Page 187 of The Pirate Queen

“No. I would like to deliver it myself.”

“Why? She’ll likely act on my advice either way, and I can save you the trouble.”

“Would you leave it to the advice of a stranger if it were your son about to be hanged? Your brother? Bingham has already killed one of my sons.”

“My son would not have been so foolish to get himself caught.”

“Foolish or not, one hundred armed men to one in an ambush are poor odds. Tibbot accepted the loss, and lives. For now.”

“He has not your prowess in battle?” Cecil raises one silver brow. “I have heard tales. Sir Henry Sidney, in particular, was quite taken with you when he last visited Ireland. I could not get him to shut up about that show you made of your fleet in Galway Harbor.”

“He did not seem taken at the time, My Lord.”

“Ah. Then you do not know him. But I see that your circumstances have changed. Instead of offering your rather impressive services to my countryman, you are the one in need of favors.”

“I do not consider my petition a favor. Bingham commits injustice in Her Majesty’s name, and the consequences of ignoring his actions or, worse, endorsing them will incite rebellion. I believe I can convince the Queen of such, if she will grant me an audience.”

Cecil bends to pluck dead blooms from a flowering bush. “This city is filled with many thousands of supplicants, all of whom believe their needs are as urgent as yours. And Her Majesty’s time is limited. I will not recommend this meeting without further information about your person, your history, and your cause.”

“I am happy to answer any questions you might have.”

“I am glad to hear it,” Cecil tells her, and it isn’t until he smiles that she realizes he has laid a clever trap at her feet. “You will, of course, forgive me for wanting those answers in writing.”

The letter arrives by messenger a week later. Grace is seated in the parlor at Blackfriars with Thomas Butler, drinking port and desperately trying to find any thread of conversation that she can tolerate, when the steward enters, a silver tray gripped between his gloved hands.

“For you, Mistress O’Malley,” he says, bending at the waist.

Grace lifts the sealed parchment from the tray and notes the royal seal, stamped with wax. She does not realize that she’s jumped to her feet until she hears Tom’s voice.

“What—?”

“If you will excuse me,” she says, then turns on her heel and leaves the room without explanation. Tom calls after her, but she ignores him.

As she closes the parlor door, she hears his low voice interrogating the steward. Ultan stands in the hallway waiting for her, as usual, and looking for all the world as though he’d prefer to hang himself from boredom.

“Hurry,” she tells him.

“Where?”

“To Niamh. I don’t want Tom’s spies reading this.” She holds up the letter and his eyes grow round at the seal. “And I certainly don’t want his input on my response.”

Grace knows they’re being followed as they leave Blackfriars. But she also knows that Ultan has spent most of his time in London learning the streets and alleys, the wharves and piers of this sprawling city. So once they are out the door, around the corner, and onto Thames Street, Ultan grabs her wrist and darts into the crowd.

“Duck your head,” he says. “All that red hair makes you stand out.”

“Be glad it’s not silver.”

“For feck’s sake, Gráinne, look around. Silver hair would help you blend in.”

Indeed, many of the women around them are old and bent, gray, with toothless gums. She looks near regal in comparison. After a moment, Ultan tugs her into the nearest alley and they press their backs against the tilting wooden structure.

“Just give them a few minutes to lose us,” he says.

Grace hates the way cities smell, the way all these living bodies are pressed up against one another, like fish in a barrel. She cannot fathom why anyone would willingly live in such a place. She is wondering how she would survive such a thing herself when Ultan leads them into the street again.

It doesn’t take long to reach the ship. They go east along Thames Street, passing St. Paul’s Cathedral, then the Steelyard. They go past Vintry Ward and Dowgate, and then they are at Billingsgate and on the dock. Niamh is tucked in at the far end, between two larger Portuguese vessels. She’s nearly invisible. Ultan follows Grace down the pier, across the deck, and into the cabin. He watches while she lights a lantern and sets it on her desk.

He sits on the bed with a grunt. “G’wan, read it then.”