Page 207 of The Pirate Queen

“I guessed he might come. Always a man who insists on the last word, is Bingham. And I’d hoped you would try to play both sides. Clever boy. No doubt you’ve earned yourself some future opportunity with Cecil and the Privy Council by ensuring Bingham and I were both here today. Proved yourself capable of moving pawns across the chessboard.”

Grace goes to the yeoman and holds out her hand above the silver tray where her small knife rests. “I will have that back, if you please,” she tells the young officer. “ ’Tis but a trinket, anyway.”

Hesitantly, he lays it in her palm. Grace stows it carefully in her skirt pocket, then steps through the door and into the larger hallway, Butler once more on her heels.

“Dear God. You wanted Bingham here.”

“He does provide a rather odious foil, does he not? Do you think Her Majesty would have been half so generous if he hadn’t shown his arse?” Grace shakes her head. “Now, if you don’t mind, please escort me out of this maze. I cannot remember the way we came in.”

Gentleman that he is, Thomas Butler offers his arm. Grace takes it and they move in silence through the gilded hallways. Down stairs. Across broad swaths of marble and finally into the open air. Bingham does not catch up with them until they’ve reached the outer courtyard. There is the gate and the lawn and the water steps beyond. Docked there is the one thing that Bingham has not succeeded in taking from her.

Bingham’s grip is not gentle on her shoulder when he yanks her backward. “You fucking bitch,” he growls.

“Where are those nice manners you showed the Queen? Have you lost them so quickly?”

“You will see just how little I have lost,” he says, spittle flying across her face. “I—”

Her little pointed blade, exactly where she has always dreamed of placing it. Right at the juncture of chin and throat. A soft spot, easily pierced. Grace presses just so he might feel it, so he might remember in the future. Were they anywhere other than Elizabeth’s doorstep, she would drive it in to the hilt.

“If I ever see your face again,” Grace tells him, “I will peel it off with this blade.”

She leaves Butler and Bingham standing inside the gates of Greenwich Palace and walks alone to the water gate, where Niamh is waiting.

Maiden, 1546

“A Woman at the Helm”

Grace is sixteen years old

She stands at the window and watches her new husband ride away. O’Flaherty is off to pick some fight already. Grace has not been in this place for a full twelve hours and already she is alone. The servants are polite but distant. She is young and new to them and clearly unhappy to be here anyway. So while the serving girls unpack her trunks, she wanders the castle. Big empty rooms with sparse furnishing and bare walls. Her footsteps echo. Her breaths sound eerily loud as she stands in the Great Hall and turns in a circle looking at the high ceiling. There are no curtains. No shutters. Not a vase or a flower or a painting. It had not occurred to Grace that it would be her responsibility to make this place feel like a home. Did Finola cover that in any of her lessons? Was Grace too busy learning knifework to pay attention?

Overwhelm settles on her like a shroud and Grace wants nothing more than to escape these walls. She is on her way to the stairwell when the steward steps in front of her and clears his throat. He bobs his head, but stiffly.

“Bean an Tí?” he asks. “Is there something I might help you with?”

“No. I’m going for a walk. I’d like to clear my head.”

“That won’t be possible, I’m afraid.”

“Excuse me?”

“Your husband has instructed that you are to stay at Bunowen.”

Grace tries to step around him, but he shifts in front of her again.

“He can’t stop me from going outside. He isn’t even here.”

“I am afraid you must be accompanied at all times while outside these walls. We have appointed two guards for you.”

Three weeks she has been married and she has not cried a single time. Grace has kept every emotion locked inside by utter force of will, has refused to give anyone the satisfaction of seeing her break. But now the tears burn hot, a weight at the back of her eyes. The anger slides down her spine like a shudder then she’s reaching for her boot. The steward stands firm in his place, eyes on the wall behind her.

“Let me pass,” Grace tells him.

“You must take the Murray twins.”

“I will not.”

“Then I am afraid you will not leave this house.”