Page 204 of The Pirate Queen

“No. But a queen is. And though I’m not so regal as yourself, my people consider me such.”

Butler whispers a curse behind her. Cecil gapes. And Bingham—now that she allows herself another glance at him—fumes.

“I had not realized this was a state visit,” Elizabeth says dryly.

“There is no need to consider it one. My petition is quite simple. It requires little of your valuable time.”

Where Grace’s skin is freckled from her years in the sun, Elizabeth’s is pale, thanks to a fine layer of rice powder. Her cheeks are rouged and her eyes rimmed with kohl. Her face nicely shaped, but lined from long years, in the same manner as Grace’s. The Queen’s lips are narrow, where Grace still has much of the fullness from her youth. But the deep line between Elizabeth’s brows ages her more than anything. Grace can see the full weight of her crown in that one furrow.

“Before we get to that,” Elizabeth says, “there is one other matter I would like to discuss with you.”

Grace offers her most pleasant smile, and she can see the Queen make a similar assessment of her own appearance. Her skin, her teeth, her eyes, the toll the years have taken on her. Grace is three years Elizabeth’s senior, but they are of a pair in this moment: two women at odds with a world full of men.

“I am happy to discuss anything Your Majesty would like.”

It is so odd to have this conversation surrounded by courtiers and advisors, and at least one member of the Privy Council. There could be more than Cecil, for all she knows.

“My advisors have long taken an interest in you, Mistress O’Malley,” Elizabeth says, switching to Latin. “Henry Sidney, FitzWilliam, and Francis Walsingham in particular. You are acquainted with them?”

A wave of whispers fills the room at this shift. Clearly those present are not fluent in the language.

Grace nods carefully and responds in Latin. “I met Sidney on several occasions. FitzWilliam twice. I was never acquainted with Walsingham. Our interactions were kept strictly to…correspondence. As agreed.”

“I have read those missives.” Elizabeth waves a hand casually at Cecil. “As has Lord Burghley. We are both grateful for your cooperation. It is the primary reason I chose to grant your audience today.”

“ ’Tis I who am grateful for Your Majesty’s assistance both times I found myself detained in Dublin. Had Walsingham not intervened on my behalf, I would have long since perished. I was sad to hear of his passing.” Grace darts a glance to Bingham. “I have since suffered greatly, without his protection.”

Bingham makes no effort to hide his interest in this conversation, swinging his glance back and forth between the two women, frowning. If he knows Latin, it isn’t well enough to speak.

“I, too, have missed his counsel these last three years,” Elizabeth says. “And the updates he provided on your activities.”

“I fear that, since Walsingham’s death, my movements have been greatly restricted by the Governor of Connaught.” Grace nods at him. “Sir Richard Bingham.”

He understands his name plainly enough. He wants to leap in, to defend himself. It’s obvious, the way his teeth are clenched and the tendons of his neck stretched taut. Elizabeth also glances at him.

“Be patient. You will have a chance to make your case,” the Queen tells Bingham in English, then turns back to Grace, back to Latin. “I see no need to alter our existing agreement.”

“Then allow me to plead my cause. Your governor has made it nearly impossible for me to continue providing you with information, having confiscated my lands and burned much of my fleet. I do not find myself often in Spain at present.” Another glance at Bingham. “How has he come to be here today?”

“He got word of your departure and petitioned to offer his own defense.”

“There is no defense for what that man has done to me or my kin.”

Elizabeth taps her fingers against the velvet armrest. After a moment, she turns to Cecil and asks in English, “Lord Burghley, would you please recite the complaint that Mistress O’Malley has brought against the Governor of Connaught?”

Grace recognizes the sheaf of paper that Cecil holds out. It is her response to the Eighteen Interrogatories he sent on the Queen’s behalf. “They are plentiful, Your Majesty, but I will summarize. In short, she charges that Sir Bingham unlawfully had her eldest son, Eóin O’Flaherty, murdered by the hand of his brother, John Bingham. That he has confiscated her lands, burned her crops, killed her followers, destroyed her fleet, and seized thousands of head of cattle. In addition, it is Mistress O’Malley’s complaint that Sir Bingham now holds her brother Donal O’Malley and her youngest son, Tibbot Bourke, at Athlone Castle under false charges and the threat of execution.”

“Are those your accusations?” Elizabeth asks her.

“Yes, though that is the shortest possible summary of Bingham’s crimes against me.”

William Cecil shifts a little closer to them, but Grace cannot identify the expression on his face. Curiosity, certainly. But something else. A kind of wariness. “What restitution do you seek from Her Majesty?” he asks.

“The immediate release of my brother and son, without charges. And the return of all lands and property confiscated.”

This is too much for Bingham. He steps forward, offers Elizabeth a dramatic bow. “If I may explain, Your Majesty?”

Those shrewd rust-colored eyes shift toward the governor, and Elizabeth’s voice takes on a different tone. “By all means.”