robes and pretentious air. He looks almost reverent as he holds a smoking branch in one hand and a dripping honeycomb in the other. Until this moment, Grace thought she hated this city.

Three long weeks she waited for this invitation. Waited and fretted and cursed the court machinations that keep her helpless. Grace is used to wild green places and endless seas. She is used to giving the orders and having them obeyed without question. She cannot stomach sitting behind plush walls. Escaping her confines at Blackfriars does her little good either. This city is built too close, stacked on top of itself. It requires a carriage, many miles, and half the day before she can find anything resembling an open field, much less a forest. Most days she makes do with a walk along the Strand and Ultan for company. But even then, she is bombarded by relentless sights and sounds and smells. The thoroughfare that connects the City of London to Westminster is unevenly cobbled and reeks of sewage, thanks to the open channel that carries refuse down the middle of the street. Known as the “kennel,” this trough collects every manner of waste from the homes, taverns, shops, and brewhouses that run along its course, emptying at various points directly into the Thames.

“No wonder the river is brown,” she had muttered not thirty minutes ago as she and Ultan made their way to Cecil House.

And the crowds! Fishwives calling out the day’s catch. Law students from the Inns of Court strutting in their black robes. Bakers and butchers. Noblemen on horses and fine ladies in carriages. Servants everywhere, bustling about in their neat white caps. Watermen at the top of every set of river stairs, barking out their prices for passage across the river. Hucksters and pickpockets, beggars and porters. Even drovers, with their little herds of sheep and pigs, all vying for space along the road.

No wonder the ladies of this city walk about with perfumed handkerchiefs. It is a riot of noise and smell.

One block boasts a sprawling mansion with manicured gardens leading down to the river, and on the next, a row of shoddily built wooden-framed homes and shops and taverns lean into one another.

It took thirty minutes for her to traverse the crowds on Fleet Street, then along the Strand, and now to Cecil House, where Lord Burghley has his back to her.

The young woman who escorted them to the garden clears her throat, then stuns Grace by speaking in Irish. “Mi’ Lord? A Mistress O’Malley to see you.”

“Smoke has this effect on most living creatures,” Cecil says in a rich baritone as he turns around and lifts the piece of honeycomb. Thick amber liquid runs down his thumb and seven bees rest atop it, fast asleep. “Though I prefer mine when it comes from a pipe.”

He also speaks in clear, fluent Irish.

Cecil looks at the young girl. Nods. “Thank you, Bess.”

She curtsies and is off in a rush. When Grace turns back to William Cecil, she understands how he has kept his position. His gaze alone is heavy, traversing her from head to foot. There is nothing prurient in his inspection. It is only curious. And she thinks he is committing every detail of her demeanor and attire to memory.

“So you are the famous pirate queen of Ireland?”

A trap she neatly sidesteps. “I am Gráinne Ní Mháille. Thank you for taking this appointment.”

“And who have you brought with you? A bodyguard?” He studies Ultan for a beat, then flicks his gaze back to Grace.

“A friend. I find that your country is less tolerant than mine of women conducting business on their own.”

He shrugs. “London can be dangerous.”

“So I hear.”

William Cecil lifts the latch on a small basket at his feet, shoos the sleepy bees from his comb, then places it inside the wicker box. “For my lunch,” he explains. “I’ve a sweet tooth and prefer to know the source of my food. I’m sure you can understand why.”

“I, too, believe in taking precautions,” she says.

Cecil bends to a bucket at the base of his hive and washes his hands. Then he extinguishes the smoking torch in its water. “Come. Walk with me.”

He extends his arm to a wide gravel path that leads them beneath an arbor and into a small walled garden. Ultan lingers behind, out of earshot.

“My kitchen garden,” Cecil explains. “A smaller version of the one at my country house in Stamford. Both grow enough herbs and vegetables to serve the daily needs of my household. I designed them myself, and find there are few things that I am more proud of. Excepting my service to the Queen. Which is, of course, the reason for your visit?”

Grace opens her mouth to respond, but he waves her words away.

“No need to rehash,” he says. “Black Tom told me all about it. You’ve run into some trouble with Bingham, I take it?”

“I have.”

“And you fear another uprising in the north?”

“I do.”

“And you would like me to take your petition to the Queen?”