Page 201 of The Pirate Queen

“And why would they do such a thing?” she asks.

“Because I have written to them extensively.”

“About?”

“Your exploits at sea. Your travels to Spain in particular. It was Sir Henry Sidney who first brought that to the council’s attention.”

“Ah,” Grace says, and he sees the flash of understanding in her eyes.

He nods. “It is no secret that tensions between Spain and England are high. And that Her Majesty seeks every advantage she can get.”

“And you suppose that I can provide one?”

“We believe you can.”

Finally, Grace takes a sip of her port. She settles a bit deeper into the plush chair. “How so?”

“Her Majesty’s offer is simple. If you will agree to provide information on the patterns of Spanish naval movements, you will be released from Dublin Castle forthwith. You may return to your life and no charges will be brought against you for raiding Desmond.”

Simple. Such an English word. Treacherous and dishonest. Simple is falling in love. Or falling asleep. But this? Grace does not have the word for the trap that FitzWilliam lays at her feet, but it is quite the opposite of simple.

“You would have me spy for your queen?” she asks.

“Technically for Walsingham. He is the spymaster after all.”

“I have never met this Walsingham. Why does he think that I can provide information about the Spanish fleets? Surely not because Sidney told him that I travel there frequently?”

FitzWilliam nods. “You proved your capabilities quite nicely when you took him on the water to inspect the seawalls. How many ships did you have in the harbor that day? Twenty-three?”

“Twenty-five.”

“And how many of those ships have you taken to Spain in recent years?”

“Only the galleys.”

FitzWilliam leans forward in his chair like a spider, and she is the fly, growing stickier in this web by the moment. It feels good to be clean. To have new clothes. The port is warm in her belly and the cakes smell so sweet sitting there that her mouth has been watering since she entered the room.

“What flags do you fly on your ships, Grace?”

“Only my family banners.”

“Then you are exactly what Her Majesty needs in this hour.”

“You still have not told me what she wants. Specifically.”

Here he is, spinning his web ever closer to her fluttering wings. Because the truth is: Grace is tired of waiting. And whatever he says next will likely be an offer she cannot refuse. Because it will send her home to Richard and Tibbot.

“Walsingham, Cecil, and I request—on behalf of the Queen—that you inform us, in writing, every time you encounter a Spanish ship. In Irish harbors, yes. But particularly in the waters between Spain and England. We want to know ship names and captain names. Their movements, any patterns in particular. But also their cargo. No detail is insignificant.”

“Where do you suppose I will send this correspondence?”

“To myself, as long as I am Lord Deputy of these lands. Then to Cecil or Walsingham, if I’m allowed to return home.”

“Not to your replacement?” Grace asks with a half smile. “Should you ever have one.”

“Whatever man is unlucky enough to take my place has no business in this endeavor. Agree to those terms and you may leave Dublin Castle.”

“When?”